Crazy for Your Love (Boys of Jackson Harbor 5)

“And what about you?” I ask.

“I’ve been better, as you can imagine.” Tears slowly trail down her cheeks. “I try to do right by this boy, but I . . .” She takes a ragged breath.

“You’re doing just fine.”

She shakes her head. “He drank half a case of beer before getting behind the wheel.”

“Five,” Isaiah says, his voice rough, his head lolling to the side. “Five beers.”

I draw in my own ragged breath and realize I didn’t expect him to be conscious—ridiculous, since he texted me himself and asked me to come. Maybe Marta’s right and my mind had already entwined his fate with his father’s. Not the same.

“I’ll go get coffee downstairs so you two can talk,” she says. “But he’s doped up pretty good, so don’t be surprised if he starts talking nonsense.”

I offer my hand, helping her stand from the chair. “I can hang out for a while. Why don’t you go home and get a shower, maybe take a nap in your own bed?”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re a good boy, Carter Jackson.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Isaiah, I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“I’m sorry, Grandma,” Isaiah says. He forces his eyes open, but they only float shut again.

“You can apologize once you’re better,” she says. “That’ll be the only way I’ll accept it.” She hoists her purse up on her shoulder and gives me a nod before using her cane to help her out of the room. She leans into it more than usual today. Her arthritis is flaring up again.

I lower myself into a chair, still too shaken by the sight of Isaiah like this to trust my legs.

“They said I broke my femur,” he whispers. “And a couple of ribs.”

I nod, not that he can see me. He can’t seem to keep his eyes open. I want to ask him what on earth he thought he was doing, getting behind the wheel after drinking, and why the fuck he was drinking in the first place. Instead, I say, “You’re strong. You’re gonna get through this.”

“Carter?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Don’t tell my dad. Okay?”

I know he’s confused—delirious from the meds and the trauma. But the words are like a blow to the chest.

I won’t tell his dad. I can’t. Because his dad is dead, and if I were the hero everyone claims I am, he wouldn’t be.

Teagan

There’s a knock on my door way too early on Sunday morning. I groan as I roll over in bed and look at the clock. It’s just after eight a.m.

I pull a pillow over my head. What kind of sadistic asshole thinks this is an appropriate hour to wake me up on my day off?

“If you don’t answer this door, I’m going to assume it’s because you’re in my brother’s bed, and I’ll gossip with the girls about it at breakfast!”

Shay’s warning has me bolting upright and flying toward the front door.

On my way, I grab my robe from the hook in the bathroom and shove my arms into the sleeves. I don’t bother to tie it as I stomp toward the door. If Shay doesn’t want to see me in my boy-short “Can’t Touch This” undies, a tank top, and no bra, then she shouldn’t be pulling me out of bed with threats of Jackson family gossip.

I unlock the door and open it, scowling. “What do you want?”

“Cute panties.” She grins and folds her arms. “But you don’t look like you spent your night getting ravished.”

“Because I didn’t.” She’s all sweaty and in shorts and a T-shirt so thin that I can see her blue sports bra through it. My scowl deepens. “Have you already worked out? Do you know how early it is? Don’t you ever sleep in? What is wrong with you?”

Completely unfazed by the bite in my tone, she pushes past me and into my house. “I ran here. Because, as you know, it’s Sunday, which means I’m having brunch with the family later.” She plops down on my couch and arches a brow. “A brunch at which you’re likely to be the main topic of conversation if you don’t show your face.”

It’s not uncommon for me to go to the Jackson family brunch. In the four years since I moved here, the Jacksons have become my surrogate family of sorts. They’re the kind of people who are more inclusive than exclusive, so they make it easy for a single girl like me to have a place that feels like home. But that’s on days when I didn’t just have a hot make-out session with one of the Jackson brothers.

I shake my head. “I can’t go today.”

“And why is that, may I ask?”

Because things happened between Carter and me last night, and it was supposed to be nothing, but it felt . . . like something.

I need to stay away from him for long enough for the buzz in my blood to fade. Since the thought of those dark eyes and that arrogant smile has my stomach doing Olympic-level gymnastics, I think it’s fair to say I’m not there yet. A girl doesn’t simply forget getting finger-fucked senseless by Carter Jackson, let alone forget it in less than twelve hours. “I need to clean the house.”