Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,7

shape of a heart. Weird.

“You’re into romance novels?” she asks, making it known she’s awake and admiring the book in my hand, but she can’t see the cover with the way I’m holding it up. I had the book out, so it didn’t look like I was staring at her the entire time she was asleep, like I actually was.

While hoping I don’t sound lame; reading a book about a particular process of distilling bourbon, I respond with, “All of them. You should see my collection at home. It’s embarrassing.”

She doesn’t believe me, thankfully. “I bet,” she says with a modest smile inching toward one cheek.

We’re about to land, which means there are only a few minutes left to figure out if this woman is Melody. If I don’t, I might forever wonder.

As she’s repacking her carryon bag with a few belongings, I take a minute and search around my coat pocket for a piece of paper. Lucky enough, I not only locate a receipt for some random coffee shop I went to yesterday, but I find a pen too. We’ll go with fate on this one. I scribble down my phone number and leave off the crucial identifier, being my name.

I can only assume if she is, in fact, Melody Quinn, she recognizes me too. If so, maybe she’ll call me.

The plane cruises around the tarmac for a long ten minutes before parking in front of a terminal. “It was nice to meet you,” she says, tossing her bag over her shoulder.

“Likewise. Hey, totally random, but I want to do the old-fashioned thing and give you my number. You are welcome to toss it in the trash if you think I’m crazy, but on the slim chance you don’t think I’m nuts—”

If a woman approached me with her phone number after exchanging less than ten minutes worth of conversation, would I blink in slow motion, smile, grin awkwardly, or turn around and walk away from what might be a crazy person?

I’m calling it a win when she takes the paper from my hand and offers what I can consider another hint of a smile.

That’s it. I tried. I failed. Well, I guess I didn’t fail, fail—because I didn’t really try, but the look on her face says: see ya.

By the time I reach the baggage claim, I come to the full-blown conclusion that I’m delusional and shouldn’t have given the girl my phone number based on the fact that she looks like Melody Quinn. Yet, I’ll be damned … because a few yards away, I spot Melody’s mother and sister, Journey, who are waiting by the front sliding doors of the parking garage exit.

It’s true. I was sitting next to Melody Quinn for the last four hours—the girl who ruined all other women for me; the one I compare every other woman to, and the one who made me crazy enough to buy forty different brands of shampoo until I found the one that smelled like her hair on the night of our one and only kiss.

Melody is not home for an enjoyable reason.

She’s not home to reminisce with old flings.

Instead, she’s hugging her mom and sister, falling apart as tears run down her cheeks—because she just found out her dad is dying.

2

How quickly I can forget about frigid temperatures when I’m down south for two days. I packed my coat in my luggage, and I’m not unpacking to dig it out, which means I need to make a run for the parking garage. Of course, I had to park as far away as possible, and my truck feels like an ice cube when I slide inside. I swore I’d never go back to North or South Carolina, yet here I am bitching about the cold.

Once I get the truck heated up to a point where I can move my arms around, I head for Mom and Pops to collect Parker. Their house is about forty-five minutes away from the airport, which gives me a long minute to think about the last few hours and the reality of the Quinn Family’s lives. I wonder how he just found it, or if he had symptoms earlier that he didn’t pick up on or pay attention to. I can’t imagine getting a short timeline like that after a doctor’s visit. Plus, he’s been through this once before. Their family is as close as mine. It’s unimaginable.

As I pull into the long winding driveway at my parents’ house, Parker runs out the