by Cari Quinn
Everything about the guy didn’t match her expectations. He had such a powerful body. He could’ve bench-pressed classic cars instead of worked on them for all she knew. The muscles in his arms, in his strong thighs, didn’t make someone think of a guy who composed…well, what he composed. Here she’d imagined a guy with floppy curls and mopey eyes and Sam was bald. His eyes weren’t sad so much as painfully direct. Both attributes suited him down to the ground.
She wanted to find out what else suited him. Some of it was curiosity, some of it intuition. Some just a basic, primal attraction.
For a good-time girl, she’d taken a definite detour into gloomsday central. Sam’s apartment might as well have been covered with a shroud. For good reason. He’d dealt with so much and still kept swinging. Even so, he clearly wasn’t in the place for casual sex. Or any kind of sex.
So why had she knelt down and opened his jeans and proceeded to give him a blowjob that obviously hadn’t been enough to distract him from a little tangled hair?
It hadn’t been about the hair. Three people had been in that apartment and she’d been too daft to realize it. She couldn’t sex him out of his grief. And that respite she’d wanted to offer him, that shelter in a storm so to speak, meant squat when the storm lived inside his head.
He hadn’t asked for her number. Though she’d played it casual she’d really hoped he would. So of course he hadn’t.
Sighing, she picked up the stack of letters next to her knee. At least she assumed they were letters, since each had its own envelope. The corners were yellowed as if he’d had them buried in a drawer for years. She assumed they were letters he’d written his wife, maybe since her death. Could just be cheap paper.
Could be she was seriously stalling.
She pulled up her legs, making sure her perennially cold feet were sheltered under her fleece throw. Then she snatched the first envelope, opened the flap and—
The phone rang.
Could it be? No. If he’d intended to call, he would’ve asked for her number. It was probably her mother, wondering if she’d make it to Sunday dinner this week. Or else it might be her friend Shana. She’d been fighting with her boyfriend nonstop for the past few weeks. Yeah, love definitely rocked.
“Crap.” Rory stared at her cordless phone and willed it to stop ringing. It didn’t. Too bad she didn’t have an answering machine.
She leaned over the arm of the couch to grab it off the end table. “Hello?”
“From that tone, you must’ve read some of them already.”
The deep, unmistakable voice had her slumping back down. Whoa. How had he gotten her number? Why did she feel so dizzy all of a sudden? “Sam?”
“Did anyone else give you something to read today?”
“My boss gave me my horoscope,” she mumbled. Which she suspected was mainly because it warned her against “taking unnecessary chances”. Pam never missed an opportunity to drive her point home. This one had been clear. Since Sam Miller was a client of JDS, Rory’s paws were not to touch him.
A smile lifted her lips. But what about her mouth?
“Did it mention a car accident?”
“No, it mentioned unnecessary chances and saving for a rainy day.”
“Huh. Guess those things aren’t so bogus. If I wasn’t going to fix your car gratis, you might get higher insurance rates.”
“You don’t have to fix it. My car’s riddled with dings and dents. A few extra scratches are just more decoration.”
“What kind of car enthusiast are you? There’s not even any leaves on the floormats in Bertha.”
She let out a laugh. Funny how much more talkative he seemed this evening than he had this morning. They’d definitely become more…familiar with each other. “Your car really has a name?”
“First and middle,” he confirmed. “Bertha Marie. Since Bertha is so hideous, thought she needed a taste of normal.”
“I thought only women named their cars.”
The long pause made her think she’d gone too far. Then he chuckled drily. “I’m pretty sure you saw that I wasn’t a woman.”
And shazam, right back at her. She found herself grinning. “Pretty sure you’re right.”
Another pause, longer than the first. “So did you read them yet?”
She laid her hand on the pile and released a breath. They weren’t really vibrating. That was just her nerves. Not that she knew what she was so afraid of. “No. I’d just opened the first envelope. You sealed them all?”
“Yeah.”
“Because you planned to send them?”
“No. I knew I wouldn’t send them. I didn’t want to keep opening them and rereading. Tweaking every word like I do with the billboards. You probably can’t tell,” he said, clearing his throat. “But they take hours. It’s a fine line between saying too much and not saying enough, even if you’re the only one who’s reading them.”
“You also have word count restrictions with the billboards.”
“True.”
She ran the edge of her short, unpainted thumbnail along the envelope. “And I know I keep saying it, but believe me, people read them. I read them. I always make a special point of driving by your billboard during your months, though I pretend it’s just because it fit into my route that day. This month I got distracted with work stuff and fell out of my normal routine.”
And I’ve been feeling soft and vulnerable lately and didn’t want to read any more about how much you loved her. It shamed me, but I was jealous. Still am.
“You probably just wanted to make sure they went up okay. But there’s never been a mistake. I always make sure to check once before I avoid the area for the month.”
“But your wife enjoyed them, right? That’s why you did them.”
Why hadn’t she asked him that before when he’d said no one read them? It was like she had a mental block when it came to Dani. As sad as she was about her passing and as connected as she’d felt to Sam—for no sensible reason really—she couldn’t seem to put them together in the same frame in her head. It was as if his love was separate from his wife somehow.
