I washed my hands, thinking over the dish. “That takes a little longer, but I think it’s doable. Or maybe we could make brownies?”
“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.