The row of bottles sat just out of reach on the top shelf in front of the antique diamond-dust mirror, the shelf he’d been painfully aware of but careful to avoid for seven long and sober years. But now he needed something, anything, to numb this desperate ache deep in his chest. The craving for a stiff drink that had begun hours ago as a soft, sultry siren’s call was now a steady and relentless pounding against his eardrums. Noticing the direction of his gaze, Gabby slid a foamy mug of beer in front of him. Ty pushed it away. “Jim Beam Black. Gimme a double.” If losing the one person he cared for most in the whole world wasn’t good reason to get shit-faced, he didn’t know what was. Gabby’s brows drew together. “Thought you didn’t touch that stuff.” “Only on rare occasion,” he said slowly. “And this one is pretty damned rare. In fact, I’d even call it raw.” The man who’d been a surrogate father to him was gone. Gabby leaned her elbows on the bar, getting up close and personal, her brown eyes soft and sympathetic.
