Jack’s sister or no.
Chapter Three
Shannon hummed while she finished grating cheddar cheese on a Denver omelet just as Sam padded into his stainless steel gourmet kitchen. The same amazing kitchen that had caused an immediate flare-up of Shannon’s MSD. Her smile flatlined. Otherwise known as Martha Stewart Disease, an affliction that had been in remission for over six years now. Since she used to cook for …
Her eyelids drifted shut as she paused over the plate, the malaise that always accompanied thoughts of Eric still marginally potent, even if far less than before.
“Holy cow, what smells so good?” Sam sniffed the air, eyes flaring when she turned around with the plated omelet in her hands.
Offering a Mona Lisa smile, she placed it on a sunny yellow linen napkin she used as a placemat, with another napkin arranged in a special necktie fold. Her smile squirmed. In honor of the tie he’d soiled, of course, adorned by two ibuprofen.
His jaw dropped as he toppled into his seat with a low groan, ironically attired in Polo “player” pajama pants and a white T-shirt that showcased a toned and sculpted body. “This looks like breakfast at the Ritz,” he said, his hygiene considerably improved with a clean-shaven jaw and curly damp hair that smelled like lemons.
Maybe too improved, Shannon thought as she poured him a cup of coffee, hints of musk, cedar, and vanilla causing an annoying flutter in her stomach. “What on earth is that scent?” she whispered, taking a quick step back.
His smile was more of a grimace that instantly revealed dimples she hadn’t paid much attention to before. “You like it? It’s called Straight to Heaven by Kilian. Supposed to be one of the most expensive colognes in the world.” A muscle flickered in his cheek as he reached for his coffee, nodding his thanks. “Jasmine gave it to me for Christmas.”
“It smells really nice.” Shannon hurried to pour herself a cup on the other side of the glass-and-stainless table, grateful for the comfortable distance it afforded.
“Man, this is incredible,” he said with a sip of the steaming brew, pausing to sniff. “Wait—is that cinnamon?”
She shook out her own napkin, settling it over her lap with a smile. “I sprinkled it on the grounds because it’s good for hangovers.” She nudged a plate of toast forward, crispy-crunchy with lots of cinnamon and sugar. “Thus the cinnamon toast as well.”
He gave her an open-mouthed stare, still spidered with red despite his squeaky clean appearance. “Are you for real? I mean, at first I thought you were an angel when I came to because your eyes were so …” He backpedaled a hand in the air, as if he couldn’t make his brain work. “I don’t know—gentle and kind. But now I’m not so sure you aren’t.” He managed a tired wink as he picked up his fork. “Because I gotta tell you, Angel Eyes …” A small moan melted on his lips when he tasted the food. “This omelet is pure heaven.”
She smiled. “I assure you, Dr. Cunningham, I am not an angel, so let’s just chalk it up to alcohol delusion, shall we?” Her lips canted. “After all, there was enough in your bloodstream to make a pub proud.”
Closing his eyes, he rolled a bite of the omelet around on his tongue. “Wow! How on earth did you have time to do all this?”
She shrugged, enjoying his praise more than she should. “Well, despite the fact that your three minutes were more like an hour, I figured you could use some sustenance to soak up the poison.” She took a stab at her own omelet, wishing she’d found some spinach and gruyere in his fridge. “And then, of course, I used to be somewhat of a cooking freak.”
“Used to be?” His fork paused as he watched her, a gooey string of cheese dangling off.
She dusted her omelet with additional pepper while his question dusted her cheeks with heat. “A guy I was engaged to once liked to cook as a hobby, so we took cooking classes together.” Avoiding his eyes, she pushed the omelet around on her plate, her appetite suddenly diminished. She shifted her tone to casual, unwilling to let anyone know how deeply Eric had scarred her life. Her food suddenly stuck in her throat. And how badly she’d failed herself and her family. Feigning a nonchalant shrug, she quickly swallowed the pain along with her omelet, coercing a glib smile. “So after we broke up, I guess I just lost interest.”
Along with my interest in men.
“I see. So … it was a bad breakup, then?” His voice was nearly a whisper, gentle and low, as if he were afraid he’d inflict more pain by saying it too loudly.
