Page 11 of Jack

“I live in Florida. Most of the time.”

“Mmm.” Harrison looked him over. “Keeping out of trouble?” He smiled.

Jack smiled back. “Not much.”

“I read your book.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Riveting. As was the interview onNightline.”

Even after all these years, a burn swept through him. “Thanks.”

The man patted his shoulder. “Always knew you’d amount to something.” He winked. “Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout.”

Oh.He swallowed. “Yeah. I guess.”

Harrison laughed, familiar and kind, and then gave Jack’s arm a frail squeeze. “Nice to see you home.” He shuffled past.

So maybe this hadn’t been such a terrible decision.

Jack headed back outside, undid the hitch to his old Geo Tracker, keyed the engine on to warm, then packed some gear into a bag, locked up the bus, and gave Aggie a pat on her worn white exterior. “I’ll be back.”

Then he got into the Geo he’d towed behind him and headed home.

He expected something quiet, maybe a couple family cars pulled into the cleared lot of the King’s Inn—surely his mother would have blocked out this weekend from guests.

Instead, as he neared the inn, the lot seemed almost full. He counted upward of ten cars.Perfect. The celebrity wedding gala had already begun.

He wedged his tiny SUV into a spot between an Escalade and a snowbank, then got out and headed toward the door.

“Seriously?”

The voice stopped him and he looked up.

Brontë stood on the porch, her parka open to the wind, her dark hair under a hat, wearing a pair of furry UGGs, holding a pair of keys.

“Hey—”

And then, just like that, she rushed him. He got his arms out just as her arms flung around his neck, holding tight. “You made it!”

Oh.Oh.

He didn’t know what to do with the rush of heat to his chest, to his throat, to his eyes. Talk aboutseriously.

She broke away, held his arms, staring up at him, her pretty brown eyes watery. “You showed up.”

Wow,had he misread . . . maybe everything? “Of course I showed up. Can’t let my kid sister get married without checking out the guy.”

She smiled.

He shrugged.

Maybe, just like that, it could be over. His words, her hurt, four years of regrets.

She wiped her cheek. “You’ll like him. He sings songs.”

“So I’ve heard.”