Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4) by Elle Aycart Page B

since the last time he’d seen the oldest of the Bowens.
    Jack wasn’t sure yet whether to be amused or horrified.
    “The marker on James and Tate’s wedding picture; your handiwork, right?” he asked.
    “How did you guess?”
    Side by side with Cole’s Star Trek wedding photo from hell there had been one of James and Tate’s wedding party. Jack’s face had been covered with black marker and someone had written “top secret” near it.
    “I figured you would want to protect your identity,” she continued, scooping more ice cream and then licking the spoon. As if staring at her at Rosita’s swaying her ass hadn’t been bad enough, or trying not to watch as she changed out of her airport uniform in his truck, now he had a ringside view of her gorgeous mouth playing with her food. “I guess getting new fake passports and changing names must be a drag. And cost a mint. I have a close-up the photographer took of us while dancing at the wedding reception. I personally think we look amazing, but I can’t hang a picture with half of it crossed over with marker. I’m waiting for you to be a normal civilian so that your face can be publicly revealed.”
    She was making fun of him. As always. People gave him a wide berth. Grown men had trouble holding his stare and this tiny woman was laughing at him.
    “Why don’t you have a man?” he blurted, suddenly irritated.
    “I do have plenty of those.”
    “No, you don’t. You have half-assed, no-balls, no-dicks, wet-behind-the-ears kids with barely any stubble who worship at your feet and agree with you about everything. I meant a real man looking out for you. Getting in your face when it’s needed.” Which, as far as he could see, was all the fucking time.
    “Oh, they have balls. And there’s nothing wrong with their dicks, I can assure you. Besides, I don’t need a man getting in my face.”
    He begged to differ, but that conversation was a lost cause if he ever saw one.
    “And that?” he asked, gesturing to the sentence on the kitchen door. Believe in the impossible , it read. He’d noticed inspirational stickers on every door he’d seen so far.
    She shrugged. “Good to remember.”
    For the first time the entire night, Elle seemed down. He’d been praying for her to stop blabbing and be quiet, but now that she was, it didn’t sit well with him.
    “So what other moronic activities you take part in that I need to be aware of?”
    Her eyes brightened. Her lips quirked up. Yeah, much better. “I keep busy. But don’t worry, we aren’t having another flash mob until the next month.”
    Oh, he wasn’t worried. Much.
    “You need to cancel all that shit.” No more running around for stupid flash mobs. “And get rid of those braids,” he added, pointing at her head. “I don’t like them.”
    She let out a soft snort. “Let’s see what I can do. And about my schedule, I’ll keep to just the bare necessities. Swear.”
    She lifted her hand, those angelic eyes and that damn smirk on her face not boding well with him. He felt his ulcer acting up. He’d dealt with lowlifes and criminals all his life and not a glitch. He’d met her and gotten a fucking ulcer.
    He reached into his pocket and took another antacid.
    Mullen needed to get his ass in gear and catch Maldonado soon, or Jack’s insides would burst into flames.
    “There’s no food in your kitchen.”
    “There’s ice cream.”
    “What I said. No food.”
    She threw a glance at him and asked, “You were joking in the plane, right?”
    He pondered for a second. “Yeah, I didn’t neutralize any hijackers.”
    “I didn’t mean that,” she said, between giggles. “I meant what you said about wanting a Pilgrim as a wife.”
    “Nope. Totally serious.”
    “You’re in the wrong century. Heck, the wrong millennium.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Why a bread-baking wife?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “Is it because you can’t cook? Because that’s why God created takeout. You just