Page 20 of Distant Shores (Stapled Magnolias #2)

ADAIR

D elly collapsed dramatically into the kitchen chair.

“Well, I am exhausted. I’m gonna need to up my cardio or maybe take up recreational drugs if I’m expected to live with you two this summer.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Since when do you do cardio? I thought you said cardio was for losers.”

“It is. I’m no runner. I stand my ground.” She pulled her hair into a ponytail and started fussing with it. “I don’t think I’ve ever had to work so hard to make you look cool. Except maybe when I had to email that girl for you back in the day.”

“Sending my high school crush an email that said ‘do u like me?’ did not make me look cool, I assure you.”

Delly tied off her ponytail and threw her hands in the air. “I was seven! And you were afraid of asking her out. I could tell.”

I closed my eyes and prayed for strength. “I wasn’t scared of asking her out. I was scared of her . She was on the volleyball team and used to target me in P.E. during dodgeball. And no, before you say something, I don’t think it was flirting.”

She’d also loudly told her friends that I’d be okay looking if I weren’t so fat, but Delly didn’t need to know that. That’d been before Cole had swanned into my life and gotten me into the gym.

I sat beside her and leafed through the lease documents with the vague notion of double-checking the rules and regulations.

“She bolted pretty fast with your keys, Addy. What would you say the chances of her selling the rest of our stuff and disappearing with your Jeep are?”

I hummed thoughtfully as I found the page I wanted. “Fifty-fifty.”

Delly stood up from the table. “I’m gonna go claim a room. It’ll be the best one as payment for my underappreciated efforts.”

“Not under, Delly. Un . Unappreciated.”

“Ugh, no. Delly was the girl who lived in a trailer that smelled like old, leaking air conditioning units and needed braces. I—” She smiled broadly, displaying her straight teeth. “—am Adeline. Future doctor. Effortlessly cool. A boogie board aficionado.”

“You contradicted yourself there at the end.”

She probably would’ve flipped me the finger if we did that sort of thing, but she just poked my shoulder and sauntered away.

As soon as she was out of sight, I gave up the pretense of looking at the papers. I’d barely read a word. I’d been too busy replaying every moment of…

I sat ramrod straight in my chair.

Oh no.

No.

I still didn’t know her name .

How was I supposed to ask at this point? It was so beyond mortifying, there wasn’t even a word for it.

For a decade, I’d worked a job where literally the first thing I did was ask people their names. Miss Sewell wasn’t my patient, but ever since the incident last month, when I’d taken her briefly under my care…

I shook off the forming thought and ran my hands through my hair, my head hanging low.

I’d gotten decent at reading people over the past ten years of running calls. At assessing their well-being, at measuring their words against what evidence was right in front of my eyes.

And in those precious few moments that she was here, I’d done the same. It wasn’t an instinct I could turn off.

Something had happened.

I knew it wasn’t with her dad. I would’ve known.

But there was a marked change in her today versus that brief run-in last month. Something in her blue eyes that darkened them, shifted them, making them more… indigo.

Like blueberries picked fresh from the bush after a morning hike or those minutes right after sunset when night hadn’t quite arrived.

Those comparisons were as close as I could imagine, mostly based on what I’d read rather than anything I could actually see.

Not only had her eyes changed, but there were darker circles under them. She hadn’t seemed unburdened when we met, but the cloak of exhaustion that trailed her now was thicker than before.

Last month, she’d been just as serious. Just as dry. But not… hollow.

Not haunted.

My assessment was that Miss Sewell needed a hug and several good nights of sleep .

And a damn first name.

The rumble of my Jeep’s engine sounded several minutes later—I’d recognize it anywhere—but I resisted the urge to get up.

The front door opened, and I quickly swiped a hand through my hair in a halfhearted attempt to tidy it. My heart skipped at her light footsteps, and I forced my gaze to the table in front of me, making a show of pretending I was lost in the chart depicting Live Oak’s quiet hours.

I could practically taste her hesitance in the air when she entered the room.

“I brought in some stuff that was in the car.”

Even toneless, her voice did something to me, making my skin buzz.

I tidied the papers, then stood up from the table, my eyes seeking hers like color-seeking missiles.

Indigo.

That color was definitely indigo.

She had one of my cardboard boxes in her arms, her lease papers on top, and a large duffel bag strapped across her chest.

“Where do you want this?” she asked, tapping a finger on the cardboard.

I wanted to take the box from her, to take all of her burdens, actually, but would probably end up sprawled on the floor again if I tried. First thing tomorrow, I was going to find a walking boot to wear and ditch the crutch.

“Here is good,” I said, knocking my knuckles on the kitchen table. “Delly was scoping out rooms, so maybe we should go sort out whose is whose and go from there?”

She sat the box on the table, and in a stroke of genius—and mild privacy invasion—I glanced at the page on top .

There it was, printed at the top in legible, pretty writing.

Ireland Sewell.

Ireland.

Ireland.

“Yeah?” she asked as she took the duffel off her shoulder.

“What?”

“You said my name,” she said, frowning.

“Did I?”

She gave me the unbuttered toast of looks. Blank. Dry.

“Oh, um, yeah,” I mumbled, my hand creeping to the back of my neck and squeezing nervously. I’d never break myself of my own tells. If I were my own patient, I’d diagnose myself with a case of incurable uncoolness.

