by Ev Bishop
“Okay then, back to it,” he muttered and commenced typing.
His first instinct was to slam the door, pretend he hadn’t opened it to her in the first place—but then Simone smiled and Gil couldn’t just slam it.
“Look, Simone. You seem great—I mean you are great.”
The smile fell from her face, and she shoved her hands into her pockets. “I see,” she said.
“It’s just—”
“No, don’t worry. I get it.”
She did? Well, that was amazing because Gil sure as hell didn’t. Before he could process that thought—and the scalding emotions that poured through him and felt all too much like regret, she turned and left.
Gil forgot he was holding a beer in his hurry to close and deadbolt the door behind Simone. Amber liquid sloshed over the top and spilled onto the floor. He stared at the mess for a long time. He could clean it up, do his best to remove all traces, but that wouldn’t change what had happened. The mess was made. It was out of the can. There was no going back. There was a parallel message in those thoughts that he wanted to ignore.
Charlie stretched and resumed his hunched position. A minute later he jumped as a key turned in the lock.
Samantha tiptoed in, a notable contrast to her usual purposeful stride or cocky swagger. She started when she saw him. “Oh . . . hi. Sorry. All the lights are out. I thought you were in bed.”
“I was waiting up,” Charlie said, clicking on a lamp, all too aware of how he sounded—like he was a grouchy overbearing father. Which he was. But still, who wanted to sound like one?
She nodded and moved toward her room, sodden boots clenched in her right hand. Her hair and jacket were dripping.
“What on earth were you guys doing? Aisha’s ready to go into labor any day. I hope you didn’t wear her out.”
Samantha turned, eyes narrowed. “You’re worried I kept your adult-lives-on-her-own daughter up past her bedtime?”
“She’s not quite an adult, and it’s not the hour that concerns me. It’s her condition—and that it’s hideous out there.”
“She lives on her own, seems to be planning to from here on out. And her ‘condition’ is motherhood. Sounds pretty adult to me.”
Charlie winced. He and Aisha had had this conversation too, many times, but he was still trying to talk her out of it. Seventeen was pretty young to be completely self-sufficient, though if anyone could do it and thrive, it would be her.
“So where is she now?”
“No idea. I asked if she needed a ride anywhere. She said no. I haven’t seen her for hours.”
Oh . . . so they hadn’t been visiting for ten hours. That did make more sense, but now he had a new thing to worry about. “So how’s she getting home?”
“How would I know?”
“You didn’t ask?”
“What? I—well, no. Were you always this controlling when she was younger?”
“It’s not controlling. It’s considerate. And things happen—bad things. If you can stave them off with a bit of attention to detail, a bit of courtesy, why not try?”
Sam’s brow furrowed and one of her eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah, you’re a genius for ‘staving off things’ with your attention to detail and gobs of consideration.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She ignored him. “When I last saw her, around four-thirty, she was fine. Had dinner plans with someone who helped do the renovations here. Mentioned something about a show. Said she’ll text if she goes into labor and to remind you to keep your phone charged. Apparently you have a problem remembering technology requires power?”
Charlie nodded, relieved on one hand—everything sounded like Aisha to a T—and ashamed on the other. Why was he always such a grouch to Samantha? It wasn’t her fault she was in their lives. In fact, she was the whole reason he even had Aisha. Maybe he should try being grateful instead of acting like an asshole. Maureen would be furious if she saw how he treated their baby’s birth mom.
“So can I go now, officer, or do you have any other questions?”
Ouch—but he guessed he deserved that. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, I do. More than a few actually.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
In the mist rising off her damp hair and clothing because of the contrast between the outdoor temperature and the heat of the cabin, he could smell traces of her shampoo mingled with the sexy perfume she always wore.
“One,” he said. “Where on earth were you and what the heck were you doing to get soaked like that?”
Samantha’s eyebrows shot up, and she stuck her hands on her hips.
“Two. I bet you haven’t eaten a thing since lunch.”
“That’s a statement, not a question.”
“Semantics, but point taken. Three and four: do you need me to fetch anything from the Mercedes, and would you like me to make us something to eat? I didn’t have dinner. I’m starving.”
