Page 84 of Jack

And just like that, the fire doused, a cold wash. He jerked, lifted his head, and stared down at her, wide-eyed.

She stared back, frowned, then took a breath. “Oh no . . . you have that?—”

“I shouldn’t have?—”

“For the love!” She pushed him away. “I am not in high school anymore.”

He took a step back, breathing hard. “Yep. Yep.” Then he shook his head. “Super aware of that right now.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Except, for a second there, you were, and?—”

“Get over it.” She stepped up to him, trapping him against the table. Put her arms around his waist.

The fire relit, the embers stirring. Oh, she smelled good, something playful in her beautiful eyes. “You’re not lost anymore, Jack Kingston. You’re right back where you’re supposed to be. So stop running.”

Then she kissed him.

He closed his eyes, let her explore his lips, let her nudge his mouth open, let her take control. She wound her arms around his neck again, and he sighed and pulled her into his arms.

And for a long time, he simply stopped thinking and let himself be found.

She finally pushed away, and a slow smile slid up her face. “Tomorrow, we hunt down that death threat.”

What?

She walked to the sink, poured out the rest of her coffee, then with a wink, she headed upstairs.

Wait.What just happened?His heart thumped, the taste of her still on his lips.

He should clearly stop thinking of her asPigtails.

Turning off the lights, he headed out to the family room. The fire had died to a simmer in the hearth, and he sank onto the leather sofa, stretched out, staring at the embers’ pop and glow.

“The one you should be hunting for is right here.”

Maybe he couldn’t abdicate his position. But maybe he didn’t have a right to it, either.

He didn’t realize he’d nodded off on the sofa until the soft thud of firewood falling into the hearth basket made him open his eyes.

Sunlight streamed into the room, the fire cold, and he blinked at the form until he recognized his father arranging the wood into the copper log basket. He wore a canvas jacket, a wool hat, boots, and gloves.

Jack sat up, ran his hands over his face, and his father turned.

“I didn’t see you there. Sorry to wake you.” He took off his gloves and smacked them together over the basket, chipping off the wood shavings. “You okay?”

Jack nodded. “Up late working on a project. Didn’t want to wake Stein.”

His father nodded. “I got another couple loads to bring in.” He gestured with his head toward the door, and Jack got up, followed him out, donning a coat and boots on the way.

The inn’s pickup backed up to the house, the tailgate open, firewood stacked in the back. Jack held out his arms as his dad piled wood in. “Still at it every morning.”

“It’s the charm of these old houses. A fire in the hearth, your mom’s fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.” He gestured to the cab. “She sent some for the crew.”

His stomach nearly clenched, hungry.

Going inside, he let his father unload the logs from his arms. Then he followed him back out to the truck. His father opened the door. A casserole dish with a towel over it sat on the bench seat. Jack held up his hand. “I’ll help you with the other wood deliveries. Earn my breakfast.”