“You’re not getting that recipe out of me, Grayson Masters.”
“It was worth the try.” Those brownies were epic.
“Keep trying. Maybe when you’re in for your birthday we could make them for a party—”
“No,” I snapped, and she sucked in her breath. Shit. “I’m sorry, Mom, but you know how I feel about that.”
Oil sizzled in the background. She’d started browning her breaded fillets. I turned up the heat on the stove, not far behind.
“I know, Grayson. I just thought it’s been five years, maybe something had changed.”
“It hasn’t,” I answered, careful to keep my tone soft.
The sounds of frying chicken popped between us. “Well, in that case, I’ll fill you in on the gossip.”
She launched into the latest news, or what she qualified as news. In Nags Head, North Carolina, everything in the off-season counted as news, but it was slimmer pickings once the tourists arrived. I listened, rapt, 814 miles away while she worked in a kitchen that would fit in half of this one but served just as many people.
“How are things down South?”
I placed the browned fillets in the baking dish and spooned marinara over them, finishing up dinner while I filled Mom in on the random duties I was assigned to right now, but was careful to leave out anything flight-school related.
“Did you hear that Miranda is having a girl?” she asked.
My hand froze momentarily. “She called.”
“Tess sure has her heart set on those stem cells.”
“She’s Grace’s mom, of course she’s going to hope. I also know there’s not one clinical trial that she’ll qualify for.”
I pictured the soft narrowing of her eyes, knowing that she’d pushed me into territory she couldn’t follow. She changed subjects. “So when will we get you for more than a weekend?”
“I think over the Fourth of July, but don’t hold me to it.” Do not mention my birthday.
“You should bring a couple of your friends home with you,” she suggested as I covered the dish.
“I’ll think about it.” And I would. For about thirty seconds.
“Walker!” Jagger yelled, flinging the front door open with a phone to his ear.
“He’s not here,” I answered. “Hey, Mom, I have to go.” Hot air from the oven blasted my face as I slid the baking dish in and set the timer for an hour. “Same time next week?”
“Coq au vin,” she answered, and an ache hit my chest when I pictured her smile.
“It’s a date.”
“Fuck!” Jagger answered, hanging up his phone after I did the same. Good thing—Mom wouldn’t let him in the front door with that mouth. “Were you talking to him?”
“No, my mom.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Huh. I figured you hatched out of a rock or something.”
“Very funny.” It wasn’t his fault. I let them in as far as they needed for their sakes, not mine, and no further. “What do you need Walker for?”
“He’s not answering his phone.” He tried one more time, nodding his head absentmindedly to the beat of Josh’s ring-back. “Still not there. Can you drive a stick shift?”
I arched an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“Yeah, well, I need you to drive Sam’s car home.” He glanced over my shoulder at the timer on the oven. “We have more than enough time before your precious cuisine burns.”
“Where is Sam’s car, and why can’t she drive it?”
He sighed. “Oscars.” He named the local flight-school bar. “And she passed driving standard two hours ago.”
Chapter Four
Sam
I felt alive. And drunk.
Whatever, it was awesome, and a hell of a lot better than crying into my pillow over stuff I couldn’t change. No matter what I did, my life was now defined by one stupid mistake.
A mistake that had felt like the first rational decision I’d ever made—and burned me worse than half the stupid shit I’d ever pulled.
“Can I buy you a shot?” a half-attractive guy asked, coming into my field of blurred vision and checking out my girls. There was a way hotter guy behind him, but he wasn’t looking my way, and truthfully, I wasn’t interested in anything but drinking.
“Yes!” I gave him my hundred-mega-watt grin, pushing every dark thought far enough back that I could drown it with alcohol. “Tequila?”
The bartender lifted her eyebrow at me, and I mirrored the expression. What? Ember had left for Nashville a couple hours ago after not even having a single drink with me, and I didn’t need another babysitter. The bartender shook her head and slid the shot across the bar with salt and lime. I slammed it back, savoring the burn and anticipating the numb that would quickly follow.
