Love at the Electric (A Port Bristol Novel Book 1)

by Jenn Hughes

  “Save me a seat?”

  Sam looked over and straight into a pair of brown eyes so cozy and comforting he forgot about the cold. Lillian. “Hey! I was wondering if you’d make it.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be at the back of the line so it might take me a few minutes to get in there. So, save me a seat?”

  Sam shook his head, then grabbed her arm and pulled her over to him. “No way.”

  Lillian looked at the endless line of freezing moviegoers behind them. “We’re going to get death threats.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  He loosened his grip on her arm but kept his hand there, rubbing her shoulder. The wind blew a strand of hair across her face. Sam brushed it away like it was the most natural thing in the world. But everything felt natural with Lillian . . .

  A glance up and he realized the line ahead of them had disappeared into The Electric. He nodded at the door. “Get inside and warm up.”

  Lillian grabbed his hand with her mittened one and pulled him down the sidewalk—like they were together. A couple. She led him through the doors and into The Electric, and he grinned like an idiot the whole way. But when they stepped inside the warm lobby, she let go of his hand. Sam felt like he’d been thrown out of heaven . . . until she gave him a smile.

  A sly smile. She looked like she might be up to something. Sam placed his hands on her shoulders and warned her not to try another ticket-buying move. They reached the ticket counter, and Sam jumped in front of her.

  “Not this time,” he declared.

  She teased him about cutting in line, but that didn’t stop him from dropping a twenty onto the counter. He grabbed the tickets when the kid slid them under the glass, and then turned to face Lillian, victorious.

  “My lady,” he said gallantly, sticking the slip of paper in her face.

  Lillian huffed, and plucked the ticket from his fingers. “It’s my turn. You bought dinner and the tickets last time, or did you forget?”

  “Didn’t forget. But see, if I buy your ticket tonight that means you’ll owe me for two tickets, which means you’ll have to come to two more movies with me.”

  A smile crept over her lovely lips. “Sneaky devil.”

  Then she walked over to the bar, and tossed over her shoulder a come-hither look so sexy Sam wanted to howl like a cartoon wolf. He watched, frozen in place and grinning like an idiot again, as she ordered a drink. Then she turned. Their eyes met, but only for a few heated, hungry seconds. Her smoky eyes darted down to the carpeted floor, and a soft smile spread across her lips.

  If that woman isn’t flirting with me, I’ll eat my phone.

  Sam wasn’t worried he’d have to follow through with biting into his titanium-covered Origin Seven. Lillian gave him big, hot neon red signs—she was up for risking a little fun that night. He started planning out his next moves. Maybe a subtle suggestion to sit in one of the loveseats in the back of the auditorium where he’d be able to maneuver more easily . . .

  He stopped grinning. ‘Sneaky devil’ didn’t suit him. Downright stupid fit the bill a little better. He was putting himself and what he wanted first. Again.

  Caring has nothing to do with your crotch, damn it.

  Sam scratched his head and stared down at the patterned carpet. More time with Lillian meant more attraction, more touching . . . more feelings. An abundance of feelings plus holidays equaled disaster. Everything got amplified. Volume eleven.

  He had no experience with anything real and she deserved a sure thing, not a clueless jerk who’d fuck up and hurt her. Lillian Walker needed him about as much as a red shirt on an away team.

  While she waited for her drink, Sam headed for the snack counter. He needed artery-clogging comfort. Alcohol, and the potential for a marble-mouthed slip-up, was off the menu.

  “Give me the Kong-size popcorn. Extra butter,” Sam mumbled to the teenager behind the counter.

  “Uh, sir, that’s a lot of butter, and my manager said for legal reasons I can’t give—”

  Sam planted both hands on the glass counter and leaned over, glaring at the snack police. “Give me my bucket of buttery death, and I’ll give you an extra twenty bucks.”

