Sam’s voice was husky with strength and arousal. Sara turned over and Sam pulled her up gently onto her knees in front of her.
“Remember when you asked me if I knew what you needed?”
Sara nodded. Sam traced the curve of her hip with her palm.
“Do you want me to show you?”
Sara nodded and Sam laid a hand gently between her shoulder blades. “Lean forward and give me both of your hands.”
The quiet power in Sam’s voice instantly brought Sara close to the edge. She leaned forward until her chest was on the bed as Sam took her hands and held them both in just one of hers at the small of Sara’s back. Sam guided the shaft slowly inside Sara and she moaned softly with pleasure.
“Jesus, Sam,” Sara said, suddenly breathless.
Being inside her and watching the lush curves of Sara’s ass press back against her hips was almost too much, but Sam focused and leaned into her, still holding Sara’s hands behind her back. She reached around at Sara’s waist and placed her other hand low on her tummy, exploring until she found where she needed to be. She pressed gently with her fingers and met that touch from the inside with perfect pressure and a slow, building rhythm.
“Oh my God.” Sara’s voice trembled, her hands tensing underneath Sam’s.
Sara had never felt anything like this; slow burning pleasure so shatteringly deep and intense that suddenly nothing else existed except Sam, deep inside her. As the intensity built, Sam slowed her pace and focused the pressure until she felt Sara’s orgasm take over and heard her soft scream as she went over the edge. Sara trembled as the orgasm pulsed hard through her body, soaking Sam’s thighs with the warm rush of her climax.
After, Sam wrapped her arms around Sara and laid her down, pulling her in, whispering for her to breathe. Sara melted instantly into her arms.
“Well,” she whispered, her voice already falling into sleep, “You did it. You’ve ruined me for any other butch. Ever.”
Sam smiled and pulled her closer, realizing suddenly how much she wanted that to be true.
Chapter Eighteen
Sara turned over lazily in bed and snuggled closer to Sam. She was deliciously sore from last night and opened her eyes as the memory washed over her. Unfortunately, she also caught a glimpse of her watch.
“Shit!” She said softly, throwing back the covers. “I’m so late!”
She scrambled for her clothes before she realized she’d left them the night before at the hot tub.
She was just pulling on the jeans Sam had taken off the night before when Sam opened her eyes.
“Not that you don’t look cute as hell in those,” Sam said, “But where are you going?”
Sara pulled on Sam’s T-shirt and stole her flip-flops, stopping to give her a hurried kiss on the way out the door.
“I have the menus being hand delivered to the restaurant at nine and I have to sign for them or they go back,” she said, “But I’d love to go to lunch later if you have time.”
“You got it,” Sam said. “I have to do some stuff at the station anyway. I’ll call you around noon.”
Sara ran back and jumped on top of her, covering her with kisses, then ran out the door.
Sam laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as a sinking feeling of fear settled into her chest.
****
Sara ran to her cabin, raced through a shower, and threw herself into her truck, almost forgetting the diner keys. She’d had the menus completely redone, which had taken much longer than she’d expected, and the company offered to send someone to hand deliver them today. She got into town and skidded into a parking space at five minutes after. A confused looking guy with two boxes and a clipboard was waiting at the front door of the diner, looking at his watch.
“I’m Sara Brighton,” she said, breathless, as she got to the door and unlocked it.
“I just need you to sign for these,” he said, handing her the clipboard.
Sara signed it hurriedly and moved the boxes inside. She took one to the kitchen and set it on the prep table, slicing the top open with a paring knife. The menus were perfect; they were laminated, with simple font and a vintage picture of McCall Main St. from the 1950s with the lake in the distance on the top.
Local favorites, the dishes from the recipes she and Mary had sampled, were on the left, with each cook’s name next to his or her dish. On the right were Southern Comforts, dishes that Sara had developed around her favorite southern, from buttermilk fried chicken with mac and cheese to skillet cornbread with bourbon honey butter. She’d put her heart and memories into these dishes, and she was nervous; there was no guarantee they’d be popular, and the memory of her last disastrous tasting loomed in her mind as a distinct possibility.
Mary had helped her refine the list and picked out her favorites, insisting that she’d have to take the pork chops and butterbeans home to really make up her mind about them, then poked her head back in the kitchen on her way out and grabbed the container of pulled pork BBQ with slaw and brioche buns.
“Just for research,” she said, breathing in the aroma of the sweet, smoky BBQ sauce that Sara had made with blackstrap molasses.
It was a good sign that Mary loved her food. Maybe everyone would this time.
Sara spent the day setting up her computer system in her office and double-checking the food and linen orders. Everything was in place to open Thursday evening. It was a “soft” opening, only for locals, with no charge. She wouldn’t open for regular business until the next weekend, but a soft opening was great practice for her staff and a way to thank everyone who’d helped her along the way. Maybe there had been a silver lining to Sam not setting foot inside the diner; she hadn’t been there to lean on, so every time something happened with the construction, plumbing, or anything else she had no clue about, someone local had stepped up to help her. Word had started getting around town that she was putting a new diner where McCall’s used to be, and some of them had even stopped by and poked their heads in the door when the lights were on just to meet her.
