Face-Off by Nancy Warren Page B

her brother was his best friend—they dealt.
    When it did happen that they found themselves in the same house or garden or wedding chapel, he’d made sure they had the minimum possible contact.
    So why, today, had he thrown away a decade of self-protection?
    Since when had he become self-destructive?
    And now that he was on this dangerous path, now that he’d fallen so spectacularly off the wagon, what the hell was he going to do about it?
    He knew there was only one thing he could do.
    With a weight of sadness that felt like an anvil on his chest, he pressed a whisper-soft kiss on her shoulder blade and then rolled soundlessly out of bed.

5
    S AM WOKE WITH A SLOW, satisfied smile. Not even wanting to open her eyes so she could savor the memories of the night before.
    She stretched her arms over her head, pointed her toes and stretched her lower half, enjoying the feeling of being in her body. Of everything that body could do, had done, had experienced and enjoyed through that long, delicious night.
    She turned and reached for Greg. Wanting to tell him—she didn’t even know what—but wanting him to know how special it had been, the day that had stretched into night. They’d been so starved for each other.
    A sweet tingle went through her as she thought about him.
    Amazingly, she still wasn’t satisfied.
    Her questing arms hit cold sheets. Puzzled, she opened her eyes. She glanced around and squinted at the clock. It was almost nine. She hadn’t slept this long on a Sunday morning in ages. But then she hadn’t been this relaxed in ages.
    She remembered trying to speak, to tell Greg how much she’d missed him, but he’d looked at her with that smilein his eyes that told her everything she needed to know, and then he’d sent her to sleep with a kiss.
    He was so sweet. And she was so happy to have him back.
    The bathroom door was shut so she raised her voice. “Hey, lover boy. I think I’m out of food. How ’bout I take us out for breakfast?”
    He didn’t answer. She raised her voice louder. “I hope you made coffee.”
    With a huge yawn, she rolled herself out of bed, shuffled into her robe and pushed her feet into fuzzy gray slippers.
    When she padded out to the kitchen she experienced her first twinge of doubt. The coffeepot was cold. The kitchen, pristine.
    And as her senses sharpened she realized that she didn’t hear anything or even have that notion of another person being in her place.
    And then she saw the note.
    A bright yellow Post-it slapped in the middle of her fridge like a pimple on a forehead. It read:
    Thanks for last night.
    You’re the best.
G
    She read the note. Once. Then she read it again. And again, but the obscurity of the message didn’t change. Nor could she squeeze any more meaning out of it.
    Thanks for last night? Like she’d done him a favor? Changed the oil on his car or picked up his dry cleaning?
    You’re the best. While she naturally agreed with the literal translation of the words, it was the sort of phraseyou’d throw out to a waitress who brought you an extra side of toast, or someone who’d done you a favor, such as changing your oil or picking up your dry cleaning.
    Somebody with whom you’d had the best sex ever? In your whole pathetic life? Thanks for last night. You’re the best, wasn’t cutting it.
    Even the signature was abbreviated. Deliberately casual. G. Like writing three more letters would have killed him?
    And where was the part about calling her, or seeing her again?
    Because she was a lawyer and tried to consider all sides, she actually peeled the note off the fridge and flipped it over. As though there might be more on the other side. But it was as cheerfully, blankly yellow as one of those little smiley faces.
    By the time the coffee had brewed and she was sipping her first mug of the day, she realized that he’d very deliberately avoided any mention of