Beyond Breathless. Kathleen O'Reilly

rubbed his eyes. “We can’t be related. It’s impossible.”

      “Give me a break. I’m tons better than Mercedes.”

      Andrew latched onto the subject of their sister with relief. “Have you talked to her recently? She never returned my call from Tuesday.”

      “She’s probably still pissed because you didn’t cosign for that apartment.”

      “She’s twenty-five, she should be able to manage her own things. Anyway, the place was a dump, way overpriced, and there’s no grocery within twenty blocks.”

      “You checked it out?”

      “Of course.”

      “Can’t cut the cord, can you?”

      Andrew got up. “Can we leave?”

      “What are you going to give the Hummer Honey? Tell me and then we leave,” answered Jeff, sticking to his bar stool like glue.

      “Don’t call her that.”

      “If I had a real name…”

      “Hell will freeze first.”

      “Okay, but you need to send her something. That coupling was a monumental achievement in your life, a shining light in a love life that was previously best described as ‘blah.’”

      “Ass.”

      “Send her something.”

      Andrew slapped a fifty on the counter. “Let’s go before I bankrupt myself. Give the victim, uh, the groom, my regards.”

      “Who?” asked Jeff, a confused, slightly drunk grin on his face.

      “Peter? Remember?”

      Jeff nodded. “Oh, yeah.” He lifted a hand and waved in the general direction of everyone.

      There was something rotten in this joint, and it wasn’t the gin. “There never was a bachelor party, was there?”

      “I lied.” Jeff threw an arm around his older brother. “Just practicing a little quality family time.”

      “Freeloading. That’s what you’re doing. At two hundred bucks an hour.”

      “I love you, man.”

      Andrew rolled his eyes. “Go to hell,” he said, with the very best familial overtone. But he did owe his brother something; Andrew needed to find the perfect gift for one Jamie McNamara. Unfortunately, he had no idea what that perfect gift would be.

      SATURDAY MORNING, ANDREW AWOKE with a large hangover and the firm belief that someone was pounding a hammer inside his head. He rolled over, trying to bury his head in a pillow, but instead he rolled off his own couch.

      Damn.

      This was all his brother’s fault.

      If not for Jeff, he wouldn’t have had God only knows how many shots, he would have made it all the way to his bed and gotten a perfectly marvelous night’s sleep—weaving elaborate fantasies around Jamie McNamara, her long legs, tight rear, firm, gravity-defying breasts…

      Okay, he probably wouldn’t have gotten any sleep, but at least his head wouldn’t sound like a construction site.

      Cautiously, he tried to stand, but something kept pulling at him. He opened his other eye and realized that his currently still-attached tie was stuck between the couch cushions.

      Jeff was really going to feel pain for this. Andrew wasn’t exactly sure how, but an innocent, honorable man shouldn’t have to suffer this much from alcohol.

      He unknotted his tie and threw it over the nearest chair. He looked down at the wrinkled shirt and pants, but there were more important problems to address.

      Namely his head.

      Aspirin. That was what he needed. He took two halting steps toward the bathroom and realized the pounding wasn’t coming from his brain, it was coming from outside in the hallway.

      Andrew flung open the door, only to be greeted with an empty space. Then the hammering began again.

      Two doors down.

      A young guy stood at the door, curly-haired in torn jeans and a rocker-chain snaking out from one pocket.

      The guy looked up and quickly looked away.

      Andrew scowled.

      From the far end of the hallway, another door opened and Estelle Feldman peered over her security chain. The octogenarian resident of 43B had occupied the place since the early sixties, or at least that’s what George the doorman had told Andrew.

      Old Lady Feldman glared at the door pounder at 43C, then hmmmmppphed before slamming her door closed—hard. The shot echoed inside Andrew’s head.

      He closed his door, wondering why everyone had to be up at seven thirty on a Saturday morning. Actually, Andrew was normally up at five thirty on a Saturday morning, and if hadn’t been for all those shots…

      Damn it, Jeff, he thought, applying blame where it belonged. Squarely on Jeff’s shoulders.

      He plodded into the bathroom, popped four aspirins, and then made some extra-strength coffee.

      At some point in time, he was going to have to work.

      But then he collapsed back on his couch, putting the pillow over his head, letting the aspirin work its magic. The cottony fabric was plump and reminded him of Jamie’s breasts. He smiled and pulled the pillow closer.

      At some point in time, he would go back to work. However, Andrew calculated that there were at least three hours of elaborate fantasies that he’d missed out on.

      Right now, he intended to make up for it.

      BRIGHT AND EARLY MONDAY morning, before the rest of the suits arrived, Jamie found a small package on her desk. Glimmering silver wrapping paper, trimmed with an overlay of flowers, and a red velvet bow. Elegant, but the outer covering didn’t give her a clue about what was inside, who had sent it, or where it came from.

      Never one to stand around and contemplate the issue, she dove right in, fingers flying. Jamie loved surprises, loved the thrill of opening presents, mainly because no one in her family was impulsive. Christmas and birthdays were about the only time when a plan wasn’t created, discussed, implemented, and then followed up by the requisite postmortem critique of how they as a family could do better.