Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  “What will you do now?” I whisper. “When do you have to be out of here?”

  He shrugs. “I’m still working the kinks out.”

  I throw my hands up, exasperated. “How can you not have a plan? You never have a plan,” I say. “Aren’t you worried where you’ll be tomorrow—next week? Don’t you even care?” It’s killing me not to know what he’s going to do.

  “Not everyone needs their lives mapped out, Sam. I know it’s a control thing with you, but I’m not like that. I’m used to going with the flow. I do what needs to be done. I’m worried about now, in this moment, not five years down the road.”

  “It’s so infuriating,” I say.

  “Ditto,” he grumbles, and we sit in silence again. After Shasta nudges him and plucks at a few green weeds growing beside Reilly, he continues, “I get that you don’t want to make the wrong decisions, Sam—that you’re trying to be preemptive and smart—but what about the here and now?” He turns to me. “Are you even happy?”

  I laugh bitterly when I can’t bring myself to say yes. “I was, being with you.” I straighten. “I’m working on it, though.” I watch him a moment, the way his brow furrows with thought and he stares at the ground like it’s not even there. “Alison came home. We’ve been talking—trying to work things out. We’re seeing a counselor in town.”

  “I heard,” he says, thoughtful. “That’s good.”

  “You heard, huh? What else did Nick tell you?” I know they’re best friends, but that bothers me. I should be the one telling him.

  “He also told me that you’ve been sulking and crying up in your room day and night, missing me.”

  I elbow him. “That’s not true.”

  Reilly smirks. “You don’t miss me?”

  My smile fades, and the air around us changes again—feels lighter—but I’m too scared to think optimistically. “Of course I do.”

  “You could’ve come over,” he says. “I’m not the one who walked away and said we needed space.”

  “I didn’t know if you wanted me to, after . . .” I’d never seen him so hurt and angry as when I left, and I hated that it was me who’d upset him so much.

  “After you removed yourself from my life, again.” His tone is bitter, though I think he tries to play it off.

  When I look at him, I want to make him understand, but I don’t know how. “You know it’s not like that, right? You know I want you to be happy. I want you to—”

  “If you wanted me to be happy, Sam, you’d start listening to me instead of making up your own stories all the time. God,” he says, standing up, his voice strained. “You think I’m infuriating? I wish I could leave. I wish it was that easy for me to walk away, because I’m not sure I can keep up with this—with you—for the rest of my life. It’s like you’re nothing but trouble, yet I can’t stay away from you. Talk about a glutton for punishment.”

  I peer up at him, trying not to smile until I actually hear him say the words. “Does that mean you are staying?” I hedge.

  “Well, I didn’t sell the house, so I guess I’m stuck here.”

  I jump to my feet and Shasta spooks. “What? You didn’t? You’re really staying?” It’s a whisper that contains more excitement and relief than I think is possible.

  “Sam, what did I tell you?” he asks impatiently, staring at me, down into my soul. “That first night you stayed with me, we were in bed and you asked about us, about what I wanted.”

  I nod, remembering every single moment of it. “You said you’d do whatever it takes to make us work,” I breathe.

  “Yeah, and I guess you didn’t take me seriously, so I figured I’d show you.” He pulls a metal key ring with a single key on it from his pocket and hands it to me. “Here. This is for you.”

  I frown. “What?”

  Reilly flattens his palm, the key resting on it. “I’m not leaving you again, Sam. I kept the house for you, for us, if you want it.” For the first time Reilly’s voice sounds a little less certain.

  “Reilly, I can’t—”

  “Sam, you said yourself I need a plan. My plan is to stay here, and to do that, I need a house. You want to work the ranch, fine. You can live there, or you can live here with me, but I didn’t rebuild this place to your quite specific specifications just for me.” He nudges his open palm toward me. “Please, take it. Unless you don’t want it and then my whole carrying-you-over-the-threshold idea falls to shit, and this whole planning notion of yours proves pointless. But at least I tried.”