She stared at her plate, no longer seeing the omelet for the awful memories that assaulted her mind. Swallowing hard, she slowly met his gaze, stunned that he’d picked up on what she’d worked so hard to hide, especially with a brain muddled by alcohol. Her rib cage constricted when she saw raw compassion in bleary eyes so tender, they sparked a sharp sting of tears at the back of her lids. “The worst,” she whispered, quickly returning her focus to her food in the hope he would do the same, “which is why I gave up dating.” Head bent, she silently nibbled at her omelet, grateful he let it go, as if sensing her need to distance herself from the subject. They ate in companionable silence, and she was surprised at how relaxed and natural it felt, as if he, too, were lost in the sins of his past.
When they finished, she rose to take her empty plate to the sink, anxious to steer the conversation away from her. Inhaling deeply, she reclaimed her seat and zeroed in on him with a jut of her chin. “So, Dr. Cunningham, since I’m not the one who drank herself into a stupor tonight, let’s trade couches, shall we?” Her gaze softened as she folded her arms on the table, recalling Jack’s concerns over how miserable he felt Sam was despite his ever-jovial demeanor. A man who, in his endless pursuit of love and approval, Jack suspected, buried his pain in laughter and tease.
Just like I bury mine by being quiet and shy.
“Jack told me about Jasmine,” she said gently, heart wincing at the flicker of pain that crossed his features. “And I ache for you, Sam, because I know how hard it can be when a relationship is over.”
His Adam’s apple ducked as he abandoned his fork for his cup, pushing away from the table to sag back in his chair. “It is, as we both obviously know, but it’s far from over for me, I can tell you that,” he said without a trace of a slur, the determination in his eyes obviously sharpening his focus and tongue. “From the moment I laid eyes on her, it’s like the woman possessed my soul, convincing me she was the one.” His mouth banked to the right. “Now I just have to convince her. Again.”
He set his cup down and leaned in with arms on the table like her, a glint of steel glittering in those coffee-brown eyes. “Never been a quitter, Shannon, and I sure don’t intend to start now. She’ll have her fling with this new guy, and I’ll have plenty of my own, but when she’s ready” —he dipped his head in emphasis, penetrating her with a bloodshot stare— “and she will be sooner or later—she’ll be back.” He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “And I’ll be ready because it’s the dance that we do, until she finally figures out I’m the guy that she needs.”
“Why?” She reached for a piece of cinnamon toast and nibbled the edge.
He frowned, dark brows digging low. “Why? Why what?”
She sat back to settle in, casually hugging one arm to her waist while she nipped at her toast, curious as to why Jasmine possessed him so. It was a mystery she’d had to solve herself with Eric in order to heal and discover who she really was. And although it was no mystery what Sam or any man saw in Jasmine—she was beautiful, smart, and the wealthy daughter of Sam’s and Jack’s boss—Shannon suspected Sam had never truly scratched the surface of “why.” Never delved into the deep, dark recesses of his soul where the truth lay buried, just waiting to be revealed.
Like mine.
With a pensive crunch of her toast, she chewed slowly. “Why is she ‘the one’ for you and why are you the ‘guy she needs’?” Wrinkling her nose, she took another bite, smile skewed as she studied him. “And why, in the name of love, would you even consider a ‘fling’ with anyone
else if Jasmine ‘possesses’ your soul?”
Ruddy color crept into his cheeks as he offered a casual smile, leaning back with a muscled arm over the chair, as if just shooting the breeze. “Gosh, Shan, go for the jugular, why don’t you?” He flaunted his dimples. “Not just sober and sensible, but point blank and precise too.”
Tipping her head, she arched her brows in challenge, far more interested in facts than flirtation. “The jugular veins drain blood from the head to the heart, Dr. Cunningham, as you well know, so the answers to your heartache are most likely in the brain.”
He squinted as if seeing her in a whole new light, lips parted in an open-mouthed smile tinged with annoyance despite a hint of respect. “Well, well, looks like somebody’s been spending her Saturday nights curled up with Jack’s anatomy book instead of the real thing.”
