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Reality crashes down around me like a ton of bricks.
Jax is picking her up. He doesn’t bring people to things. He doesn’t date. But he’s picking someone up so they will show up together and I just so happened to come last minute.
She walks at a clipped pace towards us.
“When did this start?” I ask.
“What?”
“You two—”
I’m cut off by the sound of Sam opening the door.
“Hey, Jacksy,” she says, getting a grin out of my oldest brother. “And you must be Tommy, or do you prefer Thomas?”
It takes me a minute to respond, but my head bobs, so that’s something. She sets her clipboard in her lap, holding her hand out to shake mine. It’s an awkward maneuver since she reaches out her right hand and I have to twist all the way around, but it gives me a legitimate excuse to turn around.
“Just Tommy,” I manage, finding my voice.
“I’m Samantha Davies, but everyone calls me Sam.”
Her hand is soft and smooth, and she seems a little nervous but like she’s trying to hide it.
“Do you prefer something else?” I ask.
She looks confused. “Pardon?”
I don’t think I’ve heard anyone under the age of seventy say that.
“You said that everyone calls you Sam, but do you have a different preference for what name people use?”
“Oh,” she says, still holding my hand, and I fight the urge to run my thumb back and forth across her knuckles. “I guess I haven’t really known anything different.”
“Okay, Sam it’ll be, unless you let me know it should be something else.”
Samantha Davies looks at me like I just gave her a riddle to solve.
As Jax drives, I remind myself that he’s going to tonight’s event with this blonde bombshell. He doesn’t take people to any sort of event, not unless they’re his date.
And why on earth would someone like Samantha Davies want to settle for the dorky, overlooked, younger brother of the guy who has been with pretty much anyone he’s ever looked at?
Chapter 1: Sam
Present Day
A deep sigh of relief washes over me. Less than one month after the night of my first big event for the city of Greenstone I have all the data entered, the equipment ordered for Rebecca, our new vet in the area, and just finished the final thank you note. They’re all hand-written, well, hand-calligraphed and there was no script so every single one is unique and tailored to the donor of the item or the highest bidder. Everyone in attendance that I was able to note has their more simple thank you as well.
Oh dear, I hope I didn’t miss anyone.
All of the cards stick halfway out of their envelopes so I can triple check they’re going to the right home. It’s easier for me to mark them as complete on my list. Or lists. Actually, list of lists.
I resist the urge to check everything a fourth time. Good grief, Sam, this isn’t fifth grade when you accidentally gave Brady Johnston the Valentine you wrote for your best friend, Terry, at the time. I groan, remembering the look of betrayal on her face when he showed the entire class what I had written on the card. “I love you the most!” was supposed to go to her while Terry’s was one of the generic ones from a pack. My body flushes with shame but I force myself to loosen my tensed up shoulders and take the final sip of my iced coffee with a splash of oat milk.
I might as well relax because these can’t be sent until the post office opens tomorrow morning. It’s just one more night before I’ll have my kitchen table back. Normally, my home office is more than big enough for the work-overflow from my office at city hall, but this project called for more surface space than usual.
My phone and watch vibrate, helping refocus my thoughts more efficiently than any technique I’ve tried in the past twenty years.
Tommy: Did you remember to drink water today?
