The smile on the brunette’s face falls, and Mike’s eyes narrow on me. I’m certain I could win an Oscar for the performance I’m about to launch into—but then Reilly walks through the door. His presence unnerves me more than Mike’s ever could, and my confidence skidders and crumbles.
“Sam,” Reilly says, low and steady, as he walks up to us, glaring at Mike.
I close my gaping mouth. “Uh, Josh . . .” I glance between them. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I wait with bated breath.
Mike looks extremely uncomfortable and pulls his date closer. “Have a nice night,” he mumbles, but I don’t respond. I watch as him and his date follow the hostess, who’s been patiently waiting to take them to a table on the other side of the room.
Steeling myself, I look at Reilly. “Uh, hi.”
He frowns, his attention shifting from Mike’s retreating form to me. “Is everything okay?”
Nodding, I grab my clutch and sweater. “Yeah, it’s fine.” I swallow. “No Nick?” I know there is no other reason for Reilly to be here.
“He asked if I’d pick you up.”
It’s clear from Reilly’s tone that he doesn’t want to be here right now, and I don’t blame him. “Sorry, I told him I would be fine. If I would’ve known I—”
“It’s fine.” With a nod toward the wine bottle, Reilly asks, “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s probably a good idea.” Nerves rattled a little, I follow Reilly out the door.
“I’m around the corner,” he says brusquely, and with a pace much faster than mine, he stays a few steps in front of me as we follow the sidewalk around the side of the restaurant. He’s in his paint-splattered jeans and work boots again.
“I appreciate you coming to get me. I’m sorry if I interrupted something,” I say, afraid to look away from the uneven pavement. At least that’s the excuse I tell myself, and that seeing that severe expression on Reilly’s face has nothing to do with it. Part of me is still mortified by what he knows, what he saw yesterday, but mostly I’m just sorry for being so horrible to him.
“Don’t worry about it.” His pace and his hands in his pockets, makes it clear this is the last place he wants to be.
I don’t know if it’s the wine or remorse, but I feel the need to fill the silence. “Did Nick tell you Adam’s married? I sure know how to pick ’em, huh?” I hurry my pace to keep up with him and wrap my arms tightly around myself in the sudden chill, though I’m not sure if it’s the weather or Reilly’s indifference toward me.
“He told me.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me I told you so? Or are you going to give me the cold shoulder the entire ride home?”
Reilly stills and turns to look at me for the first time since we left the restaurant. “You’ve made it more than clear that my opinion and concern is worth nothing to you.” He turns away from me and continues walking.
“Well . . . I . . .” I trot to catch up to him, my heels clacking against the cobblestone sidewalk. His red Chevy finally comes into sight half a block down, across the street. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket.
I’m practically running to keep up. “Josh, would you stop for five freaking seconds?” I pause at the edge of the curb, refusing to follow him any further.
Reilly stops in the middle of the street lined with fancy cars, but no real traffic to speak of. He turns to me and opens his arms as he takes a step closer to the curb. “What do you want from me, Sam?”
“I want you to look at me.” Though I’m surprised I mean that. “I want you to talk to me.”
He shakes his head. “Since when? I thought you wanted me to leave you the fuck alone,” he says, throwing my words back in my face. He turns and continues toward the truck. “Let’s just get you home.”
I stay on the curb, refusing to let him just walk away. We’re done playing this game. I’m done. “Look, I know yesterday ended badly. I shouldn’t have said that. I want you to know how sorry I am. I was scared and thrown off guard and I . . . What do you want me to do to—”
“Sam, I’m not talking about this in the middle of the street.” Reilly walks around to the passenger’s side of the truck and unlocks the door. When he finally realizes I’m not behind him, he glowers at me. “Are we going or what?”
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. As I step off the curb, I realize too late that I’m stepping onto a metal grate, and my heel goes through it. “Son of a—!”
My ankle twists and I lean onto the hood of a black Mercedes for support. “Shit,” I rasp, breathing out the shooting pain. “I told Mac heels were a terrible idea.” I wince and let out a deep breath, hoping the pain will go with it.
“Are you alright?” Reilly asks on a sigh as he steps up beside me.
I nod, counting to ten as I take another deep breath in and out.
Reilly bends down so I can wrap my arm around his neck, but I flinch as pain shoots up my leg and through my toes when I try to put weight on my foot. “Nope, I need a minute,” I grind out, trying not to scream.
“Let me help you,” he says, reluctant. I shake my head, but he’s already lifting me up. “Put your weight on me.”
Helping me hobble over to the truck, Reilly opens the passenger’s side door again and sets me up in the seat like I weigh little more than a sack of oats, then takes my injured ankle in his hands. Pleasurable tingles mix with piercing discomfort.
“How bad is the pain?” he asks, removing my shoe. “On a scale of one to ten.”
I appreciate the command and concern in his voice, even if he’s forcing himself to be chivalric. “Twelve,” I gripe and blow a stray curl from my face.
Pressing gently on the skin around my ankle, he peers up at me, waiting for a real answer.
“It’s not broken, if that’s what you’re asking. It just feels bruised and it’s throbbing. It will probably be fine by tomorrow . . . I hope.” It needs to be; I have tons to do around the ranch.
