Ringer: A New Year's Romance: The Doyles, a Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  It surprises me because I expected something different from him.

  A polished, professional response. But it seems like Jack was hit on a real personal level and carries that weight.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, digging into the food again.

  “Every man or woman I’ve lost in the line of service is something I deal with,” he says, solemnly.

  “My mom wouldn’t want to hear you say that,” I say gently and brush my hand over his.

  He looks up at me fast and then down at the bowl again.

  Tough territory.

  Fair enough.

  I move back to my side of the island, grateful for a bit of distance.

  “Your turn,” I tell him, then sit back in my chair.

  He does look interested then.

  “A physician’s assistant? Seriously?” he chuckles.

  I laugh that slightly tortured laugh when I think of how the weird thoughts of a teenager led to a tangled career mess that took me years to undo.

  “Look, Jack, I love my folks. My mother came from a wealthy family, and my dad is a straight-up trust fund kid. They were all about their family and pleasure. And that’s great. But they didn’t want to impact the world,” I begin.

  He nods.

  Jack knows a thing or two about fighting to be unlike your parents.

  “After the whole Samara thing…” my voice trails off.

  Samara was a childhood friend. Not close, but in my friend group.

  She’d invited a bunch of kids over to her house for a pool party, and her parents got distracted. They were drinking and talking with their friends, just trusting the bright summer day would continue on perfectly. She’d slipped and hit her head in the pool. The kids tried to pull her out, but no one could swim well enough.

  We couldn’t save her.

  I’d gone to get help.

  I was screaming and screaming, begging her parents to come. I was out of breath, and they thought I was just playing, and I screamed and screamed more hysterically.

  By the time they figured out what I was trying to tell them, it was too late.

  Jack nods his head, listening to me recall the incident.

  He hadn’t been there.

  But I’m sure he’d heard about it.

  “I’d just wanted to be able to help people after that.”

  He looks somber for a minute, and I think he must be imagining his son in that situation and how terrible that would be.

  For some reason, it still sends a ripple of fear and regret through me. Rationally, I knew that wasn’t my fault. For Christ’s sake, I was only seven at the time.

  But I’d never lost that sense of trying to get their attention, trying to get help for Samara. Trying to get help in time.

  “My mother seriously suggested I get an art degree, so I’d be more prepared to discuss pictures at dinners. It’s weird because my parents have some money but not the kind of money where we kids don’t have to work,” I shrug. “They’re just out of touch. I was good with math and science, and eventually just got pushed that way. I wanted to do more than nursing, but I didn’t want to go to medical school.”

  He tilts his head, straight up curiosity lighting up his handsome face. The bruises look harsh under the dining area’s light, but he’s no less good-looking.

  “Okay, so how did you end up here?”

  “Working as a PA wasn’t for me. It wasn’t just the sight of blood. It’s the bureaucracy of the medical system. The sick and injured people not being able to get the help they need. It grinds on you, day after day. When Nana passed, I inherited this land and just enough money to make a start. I saw a way out. I took it,” I shrug.

  I take another bite of food. It’s actually not too bad.

  Jack nods appreciatively.

  “The place looks great. Takes a lot to run it, though,” he says, eyes on my face again. Inquisitive, assessing.

  He takes a pull on his beer and lowers the bottle to the island.

  I sigh.

  I hate it when people get close to this nerve. It’s like they don’t understand how hard it is, and it’s also like they can’t see how much this means to me.

  My mother said one thing to me when I took over the land: I’d failed at being a PA, and she hoped I wouldn’t fail at running a shelter, because it was a significant promise to the community.

  Hard as it was to hear, she was right.

  “What kind of savings do you have?”

  I give a little strangled laugh.

  “I have enough that comes in annually from an annuity to cover the heating bill and some basic food for the animals. Most of the repairs I paid for myself from savings. The operating expenses are a mix. I take donations, I write grants when I have time, there’s some volunteers to help out occasionally. I also take as many shifts as I can get,” I reply.

  “Shifts?” he asks, looking confused.

  “Yeah, medical people are in big demand for insurance companies,” I say. “I work remotely, usually nights or weekends, reviewing cases. Making sure something hasn’t been overlooked and that patients are getting good care. It makes a tiny bit of a difference, and that paycheck every month keeps the lights on, slowly gets the upgrades done, and helps me pay my taxes, eat, and cover the expenses.”

  His features are doing that thing where they rearrange as he takes in information. He crosses his arms, leans back.

  “Dinner was deliciously well-done,” he says, patting his flat stomach.

  God, how can a man look so sexy?

  He gives me a half-smile that has my stomach fluttering.

  Then he quirks an eyebrow.

  “But, tell me. Have I got this straight? You quit a job you hated because you wanted to be useful, yet running this pet shelter demands you work another job to keep the lights on?” he asks.

  His voice isn’t derogatory, just inquisitive.

  I squirm, annoyed that my hard work and investments are being laid out like that.

  “It takes time to build, Jack,” I bark. “It’s barely been open a year. You should have seen what a mess it was. And we’ve been at twice capacity, donations down….”

  He’s holding up his hands, peace style.

  “I’m not critiquing you, Alix. I’m damned proud of what you’re doing here. That’s hard work,” he says, truly complimenting me.

  My ruffled feathers settle just a bit.

  He shifts to get more comfortable.

  I clear my throat and force my mind away from what he might be adjusting, exactly.

  I bite my lip to take my mind off that subject. It doesn’t help.

  “I just wonder if maybe you could get a bit of help and ease up the burden? Someone who could oversee the strategy and logistics and make suggestions that will not have you doing everything yourself?” he offers.

  “I’d love that, and that’s what I’m trying to do, but unfortunately, I don’t see a way to it,” I reply.

  “Sometimes, you need a fresh set of eyes.”

  Enough about me.

  I change the subject.

  “Why the military?” I ask.

  He sips the beer.

  “To get away. Get away from my dad. Get a fresh start.”

  Fast, honest answer.

  I nod.

  “But why did you stay after your first tour? It seems like you know a thing or two about something consuming your life,” I ask.

  His jaw goes hard.

  “Being a Marine is rewarding. I’m good at it. And when it came down to it, it gave me what I needed to take care of my family. Take care of my son. It was the right thing to do,” he responds, an edge to his voice.

  I nod.

  “Is it hard?”

  I don’t even know what I’m asking, exactly.

  My cheeks go pink as I realize where my thoughts have been, and how that could be interpreted.

  But he holds my gaze.

  “I’ve had to do things I didn’t want to do. Things I didn’t think I c
ould do. And of course, there’s the price of knowing those that don’t come home. But I don’t regret it. Mostly, it’s been a good life,” he answers.

  He takes another pull on his beer, draining it. He sets the empty down, carefully.

  “I’m not sorry about any of it, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says.

  It seems like a fair assessment.

  For a few moments, silence stretches between us.

  Then, he stretches, the full extent of his physique outlined in front of me.

  I softly blow out a breath.

  “I should have called,” he says quietly.

  This day has been so packed with emotions I just can’t take in any more.

  Abruptly, I stand and grab my plate and head over to grab his.

  He gets to his feet faster and sweeps the plates from my hands, heading for the sink.

  He gives me an easy smile and starts washing the dishes.

  I watch the muscles in his arms, shoulders, the broad back: the handsome profile, the bruises, everything.

  I just can’t wrap my brain around the fact that he’s in my kitchen.

  And, my body just isn’t having any of my trying to pretend he isn’t.

  6

  Alix

  I’m making my way from my bedroom to the bathroom when a foreign sound stops me.

  I’m on autopilot, completely wrapped up in thoughts of the shelter’s morning chores, when I hear it.

  Fear claws in my gut.

  Thoughts of the explosion and of what was nailed to the door crush in around me, and for a second, I can’t breathe.

  Whirling, I see Jack stretched out on the pull-out couch.

  Of course.

  Jack.

  Last night, he’d refused to stay in the guest room on the second floor.

  “Ground floor. Safer. Better access if I need it.”

  Better access to me.

  Right, wishful thinking.

  That’s not what he meant, but a girl can dream. No matter how terrible an idea that is.

  I bring out a pile of sheets, quilts, and blankets to make up the bed while he uses the bathroom. By the time he comes out, I’m almost done.

  My eyes stay firmly on the sheet I’m folding, but it’s impossible not to sense the sheer force of his big form moving across the room.

  “Hey there,” he rumbles, gently pulling the bedding from my arms and setting it down on the half-made couch. “I’ll take care of that.”

  Sharp blue eyes meet mine, and my heart skips.

  Being in Jack’s vicinity isn’t good for my self-control.

  “You’re a guest,” I protest.

  Is he a guest?

  He’s more like my self-appointed bodyguard, but after today’s misadventures, I’m grateful as hell to have him here.

  If anything, that makes me want to make sure that he’s comfortable. He’s taking time out of his schedule – away from training, away from watching the gym for Owen, maybe away from his job.

  “Don’t you have to work?” I blurt out.

  He regards me for a long minute, jaw working, and then gives his head a shake.

  “Took leave for two weeks. Originally thought I’d have JJ with me. Works out, though, for the fight.”

  Then he shrugs.

  “And to make sure you’re safe.”

  My mouth goes dry.

  I’d been so fucking afraid at that sound earlier, and he’d literally put his body between me and harm.

  Who does that?

  He’s standing so close. And his breath is minty fresh, and suddenly, all the adrenaline of the day slams through me, and I am done.

  Done listening to common sense.

  Done reminding myself that even though I knew this man well once, a lot of time has passed.

  I am done denying myself the one thing that I’ve wanted since I laid eyes on Jack in the gym.

  Our eyes meet and heat flares in his, a surge of desire taking the dark blue eyes to a shade closer to navy. Nostrils flare, the tips of his ears go red, and his features mold with an intensity that has my heart pounding.

  I take a half-step in his direction, and he reaches for me.

  I don’t know exactly what I intended.

  He slips his hard around me and bends his head down to mine. A hint of his cologne tickles my nose, and then his lips brush across mine, firm and gentle. The muscles of his arms surround me, and it feels like this is the safest I’ve ever been.

  I am surrounded by his muscles, immersed in his testosterone, and barely able to control my restrained desire.

  It’s all there in that kiss.

  A thousand butterflies beat their wings in my stomach as the kiss turns from searching to serious.

  I remembered these kisses in every fiber of my body.

  Slow. Intense. Commanding. Possessive. Savoring.

  He scrapes his teeth over my lower lip, captures it, sucks on it.

  And just like that, I open to him, and his tongue slides between my lips.

  Teasing.

  Tasting.

  Promising.

  There’s an explosion of sensation – the heat of his body, the feeling of his five o’clock shadow scratching my skin, the way he holds my mouth captive while his hands slide up and down my body. His hands sink to my hips and dig in, not hard but possessive in a way that’s sending a stab of heat straight to my core.

  Fuck.

  I should stop this.

  But I don’t want to.

  Moaning against his mouth, I slide my hands up around his neck, nipping his lower lip. The pulse in his throat hammers beneath my fingertips, and my own heart pounds out in rhythm with his.

  Every nerve in my body is on fire with his touch.

  He pulls me tighter against him and the length of his hard cock presses into my stomach. He makes a primal sound of desire that leaves me soaked. My hands seem to have worked their way down his body, and I’d started to wrap my leg around his calf and then we crash back to reality.

  In another minute, I’m going to have him naked on his pullout couch, and…that’s just not the plan.

  He’s just here to keep me safe.

  Jack and me?

  The draw’s undeniable.

  But in reality? It’s never worked.

  It won’t start now.

  And going there?

  With so much unsaid and so much at stake?

  It would be a disaster.

  A hot, delicious, world-rocking disaster that neither of us needs.

  And that I’m not sure I could survive.

  I don’t think I could lose Jack twice.

  I pull back first, and he takes a firm step away, putting distance between us. Breathing hard, eyes intense, but face already rearranging its handsome lines into something that looks too much like an apology.

  “Alix, I’m sorry.”

  I don’t want him to be sorry.

  He drags a hand across the short, silvery dark hair on his head, and something defiantly flares in my abdomen.

  There’s a difference between making hard choices and regretting things.

  “I’m not.”

  Those eyes lock on mine, assessing.

  They are weighing options. Contemplating things I probably can only begin to imagine.

  I reach out and squeeze his hand, watching in pleasure as his whole body reacts to my touch. Just because I’m not going to take him to the edge doesn’t mean that I don’t like knowing I could.

  “Jack,” I say, my voice suddenly thick with years of suppressed emotions.

  “Thank you…” the rest of the words trail off.

  What I want to say is, “thank you for your help” and “thank you for keeping me safe,” but for some reason, getting them out is so fucking hard I feel as if I’m suddenly going to choke.

  “Good night,” I whisper.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  The weight of his stare follows me to my room, where I close the door firmly, sealing it against the pos
sibility of going any further. I curl up in bed. It feels late, but there is plenty of time to stare at the ceiling and think about the man in my living room, before falling into a dreamless sleep.

  Morning.

  Light spills in from the windows, highlighting his pale skin against the dark sheets.

  He’s spread out across the couch in nothing but silk boxers and a dark t-shirt.

  From here, I can appreciate the long, muscled legs and the flat plane of his hard stomach where his t-shirt drifted up. The blankets are all crumpled on one side. I guess he slept restlessly.

  “Morning,” his voice is even deeper, a thick reverberation in the silent room.

  He’s awake.

  Those eyes are on mine, and I can’t help it.

  I lick my lips.

  “Good morning,” I say quickly, already in motion again. I angle toward the downstairs bathroom. Time to focus on my morning routine and exorcise whatever this is.

  It was one kiss. A stress kiss.

  Hell, I don’t even have to regret it.

  I just have to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.

  By the time I’ve come out, Jack’s up and dressed.

  Coffee’s brewing, and the smell of the rich roast wafting through the kitchen is ambrosial. Jack finishes putting the pullout couch back to its original position. The blankets are neatly folded in a perfect pile on a side chair.

  He is erasing any sign that he was here, any potential inconvenience, with military precision.

  Very Jack.

  He gives me an appreciative look as I step into the living room but makes no move toward me.

  “Eggs and bacon? Can I make us breakfast?” he asks.

  Embarrassment rushes through me. I don’t usually bother with breakfast or just default to fast food.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t really have much in the way of breakfast food, but I’d be happy to buy you breakfast in town,” I say ruefully.

  One nod and a smile.

  “Ready when you are, then, Alix,” he grins.

  It takes me a few minutes to get ready.

  While I am occupied, I’m not surprised to find Jack already walking the dogs in fast, efficient loops. Cookie, that lovestruck little muffin, seems to be included on every dog walk he’s making.

  There might be one love match here yet.