“A few—yeah,” Tommy says, snorting.
“Any of them physicians?”
“No, but two are mothers, so . . . I can sympathize.”
A look passes between them, like they’re sharing a joke.
“Sympathize with what?” I ask.
My brother chuckles, shaking his head. “Nothing, Abby. Never mind.”
Before I can push the issue, Tommy Sullivan smacks his hands together, rubbing his palms. “Well, everything looks good here, and I’m officially off the clock—so I’ll leave you to your reunion and head out.”
The first thought that pops into my head is already? Because while it’s been two full weeks, it seems so soon for him to be leaving.
So . . . unfinished.
I look up at him from the couch, meeting his eyes. “I’ll walk you out.”
* * *
Tommy Sullivan and I walk side by side down the stairs to the main floor of my building.
“You two seem close,” he comments.
“We are. He travels mostly now, only visits a few times a year. But Luke and I have always understood each other in a way that no one else in my family ever did.”
Based on the way he’s spoken of his sisters, I know he gets just what I mean.
“Is he sick?” he asks. “You were asking him about medications?”
“No, he’s not sick—not anymore. He was ill when he was a boy—I was eight when he collapsed in the middle of a chess tournament.”
There are moments in life that change us. That change what we want, how we see the world.
When Luke fell out of his chair that day—limp as a ragdoll, his lips and the thin skin beneath his eyes tinted a bruisy blue—that was one of those moments for me. I remember how the chessboard was knocked over and emergency services rushed to him, and how the white king rolled across the marble floor. And I remember the wrenching fear burrowing in my stomach—but worse—the helplessness. Because I had no idea what was happening, what was wrong with him, and no ability to fix it.
I never, ever wanted to feel like that again. I still don’t.
“Chess, huh? Aristocrats must play a rougher version than I’m aware of.”
I let out a little laugh. “He didn’t collapse because the match was too strenuous—he had a heart condition. Completely undetected until then. We almost lost him.” I take a deep breath. “But, he was put on the transplant list and there was a match and a brilliant surgeon gave him a chance to grow up—to still be my brother.”
Tommy Sullivan nods, meeting my eyes.
“And that’s why you want to be a cardiac surgeon.”
I nod back.
“And that’s why I want to be a cardiac surgeon.”
We stand on the stoop for a few quiet moments, and he shakes his head, murmuring, “This isn’t how I thought tonight would go.” He turns toward me. “But I’m glad you get to visit with your brother.”
Then he pushes a hand through his hair, and his words rush out—a little tense, a little desperate. “I can come back, Abby. Tomorrow or the next day or the next after that. You’re busy, I’m busy—we can make it simple. It doesn’t have to be complicated—but it’ll be hot, and so bloody good. You know it will be. I know you know. I see it when your pretty eyes look at me—I feel it every time I touch you.”
He touches me now. His hand slides up my arm and my heart pounds in the back of my throat.
And he’s right. It is good. Amazing, exciting . . . reckless.
But no matter how good a fling with him would be, how thrilling it would feel . . . I can’t be distracted. Not now—not when I’ve worked so hard to become all my family expects me to be. To become all I expect of myself.
I need to stay focused. To stay on my path.
Tommy Sullivan is a beautiful whirlwind that I can’t let myself get caught up in.
My words come out soft—regretful.
“I can’t.”
He nods slowly, disappointed but not surprised—as if he already knew what I was going to say.
“Another time, perhaps.”
And then he leans in, running his nose against my cheek, inhaling . . . before pressing a gentle kiss right beside my mouth.
“Goodbye, lass.”
And I watch him walk away. Descending the front steps, out onto the pavement, retreating down the street.
And it’s as if there’s an invisible rope, hooked around my rib cage, that’s tugging me toward him, dragging me after him.
“Mr. Sullivan!”
He stops beneath the streetlamp, hands in his pockets, his handsome features lit with surprise. I rush down the steps, standing a few feet away.
“You . . . you were the best bodyguard I ever had.”
His lips slide into a grateful, wicked grin. And then he winks.
“I could’ve been the best you ever had, full stop.”
I laugh—because he’s funny. And because with him, laughing is easy.
He curls his shoulders and cups his hands, and there’s a flash of flame and then the glow of an orange ember between his fingertips as he lights a cigarette.