Reilly removes my other shoe, hands them both to me, shifts me so my legs are inside, and shuts the passenger door.
When he climbs up into the driver’s seat and the engine belches to life, he looks over at me. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital? Make sure it’s nothing more than a sprain?”
I wave his concern away. “I’ve had broken bones before, and this doesn’t feel like that. I’ll be fine.”
When Reilly pulls away from the curb, the truck’s engine echoing off the old brick buildings that tower over the narrow side street, it hits me that I haven’t been in the Rumbler since the day before Reilly left, when we went camping under the stars for our last night together. It was one of the best, saddest nights of my life.
I lean my head back and watch the streetlights and buildings rush by as we head toward the edge of town, trying not to let the past bog me down tonight. “Sorry you had to come to my rescue again. It’s a kindness I appreciate more than you know.”
“It’s fine, Sam, really,” he says and scratches his jaw. “I’m happy to do it.”
“You don’t seem happy, but I don’t blame you.” We’re quiet for the drive up the mountain, except for the sound of the accelerating engine, the clicking of the blinker, and my impatient sighing. Tonight feels like a strange dream, and the looming emptiness of being home drains away what little buzz I have left.
As we round the second-to-last bend in the road, I look at Reilly. He’s slouched in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel as he focuses beyond the windshield.
“Josh?”
He glances at me quickly, then refocuses on the road.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” I say. A sense of longing and uncertainty fills me as I consider his reaction.
But he has none. His expression gives nothing away.
I clear my throat. “You wouldn’t want any company for a little while, would you? I can walk home later when my ankle’s better.” I’m one-hundred-percent clear on h
ow pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to go home, and being with Reilly, even if he’s mad at me, is better than being alone with my thoughts and temptation.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says.
I know he’s right, so I nod.
We’re quiet a few more seconds before he says, “Are you sure you want to?” He glances between me and the road. The look on my face must convince him, because as we round the last bend, he turns onto his dirt driveway. Excitement or apprehension buzzes through me, and when the tension leaves my body, I know that this is right. It feels right.
Finally, we pull up in front of his house. The motion sensor turns on, illuminating the front porch, newly painted. There’s a small glow coming from the kitchen window, but other than that, Reilly’s house looks dark.
Petey’s already barking in his kennel.
“Quiet,” Reilly says, his voice stern. The dog whimpers, but his barking ceases. “Good boy.”
I open my door, and Reilly walks around to help me out, but I hold up my hand. “It’s okay, I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “But I think I should try to move it around a bit, so that it doesn’t stiffen up.” After a quick, contemplative moment, Reilly relents and steps back. He turns and heads toward the porch and up the steps as I clumsily jump down from the truck, purse and shoes in hand.
Reilly unlocks the front door, lets it swing open, and waits for me to hobble over. Holding out his hand, he helps me up the first step, then the second, and then he leads me into the house.
The moment I stop in the living room, it’s clear how much he’s done to the place just since I was here last week. The walls are freshly painted a taupe, no more peeling wallpaper I remember from when his dad lived here. I can smell the remnants of the paint fumes, but I don’t mind. The kitchen is the only area that looks like the Reilly house I remember. Everything else looks presentable, almost complete. “The house looks great,” I say and take a step forward. “You’ve done so much, so fast. I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sort of on a time crunch,” he says and tosses his keys on the coffee table.
There are neatly folded clothes on his ottoman, his mail stacked in perfect piles—opened and unopened—on his kitchen counter. The small dining room is missing a table, but the hardwood is dark, rich, and beautiful. His Titans baseball cap sits on the back of what appears to be a new couch, his shoes in a neat row by the front door—a pair of house slippers, flip-flops still dusty from our camping trip, a pair of running shoes . . . I’m in Reilly’s private space, his home, and it’s neat and tidy, nothing like the teenager’s room I remember from before. An adult lives here, a man. Being here this time feels different. It almost feels momentous.
My eyes widen when I notice the restored day bed in the bay window, and my heart hurts. It was my favorite part of his old house, and here it is. I step toward it, ignoring my aching foot. I run my fingertips over the sage-green cushion, and I can’t help but wonder if he remembers it’s my favorite color.
“You put it back in,” I whisper. Like a veil has been lifted, my heart starts racing. We’re alone in Reilly’s house.
I look back at his broad frame in the doorway as he shuts the door, pulling one boot off and then the other before placing them in line with the others. Other than the hints of him, everything looks staged, and I remember he’s leaving soon.
“I thought this was a good idea, but . . .” I turn around and take a step toward the door only to find Reilly’s still standing in front of it, blocking my exit.
He takes a step toward me, watching me—waiting.
I want to close my eyes, to prevent him from seeing the panic and confusion I know they reflect, but I can’t look away from the concern and warmth that illuminates his gaze or the way he searches my face in earnest.
“Why are you always running away from me?” he asks.
I let out a ragged breath and give in to the truth. “Because how I feel around you scares the shit out of me,” I say quietly.
