Shannon’s mouth went flat. “You want me to tuck him in too?”
Jack chuckled. “Might be a nice touch, but not necessary.” He leveled a finger at her with a mock glare. “I don’t want you within twenty feet of his bedroom, young lady, you got that?” He winked. “I’m trusting you, Shan.”
“Glad one of us does,” she mumbled, shoulders slumping when she saw Sam dipping Cat in a dance move next to the table, almost dropping her.
“Okay, come on, Twinkletoes.” Jack pulled Sam away from Cat to hook an arm over his shoulder, carefully guiding him down the wide, tree-lined walkway dotted with tables. He tossed Cat a warning glare over his shoulder. “And if I ever see you dancing with this joker again, Catfish, I’m going to toss you into the river, you got it? He’s off-limits to you and Shan because he’s dangerous to women’s health.”
“Yeah?” Sam mumbled, stumbling along beside Jack, “then how come it’s my health that took the hit this time?”
“Have fun, you lucky duck,” Margo called as Shannon led Jack and Sam to where she had parked her car. “Sure wish it were me.”
“Me too,” Shannon muttered, wondering if she could talk Jack into putting Sam in the trunk.
“Jack, I’m fine, I swear.” Sam’s argument sounded convincing enough except for a near miss with a chair, and Shannon couldn’t help the ghost of a smile when her brother gave him a Gibbs smack to the back of the head. She could have kissed Jack after he dumped Sam into the back seat of the car instead of the front. Especially after a slight detour where Dr. Love puked on the parking lot, necessitating quick cleanup with wet wipes from the glove compartment.
Facedown on the upholstery, Sam ground out a low groan that coaxed another smile to Shannon’s lips. “I think I’m gonna die …” he muttered. His voice was no more than a rasp as he lay prostrate across the back seat of her mother’s 1999 Chevy Impala, his bristled jaw flat against her beige upholstery.
“No you won’t, Ham,” Jack said with a degree of sympathy. “You just need to get past this obsession with Jasmine and move on with your life, man. There are other fish in the sea.”
A hiccough interrupted Sam’s moan. “I don’ want fish. I want her. She’s one in a million.”
“Yeah, and so’s the headache you’re gonna have come morning, bro, if you don’t get some decent sleep.” He shoved the rest of Sam’s legs into the car and slammed the door, opening the passenger side to offer Shannon a penitent smile. “I can’t thank you enough, Shan. Jazz dumped him for some new intern, and it’s been a rough week for him, you know?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she whispered, her heart aching for him despite his inebriated state. “Is there anything else I can do to help cheer him up?”
“Yeah, you can pray for him, and maybe even share some of that wisdom you’re so famous for. Never seen Ham this down before, and it has me a little worried, you know?”
“Sure, Jack.” She peeked into the back seat where snores could be heard while drool puddled on the upholstery. “I feel bad for the poor guy.”
Jack grinned. “I knew you would because you have an oversized heart of gold, kiddo, but not too much, okay? Ham has been known to take advantage of the kindness of strangers.”
A grin tugged at Shannon’s lips as she glanced over her shoulder. “Doesn’t look like he could take advantage of much of anything right now.” She wrinkled her nose. “Except Mom’s car seat.”
“Yeah, well that’s when he’s at his most dangerous, I’m afraid, catching women off-guard with his little-boy charm. So unconscious or not, keep your distance, okay?”
She started the car with its customary sputter and growl, shifting into gear as she slid Jack a wry smile. “Distance would be a cab, Jack, but I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good girl.” With two firm taps of her roof, Jack closed the door, hands in his pockets as he watched her drive away.
A snort sounded from the back seat, and Shannon had no choice but to smile. A cab, definitely.
In another state.
Chapter Two
Stupid fly. Sam Cunningham swatted at the insect, its stupid buzzing getting on his last nerve. It landed again, and he literally growled, flailing his arm to shoo it away. “Beat it, before I nail your butt to the wall.”
“Now that I’d like to see.”
Sam jolted up with a groan, drool smeared on the side of his mouth as he squinted into the eyes of an angel.