Mary had called Steve McCarthy, a retired electrician, when the lights above the counter inexplicably fizzled and died, and he’d somehow fixed the problem in less than ten minutes, including the walk out to his truck for a part. Sara sent him home with a huge chunk of pot roast and he’d shown up to check on her a couple of times in the next few weeks, just to see if everything was still okay. The morning her new gas fireplace arrived, she was struggling to get it through the door until Bart, the guy she’d bought her boat from, saw her from across the street and brought it inside for her. He’d stayed to unpack it, set it up, and even programmed the remote for her, despite her best efforts to convince him she could do it herself. She did get him to let her wrap up some roast chicken and garlic mashed potatoes for him though, and by the time she’d gotten to Moxie Java the next morning, everyone seemed to be talking about the new diner going in up the street. When she asked him about it later, he’d just pulled the visor down on his cap. “That chicken was damn good,” he muttered. “I might have told some people about it.”
By the time the opening had rolled around, Sara felt like she’d met everyone in town, and the ones she hadn’t met somehow seemed to know who she was and wished her luck when they saw her. She’d even hired some of the high school kids that had impressed her at the pancake breakfast, including Mara, who was turning out to have great ideas.
But now the opening was looming, and she had almost everything ready, which unfortunately only served to give Sara time to stew about what might go wrong. She realized just before noon that she was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, so she told herself to stop being ridiculous and do something constructive. The last box of cutlery was still on the counter from the delivery the previous week, so she set about unpacking it and washing them by hand. She turned the hot water on and waited for it to warm, then reached the cold water. The second she turned the handle it fell completely off, sending a wide stream of water ten feet into
the air. She looked up, shocked, then reached for the handle to turn it off. Which of course was no longer there. The water showed no signs of letting up and actually now seemed to be shooting even higher, which hadn’t seemed possible. In desperation, Sara covered it with a small saucepan, but that rocketed off in two seconds.
“Fuck!” she said, tossing the saucepan across the counter and trying to press the heel of her hand down over the exposed pipe.
The double doors to the kitchen opened and Sam ran over to the sink, opening the cabinet underneath and pulling out a huge pipe wrench. She reached back to the shut off valve and tightened it down until the water stopped.
“You’re my hero!” Sara said, jumping into her arms and wrapping her legs around Sam’s waist. “How did you know I broke it?”
“I didn’t,” Sam said, putting her gently down on the counter beside the wrench and pulling her in for a kiss. “I opened the door and heard something major going down, so I ran in here.”
“Wait,” Sara said, the fact that Sam was finally in the diner slowly sinking in. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long, baby,” Sam said. “I should have been here for you a long time ago.” Sam pulled Sara into her arms. “I don’t have anything to say for myself. But will you forgive me?” She whispered.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Sara snuggled into Sam’s arms, her anxiety forgotten.
“So,” Sam said, “What are the chances of me getting a personal guided tour?”
“Excellent,” Sara said, hopping down off the counter. “You’re the guest of honor.”
Sara took her hand and walked into the dining room.
“Wait,” Sam said, pausing at the diner counter, looking at the stools, every one of their seats embroidered with the word Reserved. “What’s this?”
“This counter is reserved for the over fifty crowd,” Sara said. “Everyone I talked to mentioned they used to know someone who’d sit here every morning, reading the paper. So I have four copies of the paper set to be delivered to the diner by six every morning, and those carafes—” Sara pointed to a group of five insulated coffee carafes at the end of the counter. “—will hold complementary coffee and remain on the counter all day.”
“Wow,” Sam said, laughing. “They might try to kiss you when they hear about this.”
Sara laughed and Sam looked out the open rear door to the deck. “What in the world is out there?”
“Go look,” Sara said, following her out the door, where Sam stopped in her tracks.
“This is incredible,” she said, “Dad always said he was going to do something out here in the back but never got around to it.”
“Do you like it?”
Sam just stared, taking it all in. “It’s beautiful, baby,” she said. “I love it.”
She waited as Sam climbed the stairs to the second level and looked up at the heaters and the vinyl curtains that zipped closed to keep the warm air inside in the winter.
She turned and called down to Sara. “Now this is just genius.”
“Thanks,” Sara said. “Obviously I didn’t do this in Savannah, but I thought it might allow me to utilize the space year round.”
“Absolutely.” Sam looked around, appreciating the comfortable details Sara put into the decor, including the hearth and fireplace at one end of the bottom deck.
“Just…wow,” she said, shaking her head as she joined Sara on the lower deck.
“Ready to see the inside?” Sara asked.
Sam took a breath, and then Sara’s hand. As they walked in, Sara went to click on the lights, including the warm gold lamps by the sofas. When she had finally gotten them all and had turned around, she knew what Sam was looking at. She was walking slowly up and down the walls, stopping to look at the framed photos of Gus with the McCall locals, and even the one of Sam behind the counter, barely taller than the surface, while Gus laughed with someone sitting on the other side, coffee cup in hand.
