Chapter Seventeen

Jameson

“I kinda like it,” he says, pulling his foot out of my lap so he can admire my handiwork. “I don’t know why more guys don’t do this…I’m totally in touch with my feminine side, and it feels goooooood!” he croons.

I snicker. “Yeah, yeah, you do a little baking and get a pedicure and suddenly you’re Rachel Ray.”

“Who?”

I roll my eyes. “You know,” I begin, pointing the nail file at him, “I think you’re just pretending to not know anybody. I bet you secretly watch the Kardashians and know the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song…”

“Oh! She’s got cats and Swifties, right? But not snack cakes…”

I give him a nod of approval, and the whole room spins.

“Whoa,” I mutter, putting a hand on the arm of the couch to steady myself. “Did you feel that?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. I haven’t felt anything for a while. Hey, any more Stoli left in that bottle?”

He stretches out from his reclined position, and I refill his shot glass, only spilling a little of it on him with my shaking hands. He immediately puts it to his mouth and tips it back.

“Mmmmmm. I think I might regret this in the morning,” he says.

“Probably,” I agree. “Soooo, you wanna sleep over?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? You inviting me to spend the night?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“I can’t. I’m your brother. In law. Sorta. I think…”

“You’re not. I don’t think. But anyways, there are two bedrooms. You can have one, and I’ll have the other.”

“Oh! Yeah, okay. Hey, do you remember the other night? When you were on the Percocet?” he asks, as if suddenly recalling something.

“Not really… Hey, did I kiss you?”

“Yes!” he says excitedly. “Yes, you kissed me! Did you mean to do that?”

I think about it. “Uhhhh, yeah, I think I did.”

He smiles smugly. “I thought so.”

A thought occurs to me, and I’m just drunk enough to voice it. “So…was it…any good? The kiss, I mean? ’Cause I’ve only ever kissed Win before, you know? Oh, and Tommy Lobianco. But that was in the third grade, so I don’t think it really counts…and besides, he told everyone I gave him cooties afterward…”

“What a little spit!” he says, then frowns. “No, I meant ship. What a little ship. No…that’s not right either… Uhhh…yeah. No, yeah, the kiss was…” He pauses and looks upward, as if searching for divine inspiration. “The kiss was sub-lime.”

He drags out the one word so that it sounds like two.

“You’re just saying that!” I chuckle, but he shakes his head seriously.

“Nope. Best kiss I’ve ever had, Jayjaaajameson. Really.”

I nod. “’kay. Now, how about a little color?” I ask, examining the bottles of nail polish I’ve swiped from Hennessy’s make-up bag. “I’m thinking pink…”

“I thought you hated pink?”

“Oh, I think I’m gonna like it on you. A lot.” I grin.

…

It takes me a minute to figure out where I am, but when it comes back to me, it comes in one huge, muddled wave of half-memories, vodka-mouth, and nausea.

I crawl out of the twin bed I used to sleep in and drag myself for a look in the mirror. My hair is a disaster and there are still traces of smudged makeup under my eyes. At some point, I changed into a pair of Henny’s yoga pants and a T-shirt. Now I throw a hoodie on top and make a brief pit stop in the bathroom to scrub my face and freshen up. When I emerge, I find an amusingly disheveled Scott standing in the hallway, waiting for me.

“Uhhh…Hi. Good morning. Did you sleep okay?”

“I-I don’t really know,” he replies hoarsely, closing his eyes with the effort of speaking. “I’ve got one whopper of a hangover, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I don’t think you got any tattoos last night. So…that’s a good thing.”

“No…but why do I remember something about you rubbing my feet?” he asks, scratching his bedhead.

“Rubbing your…?” I think for a second. “Oh! I might have given you a pedicure!”

“What? No! I never would’ve let you do that!” he protests, even as he’s looking downward.

“The evidence is indisputable,” I say, following his glance to the garish shade of pink.

I slap a hand over my mouth but can’t suppress the giggles spilling out of me. “Great color,” I snark. “Matches my cast!”

