The Truest Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 4)

By the time I returned to the counter with his coffee, his expression had darkened. “Is this the way it’ll be from now on?”

I slid the coffee toward him and he swiped his card over the card machine.

Jack scowled. “Em, are you seriously going to give me the silent treatment?”

“I’m not giving you the silent treatment.” I took a deep breath, my focus wandering past him to the book stacks. “I asked you not to come here. Nothing’s changed in that respect. I’m going to suggest, again, that you find somewhere else to get your coffee from now on.”

“Look me in the eye when you say it, and I might take that advice on board.”

I determinedly met his eyes. His expression veered between anger and concern.

His head dipped toward mine. “Look, Em—”

“Don’t.” I jerked away.

“I wasn’t going to kiss you, sunrise,” he murmured.

I ignored the ache of hearing the endearment he’d started using years ago. “I know. But you were going to lean in close and try to soften my resolve, and I don’t want you to.”

“Em—” A shrill ring sounded from somewhere on Jack’s person.

He sighed, placed his coffee on the counter, and reached inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket for his cell. His expression told me we weren’t done as he moved away from the counter, phone pressed against his ear.

I didn’t want to want to listen in, but I couldn’t help but watch him.

He had a strong, angular jawline covered in prickly stubble. The unshaven look started just over a year ago. And I knew that because I’d personally felt the prickle of it against my skin a year ago.

I flushed and looked down at the counter.

“She did what?” Jack’s angry voice brought my attention back to him.

He glared at my wall, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he listened to whomever was on the other end of the call. “Fuck,” he bit out. “Okay, I’m on my way.” He ended the call and turned to me.

My heart hammered at what I saw in Jack’s eyes.

Fear.

>

“What is it?”

“Rebecca.”

Rebecca was Jack’s sister. She’d been living in England for the last few years, in a form of exile from the Devlin family. “What about her?”

“She came home two days ago … that was Sheriff King on the phone.”

“Jack?”

He leaned his hands on the counter, bowing his head.

Worry flooded me. “Jack?”

“She … she just turned herself over to the police.”

Oh my God.

I reached for his hand.