Okay, he couldn’t be dead because his head was pounding too hard, and dead people didn’t feel pain, right? Not unless … He shot straight up, head in a vice as he groaned in misery, kneading his temples. His stomach burned like the devil and his throat was so parched, it felt like it was on fire.
Uh-oh … fire!
Yep, he was dead.
And now, he was going to pay for his sins.
“You’re not going to throw up again, are you?” A quiet voice asked, soft with sympathy.
He glanced up at the angel through slits in his eyes, his voice barely a croak. “I might. Where am I?” he rasped.
“The back seat of my mother’s car, and I’m Jack’s sister Shannon in case you don’t remember.” She gently tugged on his arm, obviously hoping to remove him from the vehicle. “Which would be a miracle, given the brain cells you destroyed tonight.”
He grunted, gingerly attempting to unfold himself from the car while bowling balls ricocheted in his head. “I don’ believe in miracles.”
“You should—it’s a miracle you’re even alive after the alcohol you consumed.”
“Wish I wasn’t,” he muttered, hand to his eyes as he teetered on the sidewalk, limbs as limp as the crumpled tie dangling around his neck. He sniffed. “What’s that awful smell?”
“Vomit. You puked on your tie and shirt,” she said, the empathy in her tone now laced with a hint of a smile.
He groaned. “Noooo! This is my best tie—a Ralph Lauren black.” One eye opened a sliver. “Not in your car, I hope?”
“Nope, that’s miracle number three—you puked in the parking lot, so Jack and I cleaned you up with the wet wipes we keep in the glove compartment.”
“For sloppy drunks you cart home?” He managed to pry his eyes open all the way, noticing for the first time just how pretty she was.
“Nope, you’re my first.” She hooked an arm to his waist. “Ready?”
“Always,” he said with a smile that was worth the pain, “when there’s a pretty woman by my side.”
She paused, face in a pinch as she stared up with mouth agape. “Seriously? You’re going to hit on me when you can barely walk and smell like puke?”
He gave a faint shrug, smile sheepish. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“I guarantee you, Dr. Cunningham,” she said in a stern tone tempered with tease, “the only thing you’re going to gain with comments like that is a whop alongside the head.”
“Ouch.” He grinned while she attempted to steer him toward his luxury villa with a strength and determination that belied her small size, her manner utterly patient when he stumbled several times. His hands shook as he fumbled to fish his keys from his pocket, striving for a smile that came out as a grimace. “I can take it from here,” he said, then froze, his keys promptly plummeting onto his brick front porch. Panic set in when he broke out in a cold sweat, mouth salivating like he was going to throw up …
Noooooooooooo!
Body heaving, he spun around to a potted palm just in time, retching into the planter for several agonizing seconds. He stood there, breathing hard while he remained bent over the poor plant, pretty sure he’d just puked up his intestines.
“Let’s get you inside,” a soft voice said, the gentle touch of a palm rubbing his back.
A groan scraped past his dry lips, and he white-knuckled the edge of the planter, not sure if the heat in his cheeks meant he was embarrassed or going to toss his cookies again. “Please go—I can take it from here.”
The caress of a hand to his b
ack continued despite his objection. “I’m sure you can, Sam, but it remains to be seen if you’ll be sleeping out here next to a potted palm or inside in a clean, cozy bed. So, if it’s all the same to you, Doc, I have strict orders to get you down for the night before I leave, so I’m here till I get the dirty deed done.”
He rose slowly, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve and feeling so much better after unloading his stomach, he actually managed a chuckle. “Ah yes, the ‘sober and sensible twin.’”
“That’s right, Dr. Love,” she said, employing Jack’s nickname while she turned the key in his door, “which means the party’s over and you’re done for the night.”
“Wait …!” He spun around, heart in his throat. “Where’s my car?”
“Jack will deliver it in the morning, Doc, so move it inside, please.” She nudged him into his spacious marble foyer that never failed to elicit a feeling of pride, always reminding Sam that he’d finally arrived. A far cry from a flea-bitten room over a bar on the wrong side of the tracks, Sam’s villa—along with his “preowned” pearl white Corvette—were his pride and joy. Absolute proof he was worth something, despite desertion by a two-bit mother and the rantings of a foster father who claimed he’d only amount to a pile of dung.