She blinked, completely caught off-guard by his jab. Rising, she reached for his empty plate with a weary expulsion of air. She wasn’t about to be target practice for some clueless player who’d rather coddle his pride than his heart. Nope, it was definitely time to go.
“Wait …” Eyes naked with regret, he gripped her wrist, startling her so much, the plate dropped to the table with a thud. “Don’t leave,” he whispered, a sobriety in his manner she hadn’t thought he possessed. “I’m a horse’s behind, Shannon, and I’m sorry I sniped at you like that.” He gently grazed her wrist with his thumb before letting go, gaze fused to hers as he picked up her plate. “Stay and talk. Please?”
He lumbered up to collect his, too, then dumped them both in the sink. Returning to top off their coffee, he nodded at her empty seat while she stood stock-still. “Come on, sit—please? I’m interested in what you have to say,” he said quietly, his hand shaking as he poured.
Arms barricaded to her chest, she silently studied him through wary eyes, miffed when her heart softened at the tug of his plea.
When she didn’t move, he splayed a hand to his chest with a boyish smile, brown eyes so mesmerizing, they melted her resistance. “If I promise to behave?”
A trace of a smile tugged at her lips as she delivered a mock glare. “Behave? I’m not sure you can even define it, Doc, much less do it, but since patience is a byproduct of sober and sensible, you’re in luck.”
He grinned as he pulled out her chair. “Yes, I am, Miss O’Bryen, and Jack tells me you’re a teacher, so I’m just glad there are no pointers or rulers around. Third grade, I believe?”
Tempering her smile, she slid into her chair with a fold of her hands on the table. “Yes, so as you can see, I’m completely qualified to deal with the likes of you.”
“That appears more than obvious,” he said, plopping back into his seat, the barest hint of mischief peeking through that same adorable hooligan guilt she saw in her eight-year-old male students. “Okay, then.” Huffing out a heavy sigh, he folded his hands on the table like her, his humor slowly dissolving into a quiet vulnerability she suspected few people ever saw. “I can’t exactly explain in concrete terms why Jasmine is the one because it’s more of a rightness I feel when we’re together—like we’re a perfect fit.”
Closing his eyes, he propped elbows to the table to massage his temples with the heels of his hands, face pinched as if striving to make sense of it all. “It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s kind of like slipping on a perfectly tailored Armani suit, you know?” He peered up, face scrunched while he struggled to put his feelings into words. “It’s so smooth and comfortable, you feel like a different person. Like when I slide into my Vette or walk into my townhouse after a long day, there’s this sense of significance, value … order, even, that makes everything right in my world.”
She released a quiet sigh, something cramping in her chest. “Don’t be angry with me, Sam, but those things sound like trappings to me,” she said quietly, “not love.”
He glanced up, mouth tamped in a firm line. “Maybe, but it makes me feel whole, Shannon, worth something and better than I’ve ever felt before.”
“Yes, but for how long?”
He blinked at her, then looked away. “Long enough.”
“Until she’s gone?” she whispered.
She had her answer when his jaw went rigid.
“That’s how it was with me, too,” she said softly, gaze trailing into a faraway stare. “The sun only seemed to shine when I was with him.” A wispy sigh drifted out as she finally looked up, so very grateful to a God Who had opened her eyes. A faint smile lighted upon her lips as peace lighted upon her soul. “Until I learned it rose every single day with or without him. Sometimes blindingly bright, sometimes dark and dim, but always there, rain or shine.” She took a sip of her coffee, flashing a smile to steer the conversation out of the gloom. “So tell me, Dr. Cunningham, just why are you the guy that Jasmine needs?”
He grinned and sat back, hands braced behind his neck in a relaxed pose that displayed an impressive bulge of biceps. “It’s not obvious?”
Her smile swerved. “A wise man once said ‘charm is deceitful and beauty fades,’ so you gotta give me more to go on than that.”
He flashed some teeth. “Charm and beauty, huh? Well, I’ll take it, Miss O’Bryen, although I would have preferred tall and handsome.”