When Sam finally turned around to face Sara, her face was wet with tears. “Do you know how long I’ve felt guilty because I couldn’t face preserving those pictures?”
Sara crossed the room and hugged her, holding her close.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said finally, letting her go and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m actually okay. They’re mostly happy tears.”
“You don’t ever have to apologize to me for tears, happy or otherwise,” Sara said. “I love all of you.”
Sam tilted her face up to hers and kissed her gently. “I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders,” she said. “Thank you.”
Sara smiled, looking over at a pulley system mounted on the wall. Sam’s eyes followed the ropes to the ceiling, where a rough-hewn farm table, twelve feet long, was tucked snugly up to the rafters.
“Is that what it looks like?”
Sara walked over to the wall and pressed a button. The table started to descend from the rafters to the middle of the room, smoothly and slowly, until all the legs touched the ground. The details clicked into place for Sam. “That’s why there’s a space here with no tables.”
“Yep, but we won’t have to take the chairs from the other tables, check this out.”
She ducked under the table and pulled down an iron lever, which let down the bench seats on each side that were stored, folded flush against the underside of the tabletop.
“That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” Sam said, shaking her head and running her hand over the smooth surface of the wide oak planks.
“Don’t be too impressed. I designed it but I had someone build and install it for me,” Sara said. “It’s actually there primarily for Sunday night roast.”
“Roast?”
“Our hours are short on Sundays; we shut down at two in the afternoon so the staff can clean up and get ready for locals’ night. Every Sunday evening, I’ll do a roast of some sort, and everyone who comes brings another dish, like sides or dessert. Totally free, kind of like a potluck.”
“And it’s just for locals?”
“Only locals and everyone’s invited. If it gets big, we have plenty of extra tables.” Sara giggled at her own joke, instantly looking adorable.
Sam pulled her into her arms. “You have no idea how amazing all this is,” she said. “The whole town lost something when the diner closed. You’re giving it back.”
Sam kissed her, holding her face in her hands, then sank down to one knee. She pulled a black velvet box out of her pocket and opened it. Inside was a two-carat yellow diamond, set on a classic white gold band.
“Sara,” she said, her voice shaking just a bit, “I don’t deserve you, but I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy if you’ll let me.” She cleared her throat, suddenly so nervous she forgot what she needed to say next. “Will you marry me?
Sara stood with her hand over her mouth, in shock, then raised her eyes to Sam’s. “Yes,” she said, smiling. “A thousand times yes.”
Sam slid the ring on her finger, a perfect fit thanks to Jennifer, then jumped up and folded Sara into her arms as huge cheers erupted outside. Sam turned Sara toward the window to reveal everyone they knew crowded around it, trying to get a better view. Sam gave a thumb’s up sign and held Sara close while they poured in the door, most carrying bottles of champagne and everyone holding one of Mary’s mason jars.
“Wait,” said Sara, looking up at Sam. “If I’m married to Captain Draper, does that mean my boating license never expires?”
Sam laughed and held her close. “Never,” she said, “It’s yours forever.”
Not too long after that, Lake Patrol officers pulled Sam away into congratulatory slaps on her shoulders from all of them and a cold beer from Murphy’s secret stash. Maurice found Sara and kissed both her cheeks, tears in his eyes.
“Samantha has always been my daughter too,” he said, looking over at Sam, smiling and laughing with her officers. “And I knew the moment I met you that you were the
one.” He pulled Sara into a tight hug. “Félicitations, mon chérie.”
Mary found Sara soon after and hugged her until she was in danger of looking mushy, and even Lily had written her a note and given it to Jennifer for Sara.
Congratulations to you both. Sam is a lucky woman.
Sara was touched. She tucked it in her pocket to show Sam later and smacked Jen’s arm with the back of her hand.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this was happening!”
“I only found out yesterday! Do you like it?” Jen said, holding Sara’s hand up to the light.
“It couldn’t be more perfect,” Sara said honestly, mesmerized by the endless brilliant sparkle.
“Well,” Jen said, her nose slightly in the air, “That’s because I didn’t let her pick it out unsupervised.”
Sara laughed and hugged her sister, looking over at Murphy. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “I’ll return the favor.”
Champagne flowed all afternoon and everyone laughed and drank, congratulating Sam and Sara and all gravitating towards the pictures on the walls. Sara’s cheeks ached from laughing at the stories they told about each other, some true and some even better because they weren’t.
As the sunlight started to fade, Sara found Sam and took her hand, leading her out the front door of the diner. Brown kraft paper was still taped across the top of the window, and Sara pointed up at it. Sam was just tall enough to reach the top edge and ripped it down in one motion. It was the diner’s new sign. Gus’s Place.
About The Author
Patricia Evans Jordan spent her younger years at a conservative boarding school and university where she was convinced she was the only lesbian in the world, so she started writing the characters she longed to meet in real life. She remains passionate about creating characters that accurately reflect the strong, sensual and courageous women that are our lesbian community.
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