Reilly’s mouth twitches at the corner, and he gestures toward the brown couch set up against the wall. “I think you should sit down. Take some weight off your foot. You’re not walking home with a bum ankle.” He scrubs his head and lets out a deep breath. “And I desperately need a shower. So if you want me to take you home, you’re going to have to wait a minute.”
I’m barely able to nod before Reilly steps past me. “You want a drink? Some water? Coffee? Soda?”
“Water, please. That would be nice.”
“Coming right up.” Reilly hands me the television remote off the arm of the couch before he heads into the kitchen. His clothes are covered in paint again, and it’s clear my rescue from town interrupted one of his projects.
As he moves from the cupboard to the fridge in silence, his body tense, I can’t help but wonder . . . “What are you thinking?” I whisper.
From a filtered pitcher, Reilly pours me a glass of water, then returns the container to the fridge.
“Please tell me.” I don’t take my eyes off of him. I know he doesn’t have to tell me—doesn’t even really owe me the courtesy—but I need to know.
Reilly walks toward me, his gaze level and thoughtful, then he crouches in front of me, handing me my water. “At first I was frustrated, but now . . .” He squints, and I wonder if he’s really thinking or if he’s purposefully making me squirm. “Now, I’m just happy you’re here.” Despite his words, he doesn’t look happy, he looks exhausted. But then his jaw twitches and he lets out a heavy sigh, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Do us both a favor,” he says as he stands up. “Stop trying to figure me out. You always get it wrong.”
Reilly pulls a blanket off the back of the matching recliner and tosses it onto the couch beside me. “In case you get cold,” he says. “Watch whatever you want. If you’re still feeling chatty when I’m out of the shower, we can talk. Otherwise,” he pauses, “I can take you home.”
Weight lifts from my chest and I let out a breath. “Thank you.”
“Hmm.” He disappears into his father’s old bedroom, switches on the light, and shuts the door.
It takes me a few minutes to get comfortable, but only because I’m in a dress that’s too tight and my ankle is beginning to swell. I lie back against one of the microsuede cushions and lift my leg, using the coffee table to elevate my ankle. I rarely watch TV, but I turn it on to drown out the sound of the shower.
After flipping through a few infomercials and talk show reruns on the small box TV that might be the only part of Mr. Reilly that’s left in this place, I decide the Walking Dead marathon is a good enough distraction for now.
Eventually, the tension coiled in my neck and back eases, and exhaustion starts to creep in. I barely slept last night, a mixture of the catastrophe with Reilly and my date with Adam plaguing my thoughts. I focus on the Walkers that seem to move faster than the non-zombie cast, in spite of their missing limbs and slow movements. My eyelids begin to droop as someone’s foot smashes a zombie’s head, making it squirt all over the place.
* * *
Screaming. High-pitched screaming and sobbing rallies my eyelids back open in time to watch someone getting their face ripped off by an undead. It takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. I rub my eyes, feeling the heaviness of sleep thick in my mind, and I slowly remember I’m at Reilly’s house.
With a click of a button, the TV’s off and I listen for the shower. Instead of running water, a muffled voice comes from the bedroom. Reilly’s most likely on the phone with Nick or Mac, maybe even Alison.
I glance down and realize I’m warm and covered in a fleece blanket. How long have I been asleep? Uncurling my legs, I stand up, careful of my swollen-but-not-quite-as-sore ankle, and limp toward his bedroom. The door is cracked open a bit, and I listen, uncertain if I should walk in.
“. . . be fine. She twisted her ankle and is sleeping on my
couch.” It’s silent a second, then he continues, “I’m not sure why, but she asked to. She drank about a bottle of wine at the restaurant, so that probably has something to do with it.” Reilly chuckles softly. “Okay.” I hear what sounds like the dull thump of him dropping his phone on the bed, and he sighs. Not wanting to get caught eavesdropping, I gently rap my knuckles on the door and push it open, peeking inside.
Reilly looks up at me. I’m surprised to see him sitting on the edge of a wooden four-poster bed with only a pair of gray sweats on. His dad’s room looks completely different, and it’s not as strange as I would’ve thought to see Reilly so comfortable in it.
“Hey,” I say hoarsely. “Was that Nick?”
Reilly nods and looks down at my foot. “How’s your ankle?” He stands up, takes a few steps toward me. “It looks swollen.”
I shake my head and lean against the doorframe. “I’m fine.”
Reilly walks over to his dresser, situated beside me against the wall. “I was going to get you some ibuprofen, but you were asleep when I got out of the shower.” He opens the second drawer and pulls a folded white t-shirt off the top and shrugs it on. The other shirts inside are all folded to perfection.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I needed a quick nap.” I hobble into the room a bit further, peering into the bathroom where Reilly’s disappeared. I step up to the doorway, noticing that, like the bedroom, this room has been completely remodeled, all but the plywood floor.
“You’ve gotten really far, really fast,” I say, though I’m not sure why I’m so surprised.
“It’s easier when you can hire people to help.” He picks up a damp towel balled up on the toilet seat cover and drapes it over the sleek shower door.
I suddenly have a lot of questions—like how he can afford all of this, why he’s rushing, and what his plan is when he’s finished—but I know most of the answers already. “How are you doing all of this? I mean, I’m sure it can’t be easy.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 26