been home for a rare, month-long leave when Libby opted to spend time with him rather than join her dorm-mates for a downtown pub crawl. Both girls were from out of state, so when homesickness or trouble erupted, they turned to the Marshalls. That night, Zach answered the phone. Annie, on the verge of hysteria, explained how they’d met a guy who must have spiked Taylor’s drink. “She was only out of my sight for half an hour, and now she can’t walk or talk or keep her eyes open!” He’d ordered Annie to get Taylor to the hospital, promised to meet them at the ER, and called the police. It didn’t take long to confirm that Taylor had been drugged, and the cops and medical staff agreed she was lucky to have survived the double dose of Rohypnol.
“Good thing no one would tell you the guy’s name,” Libby was saying.
In hindsight, he had to agree. But that night, when he saw Taylor lying limp as a rag doll on the exam table, he’d seen red. “Where’s the guy who did that to her?” he’d demanded. Not “How is she?” or “Will she be okay?” but “I’m gonna murder him.”
“You would have gone to jail,” Libby added.
“It was a natural, knee-jerk reaction. Any decent person would have felt the same way.”
“That might be true...if it was the only time you put yourself in a bad situation, defending a woman.”
Zack knew what was coming, and he braced himself. Sure enough, Libby reminded him that moments before his best friend died, Buddy made Zach promise to watch over his wife. Martha didn’t handle widowhood well at all, and repeatedly tried to deaden the pain of her loss with risky behavior, booze and pills. When Martha overdosed for the third time, it was Zach to the rescue, yet again. He insisted on therapy, and to make sure she got the help she needed, he drove her to every appointment. When the psychiatrist recommended outings, Zach bought tickets and sat through operas, the ballet and stage plays. Whatever it took, he told himself, to fulfill that promise to Buddy. In time, she got better, and he told himself Buddy would rest easier knowing that Zach and Martha had fallen in love. Well, Zach thought grimly, he had fallen in love, anyway.
“You remember what she did,” Libby was saying, “after you stood by her through all that misery?”
Like it was yesterday.
“And what about those months you worked as a bouncer to pay your way through college, when all those flirty girls came running to you for protection?”
Yeah, he remembered that, too. For the most part, their fears had been legitimate, so he’d felt no remorse, escorting drunken brutes out of the bar. He’d kept a lid on his temper and got the job done without physical confrontations. He hadn’t even considered roughing up those guys.
That wasn’t the case, though, on the night Libby’s roommate was drugged. Wasn’t the case when Libby herself was attacked, either. He’d wanted to choke the life out of the animals who’d abused them, because the way he saw it—the way he still saw it—no man should get away with mistreating a woman. Ever. Period.
“So your quest to help this latest damsel in distress,” she continued, “just proves one thing to me.”
If she thought he intended to ask what it was, Libby had another think coming.
“You’re still suffering from KISAS.”
Knight in Shining Armor Syndrome. Zach harrumphed. He hadn’t liked the title when she first labeled him with it, and he didn’t like it now.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Libs. I’m not one of your patients.”
“No, you’re my brother, and I don’t want to see you hurt again. If I could wish just one thing for you, it’d be that you’d hang up your superhero cape, once and for all. This Summer person probably isn’t anywhere near as vulnerable as you think she is. But even if you’re right, and she’s a big tangled mess of trouble and baggage, you can’t save her. Only she can do that.”
He sighed, and Libby did, too. She only has your best interests at heart, he reminded himself. Unfortunately, she was right. Again.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll make all your favorites...stuffed shells, garlic bread, meatballs. If you bring a bottle of my favorite wine, I’ll even bake my famous cheesecake. And you have my word—no lectures.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “What time should I be there?”
“Seven?”
He decided to arrive at six so that if anything needed slicing or dicing, or involved a hot oven, he’d volunteer to do it for her.
He was about to sign off when he heard her say, “You know I love you, right? And that I only nag you because I want you to be happy?”
“Yeah, I know. Love you, too, kiddo.”
Happy. What a peculiar word, he thought, hanging up. For some people, happiness was found in life’s simple things, like music or travel, or tending a garden. For others, it could only be achieved by satisfying their every whim.
It wouldn’t take much to make him happy. A humble house with a fenced-in yard, so he could get that golden retriever pup he’d always wanted. Two or three healthy kids. A strong, loving woman to share it all with. And no way Summer was that woman.
Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you, Marshall? What he knew about her would fit in one eye. She was a looker, no one could deny that. Smart, too. And not one to squander what she’d earned as a voice-over actress. Instead of spending her money on frivolous trinkets, she’d invested in the town house and filled it with things that turned it into a warm and welcoming home.
Don’t think about that stuff, you idiot. Instead, focus on the way she recoiled when you touched her.
He felt bad about what she’d gone through. But Libby was right. He needed to hang up his superhero cape. Put away his armor. Admit that he couldn’t rescue every damsel in distress.
In truth, he no longer wanted to rescue all of them.
Just the one with a smile as warm as her name.
“SO WHERE ARE your folks?”
“Having lunch in town with friends.”
Rose laughed. “I didn’t know Vail had any vegan restaurants.”
“Oh, they always manage to find something organic on the menu,” Summer said.
Rose tapped the folded edge of Zach’s flyer on the counter, nodding as she munched a cookie. “You know what I think? If you’re dead-set against ever going out of the house, you could make a handsome living, selling these cookies. I’ve never had any quite like them. What’s your secret?”
Summer chose to ignore the “never going out” part of the observation. “If I told you,” she said, topping off her neighbor’s coffee, “it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, now would it?”
“No, I’m serious. You could sell them to restaurants. I’ll bet a few local bakeries