  Money talked. The kid grabbed a huge container, shoveled a truckload of popcorn into it, and then drenched it with beautiful artificial butter. When he stopped pumping butter over the bucket, Sam demanded a few extra shots. He needed them. The day had left him feeling like a big block of cheddar being grated into tiny pathetic shreds.

  As if stressing over Lillian hadn’t been enough, Jacinda Shields had decided to grace him with a rare but calculated call. A friendly reminder from a six-foot-tall blond goddess of their standing date for the Origin Christmas party. He should have canceled. Bowed out and forgotten the whole thing.

  But it was good publicity. Tons of photographs and free press for Origin. So, after a good ten minutes of listening to Jacinda talk about Paris parties and photo shoots, Sam interrupted and confirmed their date. The only valid reason he had for canceling hadn’t called or texted or communicated at all and Sam figured he’d probably never hear—

  “Are you planning on eating all that popcorn by yourself? That’s incredibly unhealthy,” scolded a voice from behind him, one with the uncanny ability to turn him on with pretty much any sentence.

  The tension evaporated from his shoulders—and reappeared below his belt. Sam turned around and Lillian greeted him with a grin, her eyes shining in the dim lobby light like glimmering chocolate diamonds. She made it hard to keep his distance. She made everything hard.

  “I’m going to pull you back from the ledge by demanding that you share with me,” she joked.

  “Oh, uh, I definitely wasn’t planning on eating this by myself. Nope. Not at all.”

  “He was totally going to eat it all. Suicide by snack,” squawked his teenage betrayer.

  “I don’t doubt it for a second,” Lillian said to the kid. Then she looked at Sam. “We’d better hurry and get in there, or we’ll miss the intro.”

  She headed for the auditorium and Sam took a moment to watch her go. He figured he’d better get used to that view. And God, what a view. The woman had a sway to her step that melted Sam like a hell troll thrown into a pit of black fire.

  A few minutes later, and they were sitting quietly in their usual seats. They’d been left nearly alone after most of the crowd had filed into the adjoining auditorium to see a thundering big-budget WWII movie. Low chatter hummed in the room. Lousy ragtime jazz played on the sound system. Sam nursed his popcorn, afraid to speak or move or think for fear of getting turned on again.

  “This feels awkward,” Lillian suddenly blurted out, “so I’m going to say something awkward because talking about irrelevant things like the weather seems silly. You should go on a date. Before the end of the year. Make it a pre–New Year’s resolution to try something different and better yourself. Your attitude that all women are too emotionally unhinged to handle dating during the holidays is insulting.”

  “God, Lillian . . . ”

  “I said it was awkward, but we both know what’s going on between us can’t go any further. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to get hung up on it. Right?”

  No. Not right. Already hung up like stupid sparkly lights on a scraggly tree.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “I’m trying to be a friend—”

  “I don’t want that,” he growled. Harsher than he meant. He found a spot of gum stuck to the aisle floor to focus on. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she sighed. “It was a weird thing to say. But . . . I have to admit that I don’t know how to get past this connection we’ve developed.”

  “I don’t either.”

  They stayed quiet for a while. But the silence didn’t help. Th
e air grew heavier and heavier, filled with everything they wanted to say but couldn’t. Finally, Sam had enough.

  “It’s a busy time of year at Origin and finding a date requires energy I don’t currently have.”

  “Sam Owens, the East Coast’s most eligible bachelor, can’t find a date?”

  “No, I said I don’t have the energy—”

  “I figured you had women in some sort of dating candy dispenser. Pull the lever and out pops another flavor whenever you’re in the mood.”

  “Wait a minute. I explained the other night my reputation has been greatly exagg—”

  “Oh, it’s a little more than a reputation.”

  Sam groaned and leaned his head back. He stared up at the LED stars in the ceiling. “You’re killing me, you know.”

  Lillian laughed. “Oh, lighten up.”

  “If I’m photographed with a woman, that doesn’t mean I slept with her. That’s an incorrect assumption. Kind of like the one I’m making right now as to why you’re here with me tonight.”

