by Lisa Kleypas
Sam grinned, using the tip of the whisk to test the whipped cream, which was holding its shape. “Maggie, sweetheart, pizza is not something you cook at home. Pizza is what you get when you don’t feel like cooking at home.”
“I was trying to make a healthy version.”
“Pizza’s not supposed to be healthy. It’s pizza.” He handed the bowl to her, and she proceeded to cover it with plastic wrap and put it into the fridge.
After closing the Sub-Zero, which had been camouflaged with cream-painted cabinet doors to blend in with the rest of the kitchen, Maggie went to the stockpot on the stove and stirred the soup. “How is your friend?” she asked. “Lucy, right?”
“Yeah. She’ll be fine.”
Maggie sent him a perceptive sideways glance. “How about you?”
“Great,” he said, a shade too quickly.
She began to ladle the steaming soup into bowls. “Should I fix a dinner tray for her?”
“No, she’s down for the count.” Sam went to an already-opened bottle of wine and poured himself a glass.
“So you’ve brought Lucy here to recuperate,” Maggie remarked. “And you’re going to take care of her. She must be someone special.”
“No big deal.” Sam kept his tone scrupulously offhand. “We’re friends.”
“Just friends?”
“Yeah.”
“Is there a chance of anything more developing?”
“No.” Again, his response was a little too fast. He scowled as he saw Maggie’s knowing smile. “She doesn’t want my kind of relationship.”
“What kind is that? Sex with random beautiful women with no chance of commitment?”
“Exactly.”
“If you find the right woman, you may want to try something a little more long-term.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t do long-term.” He set the table and went in search of Mark and Holly to tell them that dinner was ready. Finding them in the living room, he paused at the broad threshold, where a superfluous wall had been knocked out to allow for a more open floor plan.
Mark and Holly were seated close together on the sofa, a boatlike antique that Maggie had found and convinced Mark to buy. In its original condition, the sofa had been a monstrosity, all scarred and moth-eaten. But after the carved rosewood had been stripped and refinished, and it had been upholstered in acres of sage-green velvet, the settee possessed a whimsical grandiosity that suited the house.
Holly’s legs dangled from the sofa. She swung her feet idly while Mark made notes in the family planner spread out on the coffee table.
“… so when you’re at the dentist’s, and he asks how often you floss,” Mark said, “what are you going to say?”
“I’ll say, ‘What’s floss?’” Holly giggled as Mark goosed her in the side and kissed the top of her head.
Not for the first time, Sam was struck by the fatherly quality in Mark’s attachment to her. In the past, it hadn’t been a role that Mark had seemed particularly suited for … but he had grown into it with lightning speed when Holly had come into their lives.
Mark leaned over to scribble something in the family planner. “Did Maggie order those ballet shoes for your dance class yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her.”
“Uncle Mark?”
“Mmmm-hmm?”
“The baby’s going to be my cousin, isn’t he?”
The pen stopped moving. Mark set it down carefully and looked into the child’s solemn face. “Technically, yes. But I imagine…” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I imagine it will feel like the baby is your brother or sister. Because you’ll be growing up together.”
“Some kids in my class think you’re my dad. You even look like a dad.”
Sam, who had been about to say something from the threshold, closed his mouth. He didn’t dare disrupt the moment by leaving or intruding. He could only stand there, frozen in the understanding that something important was happening.
Mark’s face was carefully impassive. “What do you tell your friends when they ask if I’m your dad?”
“I just let them think it.” Holly paused. “Is that wrong?”
Mark shook his head. “’Course not.” His voice was husky.
“Will I still call you Uncle Mark after the baby comes?”
Reaching down, Mark took one of Holly’s hands, absurdly small in comparison to his, and sandwiched it between his palms. “You can call me whatever you want, Holly.”
The child leaned closer until her head was on his arm. “I want to call you Dad. I want you to be my dad.”
