Jamie was sitting with his elbows on his knees and body angled forward, still shirtless, meaning all his tanned, glorious muscles were showing and flexed since he was bracing weight. And although that in itself was an eyeful one would have serious difficulty looking away from, that was only part of the package I was labeling as spectacular.

Jamie had great hair. Amazing hair. Chin-length layers and wavy with pieces curling lower and reaching those big muscles at the tops of his shoulders. It looked great wet. It looked great partially wet when most hair would look frizzy unless you put some product in it. It looked great even though I was certain he always let it air-dry.

I could pull off that look but only with the help of products, and again, I didn’t think Jamie used any on his hair.

He always wore it down. And if pieces fell in his face, he’d tuck them behind his ear or leave them as is, looking like he didn’t give a shit, and somehow, even that he could pull off better than anybody else. I was sure of it.

When he arrived here, it was down, as usual, and when we were finished going at it on the couch, it was looking wavier, messier, and shockingly, even more amazing.

But now it was partially pulled back. Everything above his ear was secured in a hair tie at the back of his skull, keeping the top half out of his face and leaving the rest to curl against his golden delicious neck.

I stared at Jamie and he stared back at me, smiling, and yes, I was correct in assuming how beautiful he looked in his amusement, but I was unprepared for the degree of beauty a hair tie could provide.

I could see each and every one of his sharp features without any obstructions. His hairline, which was fantastic. He had the slightest widow’s peak. And he just looked good with his hair pulled back. Sexy. A little scrappy.

Like he was ready to pick a fight or pop the hood of my car and check the oil.

Sheesh.

That was a nice visual. Jamie all grease-stained or with his knuckles wrapped up.

My phone started ringing just as Jamie was asking, “You all right there, babe?”

I blinked, focusing on his eyes and not his hair, hairline, sun-kissed skin, or anything else I was seeing for the first time without obstructions.

“I’m great. Starved and ready to put away some of this food,” I answered. Then I looked toward the table, where the ringing was coming from.

I wasn’t lying. I was just leaving out a few details.

Leaning forward, I exchanged my spring roll for my cell, which was hiding behind the container of chicken with red curry, saw my mom’s name flashing on the screen, and informed Jamie as he was muting the game, “It’s my mom. She’ll be quick.”

“No rush. Don’t really need sound,” he returned, setting the remote down.

I settled back against the cushion, knees bent and feet tucked partially under my hip, and pressed the phone to my ear after hitting Accept.

“Hey, Mom,” I greeted her, eyes on the TV and the game Jamie had kept muted.

“Pumpkin, I’ve about had it with your father,” she snapped. “Do you know what he did today? Because that man is so stubborn, I made an appointment for him to see Dr. Kennedy myself, and he never showed! Never called. Nothing. Just stood the man up. Can you believe him?”

“Is he still having heartburn?” I asked, feeling my stomach tighten with worry.

“He’s still having something. Complains of his chest feeling tight. I don’t like it. And he’s popping those damn Tums like they’re M&M’s. Those things aren’t doing him a bit of good.”

I exhaled heavily, feeling the couch dip beside me as Jamie stood and moved around the coffee table. “I don’t think it’s heartburn,” I murmured into the phone, turning my head and watching him disappear into the kitchen.

“I don’t either. And that could’ve been confirmed today if he would’ve just kept his appointment with Dr. Kennedy, but you know how he is.”

“Yeah, I know. Wait.” I felt my forehead wrinkle as I turned back around. “Isn’t Dr. Kennedy your plastic surgeon?”

“He’s still a doctor, Tori. He went to med school.”

Oh, yeah. Right. I was sure he at least knew how to use a stethoscope.

“Well, I don’t know what to do, Mom. You can’t make Daddy go to the doctor. Not unless you drug him and get him there while he’s unconscious.”

“That might be my next move.”

“Do you want me to talk to him again?”

“Not right now. I’ve put him in a bit of a mood. He’s smoking a cigar outside and shootin’ his gun,” she said, her voice exhausted. “Maybe try tomorrow?”

“Okay.” I bit my cheek and nodded. “I’ll give him a call after work.”

“Thanks, pumpkin. I don’t know what else to do here.”

“We’ll figure it out. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

That was a lie. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t even considering heartburn anymore. There was a strong possibility this was something else, but I wouldn’t worry my mom.

“Okay.” She sighed. “Talk soon. Let me know how it goes.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Bye, pumpkin.”

I disconnected the call and dropped the phone onto the cushion beside me, my head tipping back and eyes closing as I struggled to keep my thoughts from drifting to worst possible scenarios and terrible worries.

I didn’t know what to do. I had a good idea how the conversation with my dad was going to go tomorrow. And I was serious. I really didn’t think he’d ever go see a doctor unless he was passed out cold and forced to go against his knowledge or will.