A likely side effect of fooling around with a sort of taken man, she supposed. Hard to imagine him with anyone else, at least while she was imagining her with him. Something she needed to stop doing right away.
“Sam?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Again he cleared his throat. “You’ll figure it out soon enough from the letters but Dani and I weren’t together when she passed.”
Rory reared back as if he’d reached through the phone and sucker-punched her. That no one was around to witness her utter dorkdom didn’t lessen her mortification. “How?”
“Very easy. She kicked me out of our house. So I ended up in the fine accommodations you saw today.”
“But why? You loved her so much. I read every one of those billboards. Some of them I read over and over. How could she kick you out? Did she think love like that grows on trees? Because it doesn’t. Or if it does my yard’s fucking empty.”
“Rory,” he said, his low voice sending shivers up her spine. “Don’t waste your breath defending me. It was my fault.”
“It couldn’t be.”
“It was. Trust me. I was there. You weren’t.”
She grabbed the throw pillow at her side and tugged it closer, needing something to hold on to. “I know that.”
Of course she knew that. She’d never been in a situation where someone could screw up a love as precious as theirs had seemed from her vantage point. She’d never been in love, period. Not once.
There had been near misses along the way. Crushes that never came to fruition. Hot affairs that dwindled to nothing rather than blossomed into more. But love itself had been elusive. Until lately she hadn’t even realized she wanted in on the party for two that it felt like everyone else had RSVP’d to.
Forget RSVP’d. She’d never even been invited.
If anyone was to blame for that, it was probably Sam and his damn billbo
ards. They’d always hit her straight in the gut and damned if she knew why. Was she so repressed that it took a stranger’s words to remind her of everything she was missing?
“Read the letters. Start at the bottom and work your way up.”
“But—”
He muttered something, ostensibly goodbye, and yet again she got the dial tone. Twice in one day. She should probably be annoyed he had a habit of hanging up without giving her a clue he was done with the conversation.
Maybe she’d work on that tomorrow. Tonight she was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he hadn’t been in the world’s happiest marriage.
There had been little signs, if she’d known to look for them. Lines that sounded almost bitter instead of loving. But she’d written them off, figuring all relationships had peaks and valleys. He cared enough to drop more than a grand on a billboard to profess his affection four times a year. What did a few spats matter?
But Sam hadn’t been talking about a spat. Dani had kicked him out of the house. How long ago? Months? Years? She glanced at the letters then at her mostly empty wineglass and decided she needed reinforcements before she tackled the stack.
She shivered. Another thing she needed was a heavier throw.
Ten minutes later she’d again cuddled up on the couch, full wineglass in one hand and Sam’s letters in the other. She covered up in her fuzziest blanket and set the phone by her hip, just in case he decided to call back.
Nothing left to do but read.
She started at the bottom as he’d instructed. Tugging out the white sheet of lined paper, she shoved down the rock of apprehension in her throat. This wasn’t her life. Whatever she read wouldn’t hurt anything but her misconceptions about a situation she’d never really been privy to. Her overactive imagination had filled in far too many blanks.
Time to fill them in.
She shook her head at his small, narrow handwriting. It was straight up and down, the kind that made her think the writer must’ve had a cramp by the time they’d finished.
Dear Dani,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. You know I’m not a writer. I also don’t like talking too much. Especially about all that girl stuff like being upset and getting in touch with my emotions. For a long time I didn’t think I even had emotions to get in touch with. After Kayleigh, I didn’t want them. They complicated my life so I shut them out. While doing so, I probably shut you out too.
Kayleigh. Who was that? Rory bit her thumbnail and considered. An ex maybe? She hoped she’d find out through the letters but the likelihood wasn’t high. This wasn’t a page-turning novel, after all. He was writing to his wife. She already knew what had happened.
Sleeping alone for the first time last night was not fun. Okay, I hear you now, telling me that “not fun” is not an example of accessing my emotions. I need to be honest here, if nowhere else. Because I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I want you to. You’ll get defensive about how I feel and while you’re entitled to your opinions, I don’t think we can meet in the middle. Anything I ever did or said was because I loved you and wanted to protect you. But I wasn’t honest. How could I tell you I didn’t want you—us—to try to have another baby?
Rory huffed out a breath and lifted her glass to her lips. Sipped. Took another breath. Sipped again. The refreshing white wine slid smoothly down her throat but she barely tasted it.
She dropped the paper to her lap and pressed her hand to her forehead. He’d lost a wife. And a baby. Dear God. How was he still sane?
And she’d tried to blow him as if they’d met at a bar, as if casual sex fit anywhere on their menu.
If she’d believed she lacked a sensitivity gene before, this proved it. In spades.
But he hadn’t shoved her away. He’d even responded at first. Not only that but he’d given her an unexpected, wonderful, incredible orgasm that had seemed to rock him every bit as it had her. Thank God he hadn’t been able to hear the endless singsong in her head while he’d had his hand and his mouth on—and in—her body.
Sam’s touching me. Sam’s using his fingers inside me, Sam’s mouth is on my breast. Now his lips are on my nipple and it feels fan-flipping-tastic.