“‘Vanity of vanities; all is vanity,’” she quoted, remembering well how much that lesson had cost her. She dipped her head to peer up, lips pursed in a patient smile. “Hate to break it to you, Doc, but as superficial as we women seem when ogling hot guys, most of us crave way more than a pretty face. And if we don’t, then we’re likely more shallow than the relationship.”
He squinted at her. “You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
She shrugged. “No reason to. I’m a bottom-liner out of pure self-preservation. I was deeply wounded by charm and beauty, so surface things like that don’t even make the cut anymore. I tend to bypass most of it to get right to the point.” She absently scraped her lip with her teeth, a hint of apology in her eyes. “No matter how sharp that point may be.”
“And here I thought you were the soft and vulnerable twin.”
She grinned. “Used to be.” Her smile faded as she veered off into a distant stare. “Till the truth shattered my world, almost taking my life with it.”
He paused for several seconds, then cleared his throat, peering up beneath the darkest, thickest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. The tenderness in his gaze was so real and intense, it stuttered her pulse. “You know, I barely know you, Shannon, except for snippets here and there I’ve gleaned from Jack, but for some reason I wince inside hearing that. I don’t know—it’s just harder to see pain devastate someone soft and shy like you, who seems to have an innate gentleness about her.”
Her mouth quirked. “Except during detox and discussions of depth?”
“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, smile sheepish. “Except then.”
“Well, then, see?” Hopping up, she grabbed both of their empty cups and took them to the sink. “There’s our first plus as to why Jasmine needs you—your empathy and compassion, Dr. Cunningham. But don’t waste it on me, please. That same truth that shattered my world was also what finally set me free.” Glancing at her watch, she was completely shocked that two hours had already passed since they’d arrived. She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “More coffee?”
“No, thanks. Your mission is to put me to sleep, remember? Not hype me up so I call a cab and go back out.” He squinted at the ceiling as if trying to remember something. “‘You shall … know the truth ... and it shall set you free.’”
She chuckled while she rinsed the dirty dishes and put them in the dishwater, returning with a dishrag to wipe off the table. “Ah, a man who knows Scripture—now there’s a plus in the ‘Jasmine Needs’ column. A show of faith—I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be,” he said with a wry bent of his mouth. “I’m not big on God or prayer, and that’s the only thing I remember from Sunday school. That and ‘do unto others as you would have them do un
to you.’”
“Ah, yes, which brings us to question number three.” She sat back down, hands folded like before, her probing gaze pinning him to the chair. “Explain to me, Dr. Cunningham, just how you can have a fling with anyone else if Jasmine ‘possesses your soul’?”
He grimaced. “Uh-oh, looks like I may have to scratch ‘soft and shy.’”
She shimmied to the edge of her chair, suddenly extremely curious why men—even great guys like Jack before his faith was rekindled—had no qualms about toying with a woman’s affections. “I mean, Jack says you’re a pretty decent guy for a player,” she said, ignoring his flinch, “and you’ve chosen a noble profession, so you obviously have a great love for children. You could have blown me away when Jack mentioned you’ve been part of the Family for Every Child mentor program for years now, which clearly indicates a heart for others.” She leaned in on the table, arms crossed while she absently tugged on her lower lip with her teeth, softening her voice to cushion the blow. “So tell me, Sam, how can a nice guy like you who is supposed to be in love with one woman, tease and take from so many others without ever really giving back?”
“I give back,” he said with a thread of hurt in his tone.
She hiked a brow. “Dinners, dates, and sleepovers? Sounds like more trappings to make you feel better. Call me picky, but that doesn’t say love to me, especially for a woman who ‘possesses your soul.’”
He sat straight up, frustration ridging his brow. “Hey, need I remind you it was Jasmine who broke up with me, Miss Bottom-Line? Not the other way around, so technically I’m a free man.”
A weary sigh feathered her lips as she slumped back in her chair, heart aching for this man who was so desperate for love, yet so clueless as to how to go about it. “But that’s just it, Sam,” she said quietly, “you’re not free. You’re trapped in a cycle of rejection. Jasmine rejects you, so you reject her back, then you turn right around and reject every woman you use to fill the hole in your heart.”