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Brooks slid his hand in his pocket, gripped his cell phone, and picked up his pace, praying with each step he took that she would call.
CHAPTER 3
“So, tell me about this Brooks Moore,” Jo said.
“What’s his deal?”
Seated outside in a chair by a fire pit on the grounds of Lone Oaks Crossing, Jo brought a bottle of bourbon to her lips, tilted it back, and swigged another shot of the strong alcohol. She winced as the amber liquid burned the wound on her bottom lip but relished the numbness it left behind.
Frankie had been right. Two hours of drinking bourbon, peering into a crackling fire, and sharing a casual conversation beneath a Kentucky night sky had been a much more welcome alternative than spending the night in a hospital room—especially when Earl, medicated, was sleeping peacefully for what the nurse promised would be the duration of the night.
Jo held the bottle out, closer to the bright flames, and struggled to focus her bleary gaze on the label: ORIGINAL SIN.
Her lip curled. Though cliché, the phrase suited Brooks Moore perfectly.
Hours earlier, she’d awakened in Earl’s hospital room, surprised to see a stranger standing there. Brooks had been standing by the window, his back to her, his big hands setting the vase of flowers he held onto the window ledge. The dim lighting in the hospital room, combined with the bright glow of security lights in the parking lot had cast his frame into shadow.
Brooks’s impressive height, the strong curve of his jaw, wide-set shoulders, and lean muscular length had been unexpected, imposing, and more appealing to Jo’s senses than she’d been comfortable admitting. But no amount of sheer physical attraction, soulful brown eyes, or sex appeal could distract her attention from his carefully guarded expression.
“I mean, I know the man makes spectacular bourbon, is over six feet of rock-solid muscle, and has more sex appeal than God should give any man,” Jo said, “but tell me the important stuff.”
Frankie, seated in a chair next to her, grinned and held out her empty shot glass. “In my world, baby girl, that is the important stuff. And my Lord, this liquor’s phenomenal.”
Jo smiled and poured her a shot, her aim a little off. “We should feel bad, you know.” She stared at the bottle again. “He brought this for Earl, not us. And here we are, downing it like it’s water.”
“After the day we’ve had, I think we’ve earned it. Besides, it won’t do Earl any good at the moment. The nurse gave him his meds hours ago, so he’ll be snoring away ’til morning.”
Jo nodded, though the action didn’t ease the guilt that still lingered in her heart. After Brooks had left the hospital room, she’d stayed by Earl’s bedside for another hour, holding his hand as he slept, regretting the years she’d spent apart from him and Lone Oaks Crossing. He hadn’t stirred or spoken again, and when the nurse arrived to administer his evening round of medicine, she waited a little longer, hoping he’d open his eyes, look at her, and smile the way he used to years ago when he’d been strong and healthy.
But he hadn’t.
As she’d stood there, watching Earl sleep, it had become very clear that things were different now. Earl’s immediate future—and possibly long-term future—would be very different from the one he’d hoped for or expected, and it was more important than ever that she be here for him—and Lone Oaks Crossing.
“Besides,” Frankie said, jerking her chin toward Jo’s lap, “it’s not like Brooks handed over a bottle of his prized liquor with no strings attached. Though I’m guessing you figured that out already.”
Jo propped the liquor bottle against her middle and turned the man’s business card over and over between each of her fingers until it dangled precariously between the ring and pinky fingers of her right hand. “Yep. I had an inkling.”
During Jo’s short tenure as a teacher, sly glances and hidden intentions had become easily recognizable to her. She’d known from the moment she laid eyes on Brooks that he wanted something from her . . . but that he was holding something back, something he knew she might not be receptive to. It had been clear to her that Brooks had been uncomfortable about showing up uninvited, unannounced, and possibly unwelcome.
“I do believe the man thinks I’m in need of rescuing.” Jo smirked and ran her tongue gently over the puffy swelling in her lower lip. “Not that I can blame him for that. I mean, I do look a tad beat-up.”
Frankie’s grin faded and her eyes, barely visible in the dim firelight, narrowed on Jo’s face. “You still haven’t told me how you got that busted lip.”
Jo tugged her bloodstained collar closer to her chin, leaned back in her chair, and stared up at the sky. Her blurry gaze roved over what seemed like millions of stars glowing in the velvet darkness spread out above them.
She’d forgotten how bright the stars were here. The balcony of her apartment in Stone Hill offered an unimpeded view of the night sky, but the light pollution caused by the streetlights and garish neon signage of the booming city limits drowned out the glow of the stars, and the revving of engines and honking of horns along the streets below shattered the peaceful stillness of every evening.
Here, on the grounds of Lone Oaks Crossing, there were no streetlights or car headlights to dilute the beauty of the moon and stars, and no sounds to disrupt the serenity of the night’s stillness, save for the soft whisper of the fall breeze, the comforting crackle of wood set ablaze, and the occasional hoot of a barred owl in the distance. There was room to breathe, to think, to heal.
Oh, man. How could she have forgotten how beautiful it was out here? And how had she managed to ignore how much she’d missed Lone Oaks over the years? How much she had missed Earl? And home?
“Jo?” Frankie’s concerned tone intruded upon her reverie. “What happened to you today?”
Jo closed her eyes, the thought of the day’s events dampening the soothing buzz in her veins. “I got hit.” She folded Brooks’s business card into her closed fist and rolled her head to the side, meeting Frankie’s gaze. “A student I’ve been working with attacked another student in my classroom. When I tried to break it up, she clocked me in the mouth.”
A humorless smile lifted Jo’s lips. She took another swig of bourbon, held the bottle up high against the sparkling sky, and struggled to clearly enunciate the words she shouted, “For thirty-seven K a year, you, too, can get assaulted by angry teens, vilified by parents, and demeaned by society.” A scornful laugh burst from her lips. “Oh, yeah.” Her tongue felt thick, making it hard to form the words. “And insulted by your administrator while you stand bleeding in his office.”
Frankie frowned. “What happened to the kid?”
