Levi gestures toward the back door with his beer. “After you.”
I go, because what else can I do?
And as I step onto the porch, the peach blossoms glowing pink in the fading light and the intracoastal stretching out like a mirror, I realize I’ve been thoroughly, completely, absolutely set up.
Jo Lennox is a menace.
And I’m in so much trouble.
The back porchhas two rocking chairs angled toward the water, because of course it does.
I take the chair on the left. Levi takes the one on the right. We rock in silence for a moment, the only sounds the creak of the chairs and the distant splash of something in the marsh.
I rock too hard. The chair lurches. I grab the armrest like the porch is actively trying to kill me.
Levi pretends not to notice. I pretend I didn’t just almost launch myself into his lap.
“Nice place,” he finally says.
“It suits her.”
He takes a pull of his beer, and I watch his hand—steady now, but wrapped too tight around the bottle. “Never thought I’d see Dean this happy.”
“Jo has that effect on people.”
More silence. The sky is turning shades of orange and pink, the clouds lit up from underneath. A heron takes off from the dock, its wings spreading wide as it glides over the water.
He stifles a yawn. Turns his head so I won’t see it, but I do. I see the way he blinks hard afterward, like he’s forcing himself to stay sharp. Isee the way the fading light catches every hollow and shadow on his face.
I shouldn’t ask. It’s not my business. We’re not those people anymore—the ones who got to worry about each other.
“You look tired,” I say, because apparently I have no self-control.
He glances over. “That your professional assessment?”
“I’m a florist, not a doctor. But you look like you haven’t slept since you got here.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s looking.”
The words hang between us, heavier than I intended. I didn’t mean to admit that I’m looking. That I’ve been cataloging every detail since he walked through the kitchen door—the tremor in his hands, the way he keeps blinking, the coffee-and-exhaustion pallor underneath what’s left of his California tan.
“Why did you come back?” I ask. “Really. And don’t say it’s just for the wedding.”
He stares out at the water for a long time. The light catches the sharp line of his jaw.
“I can’t write,” he finally says. “Haven’t been able to for almost a year.Everyone thinks I’m taking a break, finding my artistic center, whatever. But the truth is, I’m just...empty. I thought maybe coming home would help. Reconnect me with something real.”
“And has it?”
He turns to look at me, and his expression holds a rawness that makes my chest ache.
“I don’t know yet.”
The back door opens, and Jo sticks her head out. “Dinner in ten! Dean says the steaks are almost ready. Levi, can you help me set the table?”
Levi stands, draining the last of his beer. He pauses beside my chair, close enough that I can smell his cologne—warm and woodsy and achingly familiar.
