Page 13 of A Whisper of Summer Magic

“Mysteries. I love most anything on BritBox or Acorn.”

“I can live with that.” His smile was electric, and she felt it to her toes. “And I thought lawyers argued about everything,” he said softly, and she looked up to see amusement light his arresting eyes.

“You caught me at a weak moment, and you dangled Whiskey as a temptation.”

“I’ll take the win and, Megs, I now know dogs are one of your weaknesses.”

“Shshsh. I have only one,” she lied.

Chapter Three

“This is themoney shot,” Jackson said and paused the Gator by the Indonesian-style tea house that landscape architect and Jessica’s new partner Storm Stevens had found at an import store in Seattle. He’d driven it back on a flatbed trailer nearly a month ago. Jessica, Rustin, and Chloe had helped Storm put it together. They’d been so proud, taking pictures and dining afterward on drunken noodles and seared veggies, sitting on the tea house’s bamboo platform deck and looking out over the plants and expansive views. Meghan had been in Berlin at the time, and seeing the pictures while so far away had nearly brought her to tears.

“It looks like it’s always been there,” Meghan said, her own idea of a small side hustle business feeling even smaller. “It’s small,” she murmured, looking at the tea fields flowing around it with new eyes.

“It’s proportionally perfect for the site,” Jackson objected.

“It is,” she agreed. “I think I’m just filled with doubt after my blunder and now looking at all Jessica has accomplished, my inkling of a dream seems dumb.”

“Dreams are never dumb.”

“They can be.”

He turned and stared at her, his handsome face comically shocked.

It was a slap. Even Whiskey on the seat behind her huffed and jumped off the Gator. When had she become such a downer? She’d always encouraged her sisters to pursue their dreams. She enjoyed mentoring the new associates in the firm. It gave her a sense of meaning that had been more and more lacking.

“God, I sound like my father.” She pressed her palms together in mock prayer—something Jessica would have punched her in the arm for doing. “Please don’t let me become my father with some of my mother sprinkled in.”

Jackson—far too appealing in a faded burgundy long-sleeve Chris Stapleton concert T-shirt that he had pushed up his forearms—watched her, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“See, that? That, that, that.” She shook her prayer hands at him. “You look happy sacrificing your day off to drive my gimpy self all over my sister’s property. You look happy even though you slept on a couch and got up every two hours to make sure a crabby stranger still breathed. And you act like none of it is a big deal while you radiate happy.”

“What’s my option?” He held his hands out toward her as if she should cuff him. “I am happy. It’s a crime? Arrest me.”

“Not a cop.”

“Depose me.”

She barked a laugh.

He smiled back, and for a moment, just a moment, the air between them felt soft, fragrant with possibility, though she knew it wasn’t or couldn’t be.

“Meghan.” He said her name slowly as if tasting each letter. “You’re hurt. That’s bound to sour your mood.”

He made her selfish brooding seem reasonable, when she knew it was indulgent.

“Chloe says happiness is a choice.”

“It is.” Jackson didn’t miss a beat.

Chloe would also be consumed with curiosity. She’d ask Jackson about his time in the army. Why he became a firefighter. Jessica would have baked him some scones and asked about his mom and his grandparents. Sarah would have mentioned the last time she’d seen his grandma somewhere in town and offer to pop around with some strawberry lemonade or sourdough bread she’d made.

“That’s just it,” she admitted miserably feeling more and more disappointed in herself. “I think that’s all I am—sour.”

He stared at her as if she’d admitted she believed that aliens were actively watching them. Here it came, the subtle recoil, polite distance.

Jackson’s hand covered her elevated knee, as he’d arranged her in the Gator with her right leg up on the dash and angled out.

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