"How's everything going?" All right, he hoped, because as much as he tried to channel his thoughts into being supportive, he couldn't stop thinking about Nikki, being with her—and the mind-blowing discovery that they hadn't been together months ago before he'd passed out.
He'd always been a heavy social drinker. That sense of family in a gathering had sucked him right in and he would stay until the bell rang for last round. He'd tried a few times to cut back, but with no lasting luck—until he'd bottomed out that night with Nikki and realized he needed to join A.A. He still had a long road ahead, but his sea legs were back under him and he owed a debt for that.
Free time was in short supply, but he volunteered every spare second to a local support group that served as a catch-all for relatives of people with a variety of addictions. "Hey, Will? You still there?"
"Yeah," the older man cleared his throat, voice raspy from years of smoking to fill the empty hours without a beer at the racetrack, "Vic called."
Not Will's problem tonight, but rather the guy Will was sponsoring. Will had been sponsoring Owens, as well, since Will belonged to both AA and Gambler's Anonymous. "At four in the morning? Must be bad, but at least he called."
Vic Jansen had caught the potential drinking problem early, recognizing he was having a rough time since he'd lost his daughter, using alcohol to numb the pain. Carson had a feeling Vic would make it through, and once he had his life back, the guy had the makings of being a rock-solid support. But first, they had to get Vic to tomorrow.
"He needs someone to come over and talk. My boy wrecked the truck and I don't get it back until the morning..."
"I can cover it." Easy enough to drop in since Vic lived on his forty-two-foot sailboat docked near Carson's smaller one. Hell, he understood well how tough the nights could be. At least Vic was making the call rather than landing on the wrong woman's doorstep. "Thanks for the heads-up."
"No problem. Let me know how it goes."
"Roger." Carson disconnected and stuffed the cell phone back into his flight suit pocket.
Now he needed to figure out how to leave without seeming to bolt through the door. He wasn't sure where he and Nikki were headed, but again she'd held him through a hellish night. As much as he didn't want to lean on anyone, he couldn't ignore the fact that he kept ending up on her doorstep when he needed someone.
Which cycled him back around to being a taker, the thing he hated most. So what the hell to do? Deal with it one day at a time until he got his head out of his butt.
He rolled the glass door open to find Nikki dressed again. God, she looked great in those short fuzzy sweaters, softness and bright colors calling to his hands, touch me. He cricked his neck through the temptation to explore tangerine angora. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Work." Kneeling, she nodded, fishing a canvas bag from her closet, the hem of her sweater inching up to reveal a strip of her creamy back. "I understand."
Work? Carson hesitated a second too long and she glanced over her shoulder. He wasn't fooling her for a second, but couldn't say more. "I would stay if I could."
He hated lying to her. For the first time he considered telling her about his alcoholism. Why had he held off so long? Had he been enough of an ass back then to keep the secret so as not to taint her hero worship? A distinct possibility he needed to make right, and soon.
At least then she would understand moments he had to leave at the drop of a hat for a non-work-related call when he couldn't give her the specifics. That confidentiality was crucial in A.A., something he couldn't break even for Nikki. It sucked bad enough that Reis had investigated Owens's sponsor. How he'd found out the confidential relationship, Carson didn't know.
Okay, so he would tell Nikki about his drinking problem, but it wasn't something he could drop on her then sprint out the door. And he did have to sprint. "We're still on for sailing this weekend?"
"Sure." Canvas bag at her feet, she tugged open a drawer and shuffled clothes into the sack.
Thank goodness she was packing. While he was okay with them hanging out here together for a few hours, having her move back in—alone—was another matter altogether. Hopefully this hell would be over before she needed to use all those socks.
And satin underwear. Mint-green. Grape-purple. Lemon-yellow and funny how the mind focused on food adjectives for tasting. Tasting her. Was she wearing tangerine-orange to match that sweater?
Think of something else, pal. Pronto.
His fingers grazed a notepad by her phone, tore off a piece of paper and started folding. He'd picked up origami on his own one dark night, desperate to keep his hands busy with anything other than a bottle.
"I'll call." And he would. She was just within her rights to doubt him. Fold. Tuck. Don't touch Nikki. "Come on and I'll drive you back to your parents' place—and don't even suggest staying here."
"I'm not reckless. I know that I'm not some supercop or investigator. I'm a teacher, something I hope I'll be allowed to do now that I'm off the official suspect list."
She slid a neatly pressed pair of khaki pants from the drawer and he realized she was packing work clothes. Of course she would return to her job now that her name was cleared. Back to students who slashed tires and schools with metal detectors.
He forced himself to breathe evenly and crease the edge of the tiny form taking shape. "Do you have a gun?"
"No." She dropped another sweater, purple to match that grape lingerie no doubt. "And I'm not going to keep one with Jamie around."
"Fair enough."
He knelt beside her, his hand falling on top of hers to stop her speedy stowing because too easily he could envision her someday packing up to walk out of his life for good. "I really am going to call."