I was so sick of feeling. Hoping. Trying.
“So what’s your story? You a local? Because I haven’t seen anything nearly as hot as you are around here.”
I took in his crew cut, arrogant grin, and West Point ring on his left hand. “Nope, Lieutenant, I’m a transplant, and entirely out of your league. But thank you for the shot.” Crap. I think that came out more slurred than intended.
“Is there anyone we can call for you?” the hot one asked, tearing his eyes off the football game playing on the big screen.
“Do I look like a baby who needs a sitter?” I spat back, my head feeling blissfully detached from my body.
“Hell no,” the mediocre one answered. “Not with those curves.”
The hot one glared at the mediocre one. “You look like you might need a ride home.”
“Well, I don’t. Thank you.” Home. Like I even had one of those. No, just a collection of different houses Mom moved us to at duty stations. But I did have Jagger’s house. Shit. Did I bring my house key? I hadn’t attached it to my key ring. Jagger was going to be pissed if I lost it on the first day.
“Bateman?” Hot one asked. Shit, I’d spoken aloud.
“You know him?”
A strange smile flirted across his face. “You could definitely say that.” He nodded to the bartender and then stepped outside.
Another shot and a cut-off warning later, the jukebox cranked, and “Pour Some Sugar on Me” raced through my veins. Dancing. Yes, dancing would be awesome. My fingers dug into the bar as I hoisted myself onto the barstool.
“Holy shit.” The guy muttered. I was past caring that my miniskirt probably didn’t cover my ass at this angle. “Need a hand?” He reached up and helped me step onto the bar.
The bartender rolled her eyes, and I almost missed the nod she exchanged with the hot one as he walked back in, but it was there. Whatever.
I moved my body to the beat, letting it rule my movements and leaving everything else behind for a song, then two. My top drifted above my waistline as I raised my arms.
“Okay, Coyote Ugly, it’s time to get down.” Jagger’s voice made me giggle, and I looked down to see his half-amused face.
“What? It’s not like I haven’t seen you drunk on the bar a few times.”
“Which is why I’m not giving you shit, Sam.” He shook his head. “But I can’t say the same for Grayson.”
I stiffened like he’d tossed cold water over me. Grayson stood a few feet away, his thumbs tucked into his pockets and his face unreadable. I refused to be embarrassed…right?
“Let’s go,” Grayson snapped.
A sly smile spread across my face. “If you want me to go, come up here and get me.” There was no chance an uptight jerkface like him was going to do that. A muscle in his jaw ticked a second before he climbed up onto the barstool and then consumed the bar. He was huge. “Will this thing even support you?”
“Now.”
I moved back, but before I could take a step, he pulled me up against him and into his arms. “We’re not repeating this morning.” He jumped off the bar with me in his arms, barely jarring me as he landed on his feet.
“How King Kong of you.”
“I wasn’t the one
climbing up there in the first place.” His grip tightened on me as he strode out the door into the evening air. “Thanks for calling us, Carter,” he tossed to the hot one. Well, next to Grayson, he was a pale second.
I bet everyone was a pale second against Grayson.
Jagger walked out behind us, my purse in hand, which he handed to Grayson. “What? Like I can’t handle my own purse?” I giggled.
“You’re not getting near your keys,” Grayson growled.
“I never said I was driving,” I argued, trying to wiggle against his iron grip. He glared down at me, his lips impossibly close.
His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and snapped it shut. He unlocked my car, still carrying me, and then dumped me into my front passenger seat.
“She’s not usually like this,” Jagger said as Grayson shut my door. “You got her?”
I opened it back up in time to hear Grayson say, “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d want her puking in the truck.”
“Amen.”
“Stop talking like I’m not right here.”
“Trust me, we’re well aware that you’re here, princess,” Grayson snapped, promptly shutting the door in my face again.