My laughing makes both of us wince.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I apologize in a much softer voice. “Why don’t you take a nice hot shower? When you’re done, I’ll get us both some aspirin and a little seltzer to settle the tummy.”

“How is it that your butt isn’t dragging?” he asks with bleary wonderment. “You matched me shot for shot, and I can barely stand upright!”

“Oh, make no mistake about it—my butt is dragging, just not as badly as yours. Don’t forget, I’ve had years of practice and an Irish father who taught us how to drink for maximum effect and minimum consequence.”

He grumbles something unintelligible as I pad down the short hallway to the kitchen, where I turn on the gas under the kettle. A nice strong cup of tea sounds perfect. Meanwhile, I fix a plate of saltines, a glass of seltzer, and two aspirins for Scott. It takes a while, but he eventually resurfaces, dragging himself into a kitchen chair with some effort.

“So, I’m kind of afraid to know, but what, exactly, did we get up to last night?” he asks, taking the pills in one hand and the glass in the other. “I mean, aside from playing beauty parlor?”

“Uh, well, I remember crying. And crying. And crying. You were very sweet and you let me soak your shoulder. In between, we did vodka shots…which, in hindsight, may not have been the best idea.”

“Holy crap!” he says, wincing at his own volume. “Did we…did we make brownies?”

I laugh and point in the direction of the sink. “Yeah, I think we might have attempted that somewhere around two in the morning. Judging by the gooey mess over there, I’m guessing we didn’t have much success.”

“Oh, God,” he moans and shakes his head as he pops the pills into his mouth and gulps some seltzer.

“I think that was when I suggested we have a sleepover.”

“Right.” He drops his head down onto his arms on the table. “Yeah, I’m done with vodka for a while,” is his muffled response.

“I’ll bet.”

He sits up again, palms up toward the ceiling in a “what’s with that?” gesture.

“I thought it was my friend.”

“I’m sure.”

“But it betrayed me.”

“Oh, yeah. Vodka’ll do that.”

He narrows his eyes at me suddenly. “I can’t believe you. How can you drink that much, sleep that little, and wake up looking…like that?”

Excuse me?

“Like what?” I fish.

“All cute and sassy and sexy. It’s just…it’s just wrong!”

I stare at him, half expecting him to back pedal or find a way to correct himself. But he doesn’t. If anything, he’s staring back at me, challenging me to challenge him.

“My brother is a freaking fool,” he says at last. And he’s not teasing anymore. There’s a strong whiff of disdain as he makes this pronouncement. “And he’s blind if he thinks anyone anywhere has anything on you.”

Wow. Just…wow.

I feel my stomach clench, and my breath catches involuntarily. It’s not even the words. It’s the way he’s looking at me, his eyes boring into mine. It’s as if he’d like to kiss me. No, actually, devour is more like it. Suddenly I’m feeling like a standing rib roast in front of a hungry lion. And, unbelievably, it’s not a bad thing. I will myself not to blush, but I can already feel the red warmth spotting my cheeks.

And then the spell is broken. Scott looks away so quickly that I wonder if perhaps I’ve imagined it all. He gets to his feet, stretching his long, lean body so far that he can touch the ceiling.

“I suppose I’d best be getting back to the house. I need to clean up and go see my dad. Then I’ve got a few errands to run.”

“Uhh…okay,” I mutter, trying to get my thoughts grounded again. “Like detective work kind of errands?”

He shrugs in response. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

“Will you keep me posted?” I ask a little hesitantly. “I mean, I don’t want to get in your business if this is something you need to do alone.”

A small, sweet smile curves his lips upward, softening the hard line of his jaw.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this is one handsome man.

Stop it, stop it, stop it!

“Are you okay?” Scott is peering at me curiously now.

“Ummm, yeah, why do you ask?” I reply, trying to sound cool and calm.

“I don’t know. It just seems like maybe there was something going on in that pretty head of yours.”

Yeah. That would be me categorically categorizing every square inch of your body…

“Jameson?”

“Nope, all good,” I assure him, my voice pitched just a bit too high.

I see it then, the gleam in his eye, as if he knows I’m thinking about him. And maybe, unbelievably, that’s not a bad thing, either.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.”