  Lillian fidgeted in her seat, then reached up and played with the silver pendant she wore around her neck. Bullseye. Maybe he didn’t want her to get past their connection just yet.

  “I . . . I told you I love old black-and-white movies. Why else would I be here? And it isn’t as though I knew you were coming. I didn’t want to miss this one since Lillian Haywood is in it. She’s my namesake.”

  The lights dimmed, and before Sam had a chance to push Lillian any further, Frankincense and Myrrhder flickered onto the screen. The movie dragged a little at first as it set up the main characters, Don and Susan. Their forties banter made his clumsy attempts at flattering Lillian sound like Shakespeare.

  Finally, thirty minutes of zingers and one-liners gave way to a gruesome Christmas tale. A seemingly sweet elderly couple had a pesky habit of taking hostage wayward travelers who stumbled upon their quaint midwestern farm. Once captured, the couple killed, ground up with an industrial meat grinder, and then baked the unfortunate souls into mincemeat Christmas fruitcakes.

  Sam gave it a four until it came to the scene where the couple gave those Susan-stuffed fruitcakes to everyone in their picturesque hometown. The queasiness that hit when watching someone take a big bite out of one forced him to bump up his score up to a six. But when the entire town turned into raving cannibal lunatics infected by a Frankincense-activated virus found only in Don’s blood, Sam leaned over and rubbed Lillian’s arm to get her attention.

  “A nine. For the forties, it’s pushing the envelope,” he whispered when she glanced over at him.

  She leaned closer, and his hand slid across her back. “Definitely,” she whispered. “And I actually like that the cannibals chomp on their victims in silhouette. Leaves a little to the imagination.”

  Her silk blouse left little to his imagination. His fingertips followed the line of her shoulder blade down and then over. In the middle of her back, they lingered. Sam traced lazy circles over the outline of her bra and lost himself in Lillian’s eyes.

  Lit only by intermittent bursts of white light from the screen, her eyes glistened with each flash. Suddenly, Sam didn’t give a shit about signed contracts and protective exes. Lillian felt right. Perfect. And he knew he would be perfect for her.

  Her mouth opened slightly, and Sam ran his hand up her back. Across her shoulder to her neck. Smooth and fast. He needed to drag his thumb across her lips . . .

  But she jerked away and fell back against her seat with sudden, cold determination. The move gave Sam less than a second to yank his arm out of the way. Her rapidly blinking eyes focused on the screen. No sideways glances. He couldn’t tell if she wanted him or hated him.

  Lillian Walker was impossible to read when she didn’t want to be an open book. Sam guessed it made her a hell of an attorney—and an impenetrable fortress when she tried to keep someone at bay. She’d lowered the gate on him. No amount of thrown spears and brandished swords would get him through.

  The remaining few minutes of the movie passed in misery. For a guy who didn’t want to be a part of anything, Sam hated being shut out. But the worst part came when the end credits started rolling. Lillian stood up, and then stormed down the aisle.

  Sam panicked. He tried to follow, but tripped over his half-empty bucket of popcorn. After catching his balance, he stumbled after her. He burst through the auditorium doors and scanned the lobby. The woman moved fast in all the wrong ways. Sam caught sight of Lillian’s tan parka as the main door closed behind her.

  He charged out of The Electric, a brisk night wind greeting him like a slap in the face. By then, Lillian had nearly reached the end of the street. Sam called out, begging her to stop.

  She waited for him at the corner. He jogged up, almost out of breath from panic, and then they silently stared at one another for several seconds. The sounds of the city dying down around them on the cold, clear night matched Lillian’s absent stare, and all Sam wanted to do was snap her out of it. Fix everything. Get her smile back. So much rested on the tip of his tongue . . .

  Don’t go. Forget about your job. Stay with me, and I will make you happy.

  “Goodbye, Lillian.”

