Page 3 of Jack of All Trades
Jack tilts his head, his lovely eyes staring at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Like he's trying to see past the walls I’ve built over the years.
"What?" I snap.
"Nothing," he says, though his expression says otherwise. "Just trying to figure out why Rex never introduced us before."
I snort. "Probably because he knows your type, and I'm not it."
"My type?" Jack leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement stretches his clothes across shoulders that are unfairly broad. "And what is my type, Maya Torres?"
"Thin, blonde, giggly, and easily impressed," I reply without hesitation. "Basically the opposite of me."
Jack's eyebrows shoot up, and a flash of something—anger? hurt?—crosses his face before his easy smile returns. "You seem to have me all figured out."
"Rex talks," I shrug, ignoring the twinge of guilt. Maybe I'm being too harsh, but it's better this way. Men like Jack Morrisonbreak hearts as easily as they breathe, and mine has been through enough.
"Well, let me know if you want the real story sometime," he says, his voice softer now. "Instead of Rex's version."
There's something genuine in his tone that catches me off guard. I look down at my hands, suddenly feeling the need to fidget.
"Can we just focus on the party? It's in three days, and we have a lot to do."
Jack nods, accepting my redirect. "Right. So, food, decorations, guests. Anything else?"
"Music," I say. "Rex loves those old country songs your dad used to play. The real country, not the pop stuff they play on the radio now."
Jack's expression brightens. "You know about that? About Dad's record collection?"
"Rex used to talk about coming over after school and listening to records with you and your dad in the garage." I pause, realizing I might have revealed too much. "He mentioned it once or twice."
The truth is, Rex talked about the Morrisons constantly when I was growing up. How Mr. Morrison taught them basic mechanics when our own father was too drunk to care. How Mrs. Morrison always made extra food because she knew Rex was hungry. How Jack was the only kid at school who didn't care that Rex's clothes were secondhand or that his dad was the town drunk.
"Dad would have liked you," Jack says suddenly, his voice warm.
The unexpected compliment flusters me. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you care about Rex. I know you're planning a thoughtful party that's actually about what he'd like, not just what's easiest." He shrugs. "That tells me enough."
I look away, uncomfortable with how easily he's cutting through my defenses.
"We should exchange numbers," I say, then immediately realize how that sounds. "For party planning," I add quickly.
Jack's lips twitch with amusement. "We already have each other's numbers, remember? That's how we've been texting all week."
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. "Right. Obviously."
"But I wouldn't mind if you wanted my number for other reasons," he adds with a wink.
And just like that, Charming Cowboy Jack is back, and I remember exactly why I need to keep my guard up.
"In your dreams, Morrison," I retort, but there's less bite in my voice than I intended.
"So, about the guest list," Jack continues, graciously changing the subject. "Besides the obvious—me, you, my brothers—who else matters to Rex?"
I consider this. Rex keeps his circle small, a habit from years of disappointment. "The five core guys from his club, I guess. Maybe a few others, but not too many. Rex isn't big on crowds."
"Got it. Small, meaningful gathering." Jack makes a note on his phone. "What about you? Anyone you want to invite?"
"Me? I don't know anyone in Pine Haven except Rex."
