The Bodyguard (46)

I frowned. “Did you just call me ‘stumpy’?”

“In a good way, Stumps,” Jack said.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“In a lovable way,” Jack insisted. “In an adorable, irresistible, how-can-I-get-this-little-lady-trapped-in-my-mountain-cabin way.” Then he turned to his parents, grabbed me in a headlock that messed up my already messy bun, and said, “Look how cute she is.”

“I am not stumpy,” I said helplessly.

But Jack’s mother was totally on board. She leaned forward. “What do you like best about her?”

Jack released me and let me sit back. “I like these little wispy things that never quite make it into her bun. And how she looks like a wet cat when you make her mad. And actually”—he said, like this was just occurring to him—“I like how she gets mad. She gets mad a lot.”

“You like how she gets mad?” Doc Stapleton asked, like his son might have a few screws loose.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “People don’t really get mad at you when you’re famous. At first, it’s great—but after a while it starts to feel like you’re living on a planet with no gravity.” He thought about that for a second. Then he turned back to me. “But not Stumps! One sock on the floor, and I get the mad cat face. I love it.”

I glared at him from under my messed-up hair.

He pointed at my face with admiration. “There it is right now.”

Connie was loving this. She turned to me. “And what do you like best about Jack?”

I hadn’t prepared for this question. But an answer just popped right into my head. “I like that he thanks me all the time. For all kinds of things. Things I would never have expected anyone to thank me for.”

I glanced at Jack, and I could tell he knew that I’d said something true.

He studied me for a second, seeming to fall out of character. Then he picked up a wadded paper towel off the table and threw it at the kitchen trash can like he was making a free throw—and missed.

We stared at it where it landed.

Then Hank said to me, “What do you like least about him?”

“Least?” I asked. I hadn’t prepared for this one, either. But another answer popped up like magic. “That’s easy. He leaves his dirty clothes all over the floor.” Then I added, “It’s like the Rapture happened, and they took Jack first.”

A half second of silence, and then they all—even Hank—burst out laughing.

As they settled, Connie said to Jack, “Sweetheart, you’re not still doing that, are you?”

But as she was saying it, Hank was starting to leave, his face serious again as if he hadn’t meant to laugh, and now he regretted it. He moved toward the kitchen door and put his hand on the knob.

“You’re leaving?” Connie said with a tone, like We were all just starting to have fun.

“I’ve got work to do,” Hank said.

Connie gave him a look, like Really? and Hank explained: “I’m starting on the boat today.”

From Connie’s reaction, that was serious.

It caught Jack’s attention, too. “The boat?” he asked.

Connie nodded. “I told Dad the other week that if they didn’t get busy building it, I was going to sell it on eBay.”

Jack nodded. Then he turned to face Doc. “Do you want some help?”

But Hank spun around, like he couldn’t believe Jack had just said that. “What?”

The whole mood in the room went rigid, but Jack still kept his friendly, relaxed vibe.

“I’m offering to help you build the boat,” Jack said.

“You’re offering,” Hank said, like he could not have heard correctly, “to help build Drew’s boat?”

Jack kept a steady gaze on Hank. “It’s better than Mom selling it on eBay, right?”

“Nope,” Hank said.

“Sweetheart,” Connie said to Jack, “we know you mean well…”

Doc let out a shaky sigh. “That’s probably not a good idea, son.”

At the consensus, Jack put up his hands. “I was just offering,” Jack said.

That’s when Hank took a step closer. “Well, don’t.”

Jack was holding still now, all pretense of affability frozen.

“Don’t talk about the boat,” Hank said now, glaring at Jack. “Don’t go near the boat. Don’t touch the boat. And for God’s sake don’t ever offer to help build it again.”

At that, Jack was on his feet and moving toward him. “When are you going to let it go, man?”

They were staring at each other like they were in a game of chicken when Hank noticed the leather necklace at the base of Jack’s throat. His eyes locked on the sight.

“What are you wearing?”

“I think you know what it is.”

“Take it off.”

But Jack shook his head. “Never.”

At that, Hank reached for it, like he might try to rip it off. But Jack blocked him. “Don’t touch me, man.”

“Take it off,” Hank demanded again—and then they were fighting. Not landing punches, exactly, but grabbing at each other, scuffling, shifting off balance, slamming into the kitchen cabinets. Pretty standard fighting for people who don’t fight much.