7
Jake pulled into the driveway of a small house on a quiet, tree-lined street of historic homes. Just looking at the place made me feel a bit better — it was painted off-white with dark red shutters, and had a small front porch and cheerful flowerbeds filled with pansies and snapdragons and Icelandic poppies in shades of red and orange and yellow.
Parked out in front was a new-looking slate-blue Jeep Renegade. Did everyone in the Wilcox clan drive shiny new cars?
My companion tilted his head toward the Jeep and said, “Looks like Laurel is still here. Come on — I’ll introduce you.”
Nervous butterflies fluttered in my stomach. It was one thing to be around Jake — after spending more than twenty-four hours in his company, I viewed him as almost familiar — but I didn’t know whether I was
