My voice quivers. “You love me? Still?”
He steps back and rolls his eyes. Cold air hits me as he pivots around my body, heading straight for my father.
The two talk, too low for anyone to hear, then Jack disappears out of the room.
Dad’s gaze flicks to me, and for the first time, my father seems lost for words.
I am, too.
Chapter 37
Morgan
Paul stopped recording...
But Ingrid didn’t.
She spliced that video into several clips and blasted it all over social media. It went viral among Christian circles. Even non-Christians reveled in Jack’s talent to recite the Bible so effortlessly.
I haven’t recovered.
Ingrid sprawls on her couch, grinning. “And Gabe said I was bad at marketing! I just made Jack ten times bigger than him.”
I purse my lips to hold back a frown. With my phone held up, I complain.
“I really dislike all these women wanting to meet him.”
She laughs, her grin just as wicked. “Envy is a sin! Don’t be jealous.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “I am.”
The last thing I want to do is make Ingrid feel bad when she is on cloud nine, but this is awful.
“I mean it. I wish you didn’t post that. I can’t imagine what Jack’s DMs look like. He is probably getting marriage proposals from twenty-year-old virgins. Women who can actually settle down with him, unlike me.”
“Aww.” Ingrid pops up from the couch and rushes to my side. “Relax, babes. I saw the way he looked at you. Jack isn’t over you.”
“Then why hasn’t he tried to contact me?”
This time, she shrugs. “I hoped going viral would make him see he belongs in a church.”
I snicker softly. “Soyouwere trying to convert him!”
Her cheeks flush and she replies shyly. “I was. Stupid, huh?”
“No, it wasn’t,” I soothe. “I just wish God would give me a sign. I truly believe he wanted me to see that side of Jack.”
Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my hand. “Eugene.”
“Hello, Morgan, your dad wants to know what the ten-dollar charge was at a place called the Burnout Shack.”
I sigh, exasperated. I am so tired of Dad tracking every time I use my credit card. “It was a coffee shop. I bought a latte. This is ridiculous.”
“I am just doing my job,” he defends.
I pause. He is right. It is not his fault he has to follow Dad’s insane orders.
“Sorry, Eugene,” I say earnestly. “I am just...depressed.”
