“Dude, shut the fuck up. He lives here.” I search around the kitchen like Jack might spring up from behind a counter, even though I know he’s safely tucked away in the basement, as always.

“While Gem’s delivery might be a little off, she does have a bit of a point. This is a big deal, Sadie. The man went from telling you nothing to asking you to go to his dead parents’ house with him.” Damn Harley and her stupid logic and reason.

“One, he didn’t ask, I offered. Two, we’re just friends. Three, I hate you both.” I longingly eye the wine cabinet. But it’s only noon, and we’re supposed to head out in an hour.

“Sorry, but Jack is too hot for all that just-friends nonsense.” Gemma nudges Harley to the side so they can share the screen.

“If he’s too hot for just friends, then how come you’re just friends with him? How come I’m just friends with Nick?” I jog up the stairs so I can finish packing while we chat.

“Aw, you think my man is hot?”

“Nick practically has ‘My Type’ stamped on his forehead. If he weren’t so nice.” Propping my phone up on my pillows, I force them to watch me fold my clothes and stash them in my overnight bag. “Which is just another reason why this whole Jack thing is just an itch.”

Gemma raises her eyebrows up and down. “So is this the weekend you scratch it?”

“You guys are terrible, and I’m hanging up now. Text me if you have any delivery problems. Love you, bye!”

I close out the call before they can protest further.

I finish packing, throwing mostly lounging clothes in my bag, but also tucking in one decent outfit in case we end up going out for dinner or something. Hmm. Jack and I going out for dinner. Just the two of us.

My mind wanders off to picture what it’d be like to go on a date with Jack but snaps back when the man himself calls my name from the bottom of the stairs.

“Coming!” I throw in my iPad and laptop and chargers and zip up my bag before bounding down the steps. In the kitchen, I hoist up the reusable tote I’ve stuffed full of snacks, but no sooner does it land on my shoulder than Jack takes it from me.

He peers into the bag, poking around to see what I’ve brought. “You do know it’s a two-, three-hour drive at most, right?”

“You can never have too many snacks. Plus these have to last us the whole weekend.” I refuse to be snack shamed.

“Southport does have grocery stores.” Jack hefts the bag over his arm, gesturing me toward the front door.