He slid behind my wheel, cursing my height while the seat took precious seconds to move back to accommodate him.
“Maybe my car doesn’t like you, either,” I slurred.
His eyes cut toward me, and he shook his head but snapped his mouth shut as he turned the key.
“So stern.” I gave my best uptight-guy impression but blew it when I descended into snickering.
“God help me,” he muttered, putting my little Cabriolet into first gear and taking us out of the parking lot.
I let my head loll back against the seat and watched the muscle in his jaw tick. Everything about him, from his eyes to the cut of his jawline, was so severe. “You’re not going to give me crap?”
“Not my job to judge,” he replied, his eyes never wavering from the road.
“Not my circus, not my monkeys, that’s what my mom says,” I said louder than I intended, my finger poking him in the shoulder. Crud, when had my hand gotten over there? I pulled it back to my lap. If I sat perfectly still, maybe he wouldn’t realize how truly drunk I was.
“Something like that.” His dismissal, that flat tone, scraped me like no amount of lecturing could have.
“Anyone ever told you it’s not good manners to be rude to your new roommate?”
He parked in the driveway behind Jagger’s Defender and glared over at me. “Anyone ever told you it’s not good manners to be dancing drunk on a bar on a Sunday afternoon?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his shoulders dropped and he closed his eyes. “Crap, Samantha, I didn’t mean—”
I forced my door open and stumbled out, barely catching myself on the frame. “So much for not judging,” I fired back, slamming the door and entering the toddler-esque phase of drunkenness. I scowled away his offered arm and made it into the house, nearly tripping on the doorstep.
“Don’t!” I snapped when Grayson reached for me. “I’m not helpless.”
I’m pretty sure his sigh was heard in Florida as he dropped my purse on the entry table. Wait, he had my purse?
I gripped the back of the couch and took deep breaths as my head buzzed. “Here.” Jagger forced a bottle of water into my hand.
“I’m fine,” I argued.
“Sam, I said I wouldn’t give you shit, but fine isn’t exactly drunk at five p.m. on a Sunday unless it’s the Superbowl. What is going on?”
I swallowed past my numb tongue and glanced over to where Grayson stood, his arms across his chest again like a damn statue. As if on cue, the oven began to beep, and he walked past me into the kitchen. “Wow, this house smells amazing.” I wanted to lick the air now that I noticed.
“Grayson cooks. Focus, Sam.”
“Knock, knock,” Paisley drawled as she came in through the front door. “You ready to head out to dinner?”
“Hey, Little Bird.” Jagger smiled, which lit up his face like a freaking Christmas tree. Paisley wrapped her arms around his waist, and he kissed her. Love radiated from them. That was all I had wanted. Love. A chance to belong to someone—my someone. She’d had heart surgery two months ago, her scars were still pink, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Jagger popped the question soon.
“You guys are so cute I may vomit.” The room turned slightly. “Or maybe that’s the tequila.”
“I’m not letting this go, Sam. What’s going on with you?” Jagger reached over and opened the bottle of water I still clutched in my hand, and I took two long pulls.
“I got kicked out of college.”
“Right, which is why you’re here…”
I rolled my eyes at him. A year ago, I’d never have guessed that Jagger Bateman would have his life more together than me. “Not just Colorado. I got kicked out of Troy.”
“But you haven’t even had a class yet.” He dug a little deeper.
I laughed, the sound as hollow and empty as I felt. “Yeah. How special am I?”
“They can’t do that.”
“They withdrew their acceptance, Jagger. It’s done.” I looked up at the ceiling fan like it was going to spin me away into my dream life, or at least away from here. “What am I going to do?” My eyes burned.
“Oh, Sam,” Paisley whispered.
“I moved down here—completely inconvenienced you and Josh and…” I motioned to the kitchen, where Grayson watched my meltdown quietly. “…him. Took this last chance, hundreds of miles away from home. Hell, not that I have a home, right? She’s gone so damn much, and it’s not like we stay in one place long enough to mark up a height chart on a freaking doorframe or anything. What the hell am I doing here? I have no job, no school, no family, and no direction.” My fingers bit into the plastic, distorting the bottle as a tear slipped down my cheek. “What am I going to do?”
The question hung in the air, devouring any other thought that could come to mind as seconds ticked on the wall clock.
“You’re going to eat,” Grayson answered from the kitchen, the sound of clattering dishes breaking the silence as he put plates on the large, bar-height, square table. “We all are.”
“Uh, we have this family thing to—” Jagger started, glancing down at Paisley.
“This family thing is happening now,” Grayson finished.
“What did I miss?” Josh asked, toweling off his hair as he walked into the living room and glanced from Grayson to Jagger.
“We’re eating dinner. Now,” Grayson ordered. “Sunday night. Family dinner. No excuse.”
Josh’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Uh. Okay? Since when do we—”
“Since now.”
We shuffled into the kitchen, and Grayson heaped my plate with chicken and pasta, then sat me down at the table next to him. Once everyone was seated, I reached for my fork and nearly knocked over my water. Grayson caught my glass and moved it far enough from my plate that it wouldn’t happen again. “Thanks,” I muttered, then concentrated on cutting my chicken. My knife slipped twice before Grayson sighed.
He stole my plate and cut my dinner into bite-size pieces, sliding it back without a word. I side-eyed him, but his face gave no indication of what he was thinking.
Conversation struck up between the guys, punctuated by a laugh or answer from Paisley, like everything was normal. They didn’t give me a chance to feel embarrassed, either by my outburst or my drunkenness, just drew me in as I relaxed and sobered up. Wow. That chicken was good. Okay, maybe still a little drunk.
“I’m sorry for everything,” I said to Grayson as he cleared my plate after dinner, the other three having left. “I’m not normally so…”
“Drunk?” he supplied, keeping his wide back to me as he loaded my plate in the dishwasher.
My cheeks burned. “Yeah. I know I’m a giant inconvenience. Hell of a first impression, right?” He stilled, took a few breaths, and I sto
od as he turned toward me. His face was unreadable, which I was beginning to think might be the status quo. “I’m going to head to bed and hope today was all a nightmare. Thank you, seriously.”
“Samantha,” he called as I was passing the half wall that divided the kitchen from the living room.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not an inconvenience. Maybe a pain in the ass, but you’re not an inconvenience. And if there’s something I’ve learned from living here, it’s that Josh and Jagger make you family. We’re a dysfunctional one, but family nonetheless, and now you are, too.”
His eyes locked on to mine, and I forgot to breathe. Intensity poured off him, holding me captive, and I was torn between longing to get closer to whatever fire fueled him, and my sense of self-preservation warning me from the burn. Not that it mattered what I was thinking. He was talking about family, and my mind was skipping to things most definitely not PG, and way inappropriate. Do not make an ass out of yourself any more than you already have. He dropped his gaze, breaking the moment, and I sucked in a breath.
There was definitely more to him than I initially thought.
“Get to bed, so you can get up early and pull your shit together, Sam. We all make mistakes, but I’m not pulling you off another bar.”
Never mind. He was still an ass.
Chapter Five
Grayson
Tacos? The scent hit me as I walked in the door from the gym on Monday night, and my mouth watered. With Jagger and Josh on a different detail, both working late, it had to be Samantha cooking. Alicia Keys playing on the iPod confirmed the thought. It had been a week since Sam moved in with us, and despite nearly constant contact while I was home, I’d managed to control my reaction to her. I dropped my gym bag on the floor and rounded the corner into the kitchen to tell her I was here.
Damn.
She swayed with the slow beat, stirring the meat sizzling in the pan, and a new hunger took precedence over my stomach. Her khaki shorts—if they could be called that—hugged her ass perfectly, and the white tank top only made her skin look warmer, more kissable.
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