Mark was robbed of speech. It was clearly something he had not expected, or had even allowed himself to consider. His throat worked, and he bent to press his face against her pale, moonlight-blond hair. “I would love that. I … yes.” He lifted her onto his lap and hugged her, clumsily petting her hair. A few indistinguishable murmurs followed, three syllables repeated over and over.
The muscles of Sam’s own throat knotted. He was outside the moment and yet part of it.
“You’re squishing me,” came Holly’s muffled voice after a long minute.
Mark’s arms loosened, and she wriggled off his lap.
Renfield had padded into the room, a wadded-up paper napkin hanging from his mouth.
“Renfield,” Holly scolded, “don’t eat that.”
Pleased at having gotten her attention, the dog trotted from the room with the napkin.
“I’ll get it away from him,” Holly said. She paused to rub noses with Mark. “Dad,” she said with an impish grin, and dashed after the dog.
Sam had never seen his brother so utterly humbled. He came into the room as Mark let out a short, winded sigh and wiped his eyes with his fingers.
Seeing him, Mark blinked and began unsteadily, “Sam—”
“I heard,” Sam interrupted quietly, and smiled. “It’s good, Mark. Holly was right. You do look like a dad.”
Fourteen
Voices floated into the bedroom.
“… I want Lucy to use my pink bathroom,” Holly insisted. “It’s prettier than yours.”
“It is,” came Sam’s reply. “But Lucy needs a walk-in shower stall. She can’t climb in and out of the tub.”
“Can she still see my bathroom? And my room?”
“Yeah, you can give her the official tour later. For now, put your socks on. You’re going to be late for school.”
Lucy breathed in an elusive scent from the pillow, like leaves and new rain and newly cut cedar. It was Sam’s smell, so appealing that she hunted for it shamelessly, digging her head deep into the warm down.
She had a vague memory of waking in pain in the middle of the night. Of Sam coming to her like a shadow. He had given her pills and a glass of water, sliding his arm behind her back as she took the medicine. She had awakened another time, groggily aware of him replacing the cold gel packs around her leg, and she had told him that it wasn’t necessary to keep getting up for her, he should get some rest.
“Quiet,” he had murmured, straightening the covers around her. “Everything’s okay.”
As the morning brightened, Lucy lay quietly and listened to the muffled sounds of voices, breakfast, a phone ringing, a house-wide hunt for a missing homework folder and field-trip permission slip. Eventually a car rolled along the drive.
Footsteps ascended the stairs. There was a tap at the door, and Sam ducked his head in. “How are you doing?” The sound of his morning-roughened baritone chased pleasantly across her ears.
“I’m a little sore.”
“Probably a lot sore.” Sam came into the room, carrying a breakfast tray. The sight of him scruffy and sexy, wearing only flannel pajama pants and a white tee, drew a rampant flush to the surface of her skin. “It’s time for another pill, but you should eat first. How does an egg and toast sound?”
“Great.”
“After that you can take a shower.”
Lucy’s color deepened further,
her pulse turning hectic. She wanted a shower badly, but in light of her physical condition, it was obvious that she was going to need a lot of help. “How exactly would that work?” she managed to ask.
Sam set the tray on the bed and helped Lucy to sit up. He propped an extra pillow behind her as he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s a walk-in shower. You can sit on a plastic stool and wash with a handheld spray. I’ll have to help you in and out, but you can do most of it yourself.”
“Thank you,” she said, relieved. “That sounds good.” She picked up a piece of lightly buttered toast and began to spread jam on it. “Why do you have a handheld shower spray?”
One of his brows arched. “Something wrong with that?”
“Not at all. It’s just the kind of thing I would expect an old person to have, not a guy your age.”
“I have hard-to-reach places,” Sam said in a deadpan tone. After he saw the smile tugging at her lips, he said, “Also, we wash Renfield in there.”
Sam went to shower and shave while she ate. He returned wearing a pair of raggedy-looking jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed SCHRЦDINGER’S CAT IS ALIVE.
“What does that mean?” Lucy asked, reading the shirt.
“It’s a principle in quantum theory.” Sam set a plastic bag of supplies on the floor, and lifted the bed tray away from Lucy’s lap. “Schrцdinger was a scientist who used the example of a cat placed in a box with a radioactive source and a flask of poison, to demonstrate how an observation affects an outcome.”
“What happens to the cat?”
“Do you like cats?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t want me to tell you about the theorem.”
She made a face. “Don’t you have any optimistic T-shirts?”
“This one is optimistic,” Sam said. “I just can’t tell you why, or you’ll bitch about the cat.”
Lucy chuckled. But as Sam approached the bed and reached for the covers, she fell silent and shrank back, her heart lurching into overdrive.
Sam let go of the bed linens at once, his expression carefully neutral. He studied her, his gaze alighting on her tightly crossed arms. “Before we do this,” he said quietly, “let’s deal with the elephant in the room.”
“Who’s the elephant?” Lucy asked warily.
“No one’s the elephant. The elephant is the fact it’s surprisingly awkward to help a woman take a shower when I haven’t had sex with her first.”
“I’m not going to have sex with you just to make the shower easier,” Lucy said.
That drew a brief grin from him. “Don’t take it personally, but you’re wearing a hospital garment printed with little yellow ducks, and you’re also bandaged and bruised. So you’re not doing a thing for my libido. You’re also on drugs, which leaves you unable to make decisions on your own behalf. All of which means there is absolutely no chance that I’m going to make any moves on you.” He paused. “Does that make you feel better?”
“Yes, but…” Lucy’s cheeks burned. “While you’re helping me, you’re probably going to get an eyeful.”
His face was grave, but amusement lurked in the corners of his mouth. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Lucy sighed heavily. “I guess there’s no alternative.” She pushed back the covers and tried to sit up.
Sam came to her immediately, fitting his arm behind her back. “No, let me do the work. You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t take it easy. I’m going to help you to the edge of the bed. All you have to do is sit up and let your legs hang over—yes, like that.” His breath stopped abruptly as Lucy grappled with the hem of the hospital garment, which had ridden high on her hip. “Okay.” He started breathing again. “We’re not supposed to take the splint off. But the nurse said to wrap it in plastic when you shower, to keep it from getting wet.” He reached for the bag of supplies and pulled out a bulky roller of nonadhesive clear wrap affixed to a metal handle.
Lucy waited quietly while Sam proceeded to wrap her entire lower leg. His touch was deft and careful, but the occasional brush of his fingertips at her knee or behind her calf sent ticklish sensations along her skin. His head was bent over her, his hair rich and dark. Surreptitiously she leaned forward to catch the scent that rose from the back of his neck, a summery smell, like sun and mown grass.
When the leg was covered to Sam’s satisfaction, he looked up from his kneeling position on the floor. “How does it feel? Too tight?”
“It’s perfect.” Lucy noticed that his color had heightened, the high crests of his cheeks burnished beneath the rosewood tan. And he wasn’t breathing well. “You said I wasn’t doing anything for your libido.”
Sam tried to look penitent. “Sorry. But wrapping you in mover’s tape is the most fun I’ve had since college.” As he stood and picked Lucy up, she clung to him automatically, her pulse quickening at the feel of his easy strength.
“Do you need to … calm down?” she asked delicately.
Sam shook his head, rueful amusement flickering in his eyes. “Let’s just assume this is my default mode during showertime. Don’t worry—I still won’t make any moves on you.”
“I’m not worried. I just don’t want you to drop me.”
“Sexual arousal doesn’t rob me of physical strength,” he informed her. “Brainpower, yes. But I don’t need that to help you shower.”
Lucy smiled uncertainly and held on to his sturdy shoulders as he carried her into the bathroom. “You’re in good shape.”
“It’s the vineyard. Everything’s organic, which requires extra handwork—cultivating and hoeing—instead of using pesticides. Saves the expense of a gym membership.”
He was nervous again, talking a little too fast. Which Lucy found interesting. So far in her acquaintance with Sam, he had seemed completely self-possessed. She would have thought that he would handle a situation like this with aplomb. Instead, he seemed almost as rattled by their enforced intimacy as she was.
The bathroom had been decorated in a clean and uncluttered style, with ivory tile and mahogany cabinetry, and a big framed mirror over a pedestal sink. After lowering Lucy to the plastic stool in the shower stall, Sam showed her how to turn the shower control handles. “Once I clear out of here,” he said, giving her the handheld sprayer, “just toss the robe and gown out of the stall and turn on the water. Take as long as you want. I’ll be waiting on the other side of the door. If you have any problem, you need anything, just give a shout.”
“Thanks.”
The accumulated soreness from the accident caused Lucy to grimace and groan as she maneuvered on the stool and tossed the robe to the floor beyond the shower. She turned on the water, adjusted the heat, and directed the spray over her body. “Ow,” she said, as her cuts and scrapes started to sting. “Ow, ow…”
“How’s it going?” she heard Sam ask from the other side of the door.
“It hurts and feels good at the same time.”
“Need help?”
“No, thanks.”
It required a great deal of maneuvering to soap and rinse herself. Eventually Lucy discovered that the project of washing her hair was too much to contend with. “Sam,” she said in frustration.
“Yeah?”
“I do need help.”
“With what?”
“My hair. I can’t wash it by myself. Would you mind coming in here?”
There was a long hesitation. “You can’t do it by yourself?”
“No. I can’t reach the shampoo bottle, and my right arm is aching, and it’s hard to wash all this hair with only one hand.” As she spoke, Lucy turned off the water and dropped the sprayer to the floor. Painfully she pulled the towel around herself.
“Okay,” she heard him say. “I’m coming in.”
As Sam entered the bathroom, he looked like a man who had just been called for jury duty. Stepping into the open shower stall, he picked up the sprayer. He fumbled with it, adjusting the pressure and temperature. Lucy couldn’t hel
p noticing that his breathing had changed again, and she said, “With the echo in here, you sound like Darth Vader.”
“I can’t help it,” he said edgily. “With you sitting there all pink and steamy—”
“I’m sorry.” She looked up at him contritely. “I hope that being in default mode doesn’t hurt.”
“Not at the moment.” Sam’s hand slipped around the back of her head, cradling the shape of her skull. As she looked up into his blue-green eyes, he said, “It only hurts when I can’t do anything about it.”
The way he was holding her head, the rough-soft sound of his voice, caused a curl of responsive pleasure deep in her stomach. “You’re flirting with me,” she said.
“I take it back,” he said instantly.
“Too late.” She smiled as she closed her eyes and let him wash her hair.
It was heaven, sitting there while Sam worked the shampoo through her hair, his strong fingers rubbing her scalp. He took his time, careful not to let water or suds get into her eyes. The rosemary-mint scent of the shampoo filled the steamy air … that was what she’d smelled on him earlier, she realized. She breathed deeply and tilted her head back, relaxing.
Eventually Sam turned off the water and hung the sprayer in the wall holder. Lucy squeezed out the excess water from her hair with her hand. Her gaze traveled over Sam’s clothes, damp and water-blotched, his jeans sodden at the hems. “I got you wet,” she said apologetically.
Sam stared down at her, his gaze lingering at the place where the damp towel drooped low over her breasts. “I’ll live.”
“I have nothing to wear now.”
He continued to stare at her. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Do you have anything I could borrow?” At his lack of response, Lucy waved her hand between them. “Sam. Come away from the dark side.”
Sam blinked, the glazed blankness leaving his eyes. “I could dig up a clean T-shirt.”
With Sam’s help, Lucy wrapped her hair in a turban. He kept her steady, lightly gripping her hips as she balanced on one foot and brushed her teeth at the sink. When she was finished, he carried her to the bed, handed her a T-shirt, and turned his back tactfully as she put it on. The turban became dislodged, its weight tugging at her hair. Lucy pulled it away and finger-combed the damp tangled locks.