Page 5 of Love Everlasting

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.

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.