Wouldn’t bat an eye at exposed bones, but would crumple like a lawn chair in a hurricane when faced with a beautiful woman.

I swiped my crutch and headed toward the living room. I guessed I’d maxed out my quota of Delly’s interventions for the day.

Or so I thought.

Just as Ireland and I came to a stop in the middle of the living room and I debated how to not awkwardly negotiate bedroom assignments with a near stranger, Delly appeared in the open doorway to the right of the living room, sunglasses perched on top of her head.

“I’ve claimed my quarters for the summer,” she announced, gesturing to the bedroom behind her.

Ireland and I met each other’s gazes but looked away just as quickly. Then, as if pulled by the same thread, we both looked over our shoulders at the two remaining rooms on the opposite side of the house .

“Delly,” I warned. “I thought I taught you better manners than that.”

My sister leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her arms. “Than what, dear brother? She isn’t— oh, shit. ” My sister straightened. “I don’t know your name. I didn’t look at the contact in my phone.” Delly strode forward and grasped Ireland’s upper arms. “Please accept this hug as an apology.”

Ireland’s startled gaze met mine over Delly’s shoulder as she awkwardly patted her on the back.

“It’s Ireland,” she said, her indigo gaze still on mine.

I barely held back the shiver that skirted my spine.

Delly released her from the hug and frowned. “What is?”

“My name,” Ireland replied in that dry, deadpan tone.

“Well, Ireland,” Delly said, not missing another beat. “If you want to change rooms with me, just say the word. I am open to negotiations.”

Ireland’s gaze flitted from the bedroom Delly had claimed, then traced a path across the back wall of the living room, a calculating gleam in her eyes.

She hummed, then cocked her head to the side, sending the short strands of her ponytail glancing off her shoulder. “Show me your room?”

Delly hooked arms with Ireland and carted her off.

I didn’t follow.

Instead, I hurried—as fast as my crutch and aching ankle allowed—into the hallway. There were three extra-wide closed doors—one in the middle and one on each end.

I opened the room directly in front of me and peered inside.

It was a white-tiled bathroom adorned with more seahorses and white wooden furniture.

An accessible, oversized shower with a built-in bench seat.

A double vanity with a big framed mirror mounted above it.

There were three more doors inside the bathroom, two of them extra-wide like all the others and one smaller.

I walked inside and opened the smaller door, confirming it was a closet. Then I did the math about the other two doors.

This was a Jack and Jill bathroom. What was my sister thinking, claiming the other room and leaving Ireland to share a bathroom with a stranger?

I hobble-marched back to the living room, ready to set this right, just as Delly came out of the bedroom with a triumphant smile. Ireland walked in behind her, a wry turn to her lips that wasn’t there before.

“You’re sure, roomie?” Delly asked. “We can always revisit the rotating bedroom idea.”

Ireland smoothed her expression. “I’m sure.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to explain that we’d be sharing a bathroom, but then closed it.

She was a grown-ass woman. I didn’t need to mansplain this.

Plus, there was something about Ireland’s expression that made me want to wait. A faint glimmer in her tired eyes that I wanted to help spark and catch, not stifle.

Delly squealed in delight—her forty-seventh one so far, if I were keeping count—and Ireland patted her on the shoulder, then scrunched her nose and dropped her hand, clutching it into a fist at her side.

I could make watching this girl a full-time job if I weren’t careful.

“All right,” I started, “How does unpacking and then a grocery run sound?” I made a point to meet Ireland’s gaze so she knew she was included in that offer .

Surprise flickered across her tired expression, but she masked it quickly.

“Boring,” Delly said. “That’s how it sounds. I counter with dump bags into rooms, go see Pops, then tacos at the beach.”

I smiled at the idea, then directed the expression to Ireland, who was frowning at me. “You in?”

“Oh, um….” Her gaze flickered out the living room window. “Next time. I have a class to teach soon.”

“Class?” Delly asked, bless her.

“Adult tap class. At the Locc.”

“Oh my God! New plan. Can I come?”

Ireland looked bemused by my sister’s question, rolling her lips together before asking, “Do you tap?”

“Yeah, if you’re willing to teach me that, too, I will. I’ll tap so hard.”

Too?

“Do you have tap shoes?”

Delly scrunched her nose. “No.”

Ireland’s lips twitched in an inkling of a smile. “I’ll send you that link, too, then.”

Too?

“Yay!” Delly clapped her hands together. She’d been hyped up like a kid on Christmas morning all day, and I had a feeling she was going to crash like one too. I bet she’d be in bed by eight.

At least this was one hobby she couldn’t recruit me to try with her. No way would I be putting on any tap shoes—or shoe— right now.

But looking at the happiness on my sister’s face, I knew I would’ve been asking her to forward me that link if I had two functional ankles.

Patient is chronically uncool.

A big ole checkmark beside that one .

Our living room bubble disbanded then, and I tracked Ireland as she walked past me to grab her duffel and then came right back to stand beside me.

We stared at the hallway with the connected bedrooms in silence until she asked, “Right or left?”

I shrugged. “Your choice.”

She hoisted the strap of her bag up on her shoulder and looked over it at me. I’d be damned if my heart didn’t thump wildly at that, as if it wanted to leap out of my chest to get to her. “Right, then.”

I stayed rooted in the hallway as she made for the door on the right. As she opened it. As she disappeared behind it.

As I calculated how the hell I was going to share space with Ireland Sewell for an entire summer.