He fumbled to turn on the light, then reveled in the gasp that popped from Shannon’s lips, her voice tinged with an awe he never tired of hearing. “Wow, this is some place, Doc,” she whispered, peering up at the vaulted foyer with its sleek chrome and teak stairway that zigzagged against a wall of glass. Cream walls resplendent with equally pale modern works of art were beautifully complemented by a central circular mirror and white calla lilies in a tall pottery vase. Sam would have preened with pride if he wasn’t covered in puke, because each and every piece was deliberately designed to evoke the clean and simple beauty he so craved in his own life.
“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered, leaving his side to wander the entryway with a look of awe as if she were Alice perusing Wonderland for the very first time. “Utterly clean and pure. Not at all what I expected of a notorious bachelor.” She turned, the look of astonishment on her face making him grin and wince at the same time. “You didn’t do this yourself, did you? I mean a designer put it together for you, right?”
“Nope, all mine,” he said, chest swelling with pride even as his stomach rebelled with a twinge of nausea. He fought it off, suddenly aware he smelled like a pub on payday.
Her jaw actually dropped. “I don’t believe it.”
He forced a flirtatious smile, barely minding the throb in his head. “Every shade of paint, every stick of furniture, every piece of art,” he said with a wobbly hand to his heart, “straight out of my depraved brain, I promise.” He suddenly steadied himself with a hand to the wall, a flashback from his childhood making him dizzier than the booze in his body.
“I’ll come back soon, I promise,” his mother always said, night after night, the stench of alcohol on her breath making him nauseous. Only she never did, leaving a skin-and-bones five-year-old to fend for himself in a rat-infested room over a dive of a bar. And when her lush of a boyfriend gave her a choice between Sam and him? Sam’s teeth ground hard as he swayed on his feet. No contest. Because his so-called mother was weak—seeking her self-worth in a loser who had absolutely no worth at all—while giving her son promises that were worth even less.
“No,” Sam stressed with a hint of a slur, focusing glassy eyes on a woman who for some strange reason, he wanted to know the truth. “I give you my word,” he emphasized with surprising clarity, “because you see, Miss O’Bryen, promises are nothing more than a puff of air. But my word is my unbreakable bond, as honest and pure as I can ever hope to be.” The dizziness passed, and he stood up straight and tall, both his smile and the “player” in play once again. “Because despite my notoriously black reputation, I am inexplicably drawn to things that are simple and pure, honest and clean, and completely unblemished by my own sordid life.”
Her gaze met his and held. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, head tipped as if she couldn’t quite figure him out.
“Thank you.” He leaned on the knob of the open door, making every effort not to waver on his feet. “Unlike its owner at the moment, I’m afraid. It seems I’m in dire need of a shower.”
She simply stared, her calm look of compassion so disarming that the smile slowly dissolved on his face. All at once, he felt his shoulders relax, the need to impress suddenly as absent as his sobriety. “Thank you, Shannon,” he said quietly, somewhat baffled by the calming effect that she had, “for putting up with me tonight and getting me home.” He took a stab at a smile that came out more as a flinch. “I’ll have the inside of your car fumigated and detailed, so just send me the bill.”
For some reason the kindness in her eyes put a hitch in his throat he could only blame on the booze. She slipped her purse off her shoulder, dangling it from one hand while she reverently glided the other across his polished teak half-moon table. “That won’t be necessary,” she said with a smile, “but I suspect a pot of coffee will be. Direct me to the kitchen?”
He studied her through blurry eyes, wondering if the aura of innocence he detected was real or just the effect of the alcohol on his brain. “You don’t have to do that, Shannon. The vomit was already above and beyond the call of duty, so I’ll give Jack a good report.”
She huffed out a sigh bigger than her. “Sorry, Doc. Jack asked me to make sure you go to bed and don’t go out again. Blame it on the curse of being the sensible and sober twin who follows orders, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to follow through with coffee and even lend an ear if you like.”