Then just Sam. Sam. Sam.
It wasn’t the most amazing climax she’d ever had, probably not even close, but it had affected her more than any other. He’d touched something inside her with every stroke of his fingers. And those dark eyes directed on hers as if he was soaking up her reaction…that was the most amazing experience ever. One she knew she would never forget.
For her sex had always been about a borrowed connection. Wires patched together to make a unit long enough to transmit a message. That shared goal, those stolen moments when nothing else mattered but pleasure. When they ended, so did the link. The electricity faded.
That wouldn’t be the case here. She would bet on it. She’d hear his laughter, those heady snatches of it, and treasure his rare smiles, even the heaviness in his eyes. His grief was as beautiful as it was disturbing and she felt honored to have witnessed any part of it. Those billboards had given her a window into a life, two lives, but now she was discovering the glass was muddy. The pinhole view she’d been given hadn’t been real.
They were just two human beings. Not the ideal couple. Not romantically tragic. The way she’d painted them was as much a fantasy as any movie.
So why did she want him even more now that she knew he wasn’t perfect? That he hadn’t lived some fairy tale romance, that every word he penned didn’t drip from his quill like liquid gold?
She forced out a breath and picked up the letter again. This time she would get through it. All the way. Then she would move on to the next.
Telling you would’ve been the fair thing to do. You built your whole world around getting pregnant again. Meanwhile I partied. And I drank. You knew about Melissa, how we flirted. Well, one night the flirting went too far. I kissed her. Just once. I’d been drinking, and it was a mistake. I knew you were home waiting for me and all the pressure to be the man I wasn’t ready to be hit like an avalanche. How could I be a father when I hadn’t even really figured out how to be me yet? Who was I to try to teach anyone else how to be a good person when I was out kissing another woman while my pregnant wife sat home knitting booties?
But I didn’t know you were pregnant that night. I didn’t know about the booties. It was only after you’d died that I found the stash in the chest by the foot of our bed.
You were right to kick me out. But I was right to not want you to hurt like that again. I couldn’t help wanting to protect you. Now you’re gone.
So I’m here by myself, in this shitty apartment that I’ve made that way. It could be more. Just like I could’ve been. But you’d loved me through all of my faults. You’d stood by me, always hoping to find the man you prayed I’d one day turn into. Maybe I hoped too, that you were right. That somehow you knew something I didn’t. There was more to me than just a guy who partied too much, who drank until I puked out my guts, who avoided anything serious because God forbid something bring me down. And now I’m so goddamned low, so fucking lonely, that even these words seem like more of a comfort than I had before.
I can’t stop loving you. If I do that, what will be left of me?
Rory closed her eyes, the paper rattling in her fist. Then she set aside her glass and her blanket, jerking to her feet and leaving the letter where it fell.
Chapter Five
Dani,
I went for a walk today. Down the street, around the block to the little playground where that girl with the brown pigtails is always swinging. Back and forth. Back and forth. And I stood there watching her, wondering if that’s what Kayleigh and Brandy might have looked like someday. I’ll never know. I have to draw new pictures in my head or I’ll go crazy missing them. And you.
~ Sam
Sleep, the fickle bitch, shouldn’t have come easily to him that night. Sam expected it wouldn’t, even
stayed up late flipping through some new car books he’d picked up to avoid his bed. But he dropped off the minute he lay down. And wonder of all wonders, he didn’t dream.
Sharing his letters—his secrets basically—with Rory was probably one of the craziest things he’d ever done. He didn’t know her. In essence they had a working relationship and mixing it with anything more would probably be a recipe for disaster.
Which didn’t sound so bad to him at the moment. Even a spectacular failure would be better than the whitewash hell of the past months.
She hadn’t called him last night. Why he’d thought she might, he didn’t know. He hadn’t given her his number for the very reason that he hadn’t wanted to wait for her to call. But he had anyway.
“Pathetic,” he muttered, rubbing a microfiber cloth over the sweet vintage Trans Am he’d gotten in the shop that morning. The beaut was pink. Since he billed himself as a manly man—except for those pesky billboards and love letters—he would’ve denied loving the color but he did. This car was sexy. Polished chrome accents and details like T-tops and spinners all added up to one big dollop of lust.
He ran some figures in his head. Nope, not a chance of coming up with the dough to take this pretty momma home. He already had three classic cars. And no bedframe. The bedframe had to come first.
Hoping some lovely lady might join you in that bed in the near future, Miller?
Dawdling over the memory of Rory’s flushed cheeks and rosy lips, he glanced up as polished red heels stopped beside the Trans Am. When his gaze traveled upward, skimming bare legs nicely displayed in a conservative navy skirt, the hand rubbing circles on the car stopped.
Just like his brain.
“You were smiling.” Rory crossed her arms over her chest and cocked a brow. “Yet you stopped when you saw me. Way to offend a customer, Samuel Miller.”
“That’s not my name.”
Straightening, he dragged the cloth down the fender. Focusing on the task took all his attention. He wanted to stare at her. She’d done something different to her hair. Teased it higher, pulled the black waves back with jeweled clips behind her ears.