  Throwing my arms around him, I squeeze him so tightly he groans in my ear.

  “I tried to make it the way you wanted for a reason. I may not always share them, but I make plans, sometimes.” He pulls away from me and grins, his contagious heart-stopping smile squashing all my swirling thoughts and the creeping disbelief that this is actually happening.

  My vision blurs, and I cover my face with my hand.

  “I left you once, and it was the worst mistake of my life.” His voice is low and gruff and tight with emotion. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Sam. I’ve tried to tell you this, but—”

  I bring my mouth to his and I kiss him until I can no longer breathe and have to come up for air. I tell him I love him, that I’ll never question him again. “Well, I’ll try not to,” I amend.

  Reilly brushes a soft kiss on my lips and stares down at me. “We belong together, you and me. I’ve known that so long it hurts.”

  The weight of a thousand regrets seems to lift as I think of us together, of the possibilities our lives hold, as we stand in each other’s arms.

  “I love you,” I breathe. “Thank you.”

  He reaches down and gathers me up into his arms.

  I shriek and wrap my arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you your new house,” he says. “There was a plan, remember?”

  Epilogue

  Sam

  Two Months Later

  Though the sun’s barely up, I’ve been in the kitchen scrambling eggs and frying bacon—quietly of course, so as not to wake Reilly, if I can help it. I turn off the stove, pop his sourdough out of the toaster, plate everything to perfection with extra bacon, then pour him a large glass of milk. I put a couple strips of bacon off to the side to sneak to Petey later and steal a strip for myself. I take a bite and admire the plated euphoria in front of me, grinning at how happy I am. I’ve missed cooking breakfast, and it feels so natural now.

  I’m already used to things like this—surprising Reilly with breakfast, this house that we’re slowly but surely making our own, his little quirks, discovering my little quirks, and this different, full life—and I love it all.

  I hear the bed creak in our room, and I smile. Tucking any wayward hair from my ponytail behind my ears, I collect a napkin and utensils, the food, and Reilly’s glass of milk and head carefully into the bedroom.

  When I peek inside, Reilly’s awake, rubbing his face with one hand, his other flattened out on the empty space beside him.

  “Did you miss me?” I simper and bat my eyelashes.

  Reilly blinks a few times and smiles when his eyes land on me standing in the doorway.

  “Hungry?” I ask, knowing he’s barely had time to even think about food. But that’s one thing Reilly always is, hungry. It’s nice to be able to cook for someone again, someone who practically salivates just thinking about it.

  He sits up in bed and his sleepy smile widens to a grin. “Always,” he says. “And that looks absurdly delicious.” His eyes widen as I step closer. When I stop beside him, he looks up at me. “Wow, that’s a lot of food.”

  I shrug. “I was hoping you’d share.” I set his glass of milk on the nightstand and then proffer him the plate. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he breathes, and I lean down to give him a peck on the cheek. Once I’ve successfully handed the plate off to him without any spillage, I trot over to my side of the bed and crawl in beside him.

 
“You spoil me,” he says and spears a piece of egg and hashbrowns into his mouth.

  I take a bite of toast, licking the butter from my lips. “Yeah, well, I won’t be home for dinner tonight. Mac and I have a date. I know what you’ll eat if I’m not here, so I figured you’d need at least one real meal today.” I lift a shoulder. “Plus there’s putting up with me, especially these past few months . . . and the house. I figure you deserve to be spoiled, just a little bit.” I wink at him.

  Reilly nods, all too compliant. “You’re right. I should be spoiled a lot, and I can think of a few ways you can do that.” His mouth quirks into a wolfish grin.

  My eyes narrow and I try not to smile. “I’m sure you can.”

  “There are nightly foot rubs, shoulder massages, you could iron all my clothes—”

  I bark out a laugh. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. I know you’re Mr. Neat and Tidy, but ironing’s completely pointless. In fact, Cal might even fire you if you showed up in an ironed and starched uniform. He’d think you’d lost your mind.”