He stared for several dizzy seconds, then shut the door, figuring a cup of coffee was preferable to a vertigo spin in bed. “Sure. Kitchen’s down the hall, and it won’t take me three minutes to shower.” He eyed the lofty staircase with a dull gaze. “Now the stairs? Might be more like twenty.”
She paused halfway to the kitchen. “Need help?”
“Nope.” He made his way to the staircase, trying hard not to weave. “The hangover will be wicked enough without Jack’s fist if I get one of his sisters into my bedroom.”
“O-Okay.” She spun on her heel and all but sprinted down the hall.
But not before he saw the delicate rise of color in her face that lured a smile to his lips. He shook his head as he methodically scaled one step at a time, fisting the steel banister to hold himself up. He sure didn’t blame Jack for banning him from his sisters, especially Shannon. There was something so sweet and wholesome about her that it almost made him want to protect her himself.
He paused at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, the thought of Jack’s sister in his “lair” quirking his lips. Obviously Jack was concerned about Sam’s welfare enough to put his sister in harm’s way, which only deepened Sam’s gratitude to the man who was quickly becoming a close friend. His mouth crooked. Even if he was annoyingly bent on saving Sam’s soul.
Plodding into his massive bedroom, he peeled off his clothes, leaving a trail on his way to the master bath before turning the shower all the way to scalding. Feeling woozy, he braced his hands on the vanity, mind as foggy as the steam billowing behind him like thunderclouds portending a doozy of a storm. He peered into the mirror, muscled arms taut with his weight while red eyes and a sagging face shadowed with scruff confirmed the storm was already here.
And it was a stinkin’ category five.
He dropped his head, the pain in his chest suddenly making the throb in his brain look like lollipops on immunization day.
Because he’d lost Jazz again. A second time.
And losing always left a bitter taste in his mouth.
You’re nothing but a loser, kid, just like your old lady.
Kind of like spewing in a parking lot, only this time the nausea was in his heart. Peering up, he saw a ripped body honed at the gym and chiseled features Jazz once likened to a Greek god. Determination steeled
his bones. Because inside he knew his feelings for Jasmine and hers for him went far deeper than a pretty face. “You’ll be back, Jazz,” he whispered, “because I’m the one you come to when you’re hurting, and the one who makes you laugh when others make you cry.”
Like Jack when he dumped you for Lacey.
An odd mix of resentment and regard churned in his gut along with the booze, reminding him that it had been Jack who had stolen Jazz away the first time, after Sam cheated on her. But then it was Jack who had sent her running right back after he’d upped and married Lacey. Jasmine had been devastated, but Sam had been ready, wooing her back with love and understanding and an iron-clad resolve to never stray again.
Until she dumped him for an intern.
Sam’s eyes shuttered closed. Just like his so-called fiancée dumped him in college. Right after she had an affair with his professor, destroying Sam’s confidence along with the man’s marriage.
Mind and body wobbling, he quickly opened his eyes, desperate to purge the memory from his brain along with the alcohol from his system.
Stepping into the shower, he welcomed the hot water that battered him raw. Well, he’d lost Jazz twice, but he’d also won her twice, and if it took every trick in the book, he’d do it again. His jaw automatically hardened, resolve to win her back pummeling through his veins as hard as the steaming water pummeled his body. But right now he needed to numb the ache in his heart, so he’d start with a cup of coffee with a pretty woman who just might help fill the hole in his chest.
At least for a while.
He lathered with soap, aching with the need to feel worthy and clean. He suddenly thought of Shannon and instantly relaxed, the idea of coffee with her suddenly the only thing he wanted to do. He could use an honest sounding board after all the angst Jasmine had put him through. And he’d begin tonight by picking Shannon’s brain as to how he might win her back. Because Shannon did mention lending an ear.
Stepping out of the shower, he expelled a burdensome sigh. And maybe, if she realized just how badly he was hurting, she’d lend him even more. Like a few innocent kisses—and only kisses—from a woman who could help ease some of his pain. Sagging over the sink, he ground his thumb against the throb in his temple, desperate to free himself of the awful loneliness that always haunted his brain. His eyelids weighted closed. Because he had to.