The tiniest curve of a smile tugged at Samantha’s mouth. “Do I need you to ‘fetch’ anything? Uh, no—but thank you. And as for feeding me . . . that’d be pretty great, actually. If you really don’t mind.”
Charlie made a shooing motion. “So go. Get cleaned up and change your clothes. You’re a mess, you’ll give yourself pneumonia, you’re dripping on the floor—go, go, go.”
Samantha looked incredulous, then burst out laughing. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re apologizing for being a control freak by being extra controlling.”
He shrugged. “I have no idea what you mean.”
She was at the door to her room, when she paused and turned to look back at him. “Am I allowed to ask how long I have?”
Charlie gave an exaggerated exhale of frustration. “How long do you need?”
“Half an hour?”
“Fine.”
She smirked again, and disappeared into her room. Moments later she was in the bathroom and he heard water running in the tub. He tried not to think of her undressing and sinking into its steamy warmth. Good grief, what was his glitch? Was he developing a bathtub fetish? He shook his head, left the lamp on, but lit some candles too, then moved to the kitchen.
Dinner was almost ready when Samantha exited the washroom. He looked up from the romaine lettuce he was tearing and glimpsed her long bare legs under what looked like some big guy’s pajama top as she traipsed to her room—and he wondered why the obvious hadn’t occurred to him. Of course she had some man in her life. Look at her.
He dumped a liberal amount of freshly grated Parmesan, followed by heated cream and butter, into the cooked pasta, then put the pot’s lid on tightly and shook it hard to mix it.
When Sam finally appeared beside him in the kitchen, she was fully dressed in a soft-looking sweater, skinny jeans, and—surprise of surprises—ankle socks instead of her usual killer heels. The little cotton socks were just as appealing in their own way as her stilettos, he thought—then gave himself a kick. He paid way too much attention to what she wore. His focus moved to her flushed cheeks and damp hair that was pinned up in a loose twist. She made a surprised sound when she saw the table. “Why Charles Brown—wait, wait, your name is Charlie Brown?” She laughed hard. “How could I have missed that?”
He shook his head and emptied the pasta into a serving dish. “Because it’s not. I’m Charles—a.k.a. Charlie—Bailey. Maureen was Brown. When we hyphenated Aisha’s last name, we thought Bailey-Brown sounded better.”
“Aisha Bailey-Brown. Aisha Brown-Bailey. You’re right. Too bad though. I’d love it if your name was Charlie Brown.”
He studied her. She really was pretty—especially when she was laughing.
“Of course, you’re more like Lucy than Chuck,” she added, grinning.
“Thanks, thanks a lot.”
She didn’t seem to hear him as she surveyed the table again. “I thought we’d have canned soup or something. This looks . . . great.”
There was an off note in her voice. Charlie studied the
fare. Fettuccine Alfredo, sauce from scratch, with plump sautéed shrimp. A big Caesar salad. Maybe she didn’t like garlic? Or had a seafood allergy? Or was it the red-checked tablecloth? He’d found it in a drawer and thought it was cute, but maybe it was too much, too corny or something. Or worse, maybe it seemed like he was trying too hard to make them something they weren’t, like friends or something.
She touched his arm. “It looks and smells amazing.”
“But?”
She looked pained, and shook her head like she was working out some inner dilemma. “But nothing,” she said finally. “Load me up.”
He smiled and obeyed, but didn’t relax fully until she sat down, lay napkin across her lap, and took her first mouthful. Her eyes widened. “Mmm, this is good.”
“Thanks,” he said, his heart skipping a little. Why did it matter so darn much whether she liked it or not?
“Wait!” She hopped up, rummaged in the fridge, then in a cupboard, and returned with a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses.
“Is Chardonnay all right?”
“Perfect. A delicately nuanced wine for a simple, rich dish.”
“Well, la-di-dah,” she said, and he laughed.
He wished he’d thought of buying wine, but it hadn’t even occurred to him. After all, how long had it been since he’d had wine with dinner? Too long.
She snugged herself back into the tiny table, and they were both so long legged that their knees almost touched. Charles could’ve happily sat there, brushed up against her, watching her enjoy her food forever. The thought made his fists clench.
As the meal progressed and the wