Page 30

I head into the cottage, but Jack’s nowhere to be found. Not in the living room. Not the kitchen. Not even on the worn leather couch I assumed he’d immediately collapse onto.

I call his name once. No answer.

Outside, Brody hums to himself as he lugs their bags toward the door, totally unbothered. Must be nice.-

Then I see the back door—just slightly open.

I step through it quietly, not sure what I expect.

But definitely not this.

Jack is crouched low in the garden bed, fingertips skimming over the crumbling edges of wilting marigolds. His hoodie’s off, replaced by a plain gray T-shirt, and the late sun casts a warm glow across his skin.

His hands are careful. Gentle. Not what I expected from the same guy who casually rips through people in interviews like it’s sport.

He touches the flowers like they matter.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of it does.

And for just a second, I forget how angry he makes me. I forget the headlines, the smirks, the maddening arrogance.

I just watch.

Then my elbow knocks into a glass jar on the ledge, and it crashes to the ground with a sharp, cracking sound.

Jack looks up, startled.

Our eyes meet.

And my heart skips. Hard.

Not because I want it to.

But because maybe—just maybe—I’ve never seen him look like this before.

Human.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

JACK

Iturn swiftly, my heart stilling for half a beat before it kicks back into rhythm. There, at the edge of the porch steps, stands Mia—one hand frozen mid-air, eyes wide, like she didn’t mean to make a sound. A glass jar lies at her feet, cracked open like it couldn’t handle the moment either.

She’s watching me like she’s caught a ghost doing something human. Like she walked out here expecting to catch me brooding or broodingly shirtless, not… weeding.

I straighten up slowly, wiping the sweat from my brow with my dirty fingers. The sun hits her hair just right, catching in the brown strands and making her look like trouble dressed in sunlight. My knees are damp from the soil, and there’s still a half-pulled weed clutched in my fingers. I let it fall, brushing dirt off like it’ll cover the fact that I just got caught doing something almost… normal.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. She’s not looking at the marigolds or the mess of the garden bed—I’m what’s got her attention. Me crouched in the dirt like someone who cares.

Great.

“Didn’t hear you come outside,” I say, voice rougher than I intend.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just tilts her head a little, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that might be amusement… or confusion. Maybe both.

“I didn’t think you were the gardening type,” she says slowly, each word weighed, cautious, like she’s trying to line me up with the Jack Calloway from the headlines and coming up short.