  Reilly shrugs. “I didn’t say you had to starch my laundry.” His eyebrows dance as he looks at me askance, biting off half a piece of bacon. “Don’t worry, there are other ways you can thank me. Many of them, actually.” His eyes darken, his smile turns delightfully predatory, and he can’t seem to set the plate on the bedside table fast enough.

  I shriek the moment he turns to me, and in my attempt to scamper away from him, I fall out of the bed and onto the rug on the floor. I can’t suppress my laughter at the hilarity of it all—the thrill. I screech as Reilly, booming with merriment of his own, crawls down onto the floor after me. His arms wrap around my waist, and the growl that rumbles from deep in his chest makes my insides warm and hum with excitement. “You have to finish your breakfast,” I squeak through a laugh as he playfully tickles my sides.

  “I’m suddenly hungry for something else,” he says into my neck and his arms lock around me, preventing me from squirming away.

  Reilly’s morning scruff tickles my jaw, and I wriggle in his hold. His breath is hot and rapid against my neck, and I long for the weekend when we can play around in bed all day. Then something dawns on me, and I still. Playful panic is gone and a feeling so overwhelmingly good overcomes me. I feel my heart filling and my chest constricts.

  Reilly lifts his head, his smile wanes, and his breathing slows. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, his eyes assessing me intently. “Are you hurt?”

  I stare at Reilly a moment, taking the sight of him in. “Not at all,” I say happily, and his outline shimmers a bit. “Everything’s perfect.” Things have never felt so right—so fated—that I can’t imagine any possible life different than the one I’m living.

  “Good,” he breathes, and he brings his lips down so that they’re barely touching mine. The blue pools of his eyes soften and fill with what I hope is a happiness and love equal to my own. Then he smirks. “Now comes the tricky part.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nods. “I just have to keep you that way.”

  I bat at his shoulder. “Jerk,” I grumble, my smile growing to match his. “Whatever it takes, right?” I say, throwing his words back at him.

  “Touché.” Reilly laughs and rolls over, pulling me on top of him. “I’m willing to take one for the team.”

  * * *

  “So,” Mac says, her heels clacking as we walk from her desk toward the back of the shop. She scans the warehouse-esque building and hurries into Mr. Carmichael’s office across the shop from where she spends most of her time at the parts counter. I rush to keep up with her.

  “It’s been a couple months,” Mac continues. “How are things?” We stop in front of rows of filing cabinets that line the wall. I look down at Mr. Carmichael’s desk, small and cluttered with papers and car parts. “Reilly won’t tell me much when he comes in, says I’m being nosy.”

  I laugh. “You are nosy. How does your dad find anything in here?” I wonder aloud, peering at the grease and clutter. The whole place smells like lingering exhaust. “And being cooped up in here cannot be healthy.”

  “He lost his sense of smell years ago,” Mac says, waving my question away. “Don’t change the subject, Sam.”

  Mac pulls out the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Lifting to the balls of her feet, she slips a piece of paper between her lips and flips through the drawer.

  “Things are good,” I say honestly. “Great, actually. I’ve been at Reilly’s mostly, but we get together with Alison for dinner most nights. She finally came to Reilly’s and saw the place a couple weeks ago.”

  Mac finally pulls out a manila file folder, slips the pieces of paper into its place, and closes the drawer again.

  “My dad ran into Alison the other day, says she seems better, too. So, it must be helping.” Mac looks behind us, out toward the shop, then opens the manila folder and beings searching through the papers inside.

  “Yeah. I think we’re both doing a lot better.”

  “Are you still seeing Dr. Weiss?” she asks, but I get the feeling she’s barely paying attention to me.

  I hear the sound of an engine a few blocks away but don’t think anything of it until Mac glances behind us again.

  “Yeah. She helps put things in perspective. It’s actually a relief being able to talk about things with Alison . . .” I squint, realizing Mac isn’t even listening to me. “Mac, what’s going on? Your nervous or anxious or something. Are we doing something illegal right now?”

  Mac snorts. “What? No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Hmm.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m just busy, is all. We’ve been slammed since Stan quit. We’re still trying to catch up.”

  “But I thought you said your dad hired someone to replace him? And now you have Reilly helping out.”

  The rumbling sound of a motorcycle echoes off the building outside and Mac stiffens.

  “I thought you guys were closed—”

  “We are,” she grumbles, then turns on her heels and heads back out to the parts desk.

  As we pass the roll-up doors, I can’t help but take a peek. “Oh, it’s a hottie on a motorcycle.” I say it playfully, nudging Mac, though I can’t even see the rider. The bike looks fast and dangerous, whatever it is. “A new client, maybe?”

  The rider climbs off the motorcycle with ease, like he’s done it a thousand times, and removes his helmet. Not really aware I’m staring, I watch him, curious, wondering what he’s doing here, being that the sign is clearly flashing CLOSED.

  He runs his fingers through his brown hair and heads toward us. I flick Mac without looking back at her, since she’s clearly too busy to see for herself. “He’s totally your type, Mac.” His eyes are piercingly blue, his face so chiseled and smooth I think he might be airbrushed, but then I see tattoos furling up his neck. “Oh, he looks dark and dangerous,” I whisper.

  When he catches me staring I give him a tight smile, waiting for Mac to tell him that they’re closed. But, bike boy walks right into the shop, past her desk. I look at Mac in time to see her wipe her palms off on her black pencil skirt before she starts shuffling paper around again.

  Intrigued by the pieces of this puzzle falling into place, I look back at bike boy. He sets his helmet down at the work station closest to us, unzips his riding jacket, and drapes it over the blue toolbox that rests against the corrugated siding of the building. He is definitely dangerous. And Mac knows it.

  I smile when our eyes meet. He nods to me in greeting, then starts walking toward us.

  “Who is that?” I whisper.

  Mac swallows and turns her attention to her computer. She’s clicking and scrolling, but I have no idea what she’s actually doing.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say quietly, laughing.

  Bike boy stops at the desk.

  “Sorry for staring,” I say. “I was confused. I didn’t know you worked here.”

  Mac finally looks up
from her computer, but I think it’s only because she has to. “Colton,” she says, “this is my friend, Sam.” To anyone else, Mac would sound like her normal self, but to me, she sounds nervous, her voice a little too reedy.

  “Hey,” he drawls.

  “Hi,” I say with a small wave and his attention darts to Mac. The tension between them is so thick I can almost see it.

  Mac hands him a few pieces of paper and a pen, which Colton accepts without even looking at her. He tightens his jaw and walks back toward his station.

  “I needed to file those, like yesterday,” Mac calls after him.

  “You’ll have them tomorrow morning.”

  When my gaze meets Mac’s, she motions to the breakroom, a smallish off-shooting room besides Parts. I follow her inside without question, skipping in behind her and shutting the door. I let out a laugh. “What the hell was that? I’ve never seen you like that around a guy before.”

  Mac rolls her eyes. “That’s Colton Hughes. He’s Stan’s replacement. My father hired him while we were camping. Do you see why I can’t leave him alone?” she snarls out in a whisper.

  “Whatever. He’s hot and you’re sweating,” I say, giving her a once-over. “Has something happened between you two?”

  She cringes with a little too much effort. “God no.”

  “But you want it to.” I can’t help but snicker.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “This never happens.”

  “Seriously, Sam. In fact, he’s an asshole.”

  I frown, wondering if her nerves are fearful, not lustful. “Why, what did he do?”

  She waves my worries away. “Nothing, he just makes comments, you know? It’s the way he says things, when he actually says things.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand. What does he say?”

  She starts tidying up the coffee station, arranging cups and moving condiments around. “He barely talks to me, like I’m a leper or something, and I know he’s judging me.” She waves her finger at me. “He has that look on his face, you know, looking me up and down, like I disgust him or something.”