  At first, she didn’t respond. Her blank expression didn’t waver. But then Sam got his wish. The emptiness disappeared, replaced by shining, bleary eyes. The corner of her mouth, so capable of making him smile when curling up, pulled down and trembled. It nearly broke him.

  “Goodbye, Sam.”

  He ordered himself to walk away. To turn and leave and never give the woman a second thought. Best thing for both of them. She’d keep her job, and he’d keep his life. His stupid, empty life—

  “Hot cocoa,” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Hot cocoa. It’s what I thought when I saw you at that meeting in New York. I meet so many people and can’t keep track of names, so when I run into someone I don’t want to forget, I make a word association. You were hot cocoa. You made an impression, Lillian.”

  A slow, soft smile brightened her face more than the streetlight next to her. “Why hot cocoa?”

  “It was the first thing I thought of when I saw you. Warm, inviting. Best thing in the world to have in your hands on a cold winter night.”

  Any night.

  Her smile faded. She started to say something, but stopped. They waited there in stunned silence until Sam mustered up the strength to walk past her. He headed down the street. It didn’t matter the direction. Pain waited in all of them.

  He wondered if she watched him leave. If she thought about chasing him. If she wished he would turn around and walk right back to her . . .

  Sam jogged across the street and ducked down a dark alley, stopping after several heavy steps when he was sure he was out of Lillian’s sight. It took a minute, shaking off the order from his brain to turn around and go back, but he stayed strong and headed for home.

  Charlotte Street was closer, but Sam kept walking toward Baker Boulevard. Head down and lost in thought, the extra ten minutes flew by. When the cracks in the sidewalk started looking familiar, Sam stopped. He clenched his fists jammed down in his pockets and stared up at the stars in the black blanket of a winter sky.

  Life had shoved a bitter little pill down his throat. A few months ago he’d shaken Lillian’s hand, one of many in a long line at that NYC symposium. But she’d been full-on Team Lavery, and Sam didn’t even consider getting to know her.

  He should have held onto that hand and never let go. If he had, maybe life would have looked a hell of a lot different than it did then. Maybe he wouldn’t have been going home alone.

  Chapter 16

  Bella Donna Blorg Queen

  Lillian dumped the last pile of pine needles into the trash can, and then returned the broom and dustpan to the small kitchen pantry. She
pushed up the sleeves of her plaid flannel pajamas and walked back into her living room, admiring the two-foot-tall tree she’d picked up on her way home after work. Several pounds worth of pine needles had fallen off the scruffy little thing. It looked pathetic but, after her pathetic nosedive with Sam at The Electric the night before, it kind of fit right in.

  Bedecked in white lights and red and silver balls, the tree sat on the credenza in front of the window in her living room. It lit up her normally neutral apartment. The purchase of her first Christmas tree in years had been on the spur of the moment after she’d been lured into the parking lot by the smell of pine resin and Christmas jingles playing on the radio. The sight of the little leftover scrub of a tree, tossed aside and left to rot, thawed her frozen heart.

  “I spruced up a fir with a few string lights and decorations,” she joked, deciding it wasn’t the waste of money she’d initially thought. “Okay, so, Christmas tree, check. Twinkling lights and decorations, check. Seems like I’m missing something . . . ”

  Several somethings. Lillian headed for the kitchen. First stop was the freezer for a taste test of the new frozen yogurt she’d bought the day before. Unfortunately, a half-eaten container of Neptune’s Chocolate Comet Swirl caught her eye, and she immediately disregarded the slightly healthier yogurt nearby.

  Neptune’s was Port Bristol’s best ice cream, milkshake, soda, and frozen yogurt shop. Most tourists thought the name was a nod to the god of the sea, and that would have stood to reason if it were any coastal city other than Port Bristol. There, Neptune was the eighth planet in the solar system, a fact driven home by the gigantic blue rotating orb on the top of the shop. Lillian loved seeing the beacon on her way to and from work, and made it a point to stop by there once . . . twice . . . several times a week to sample new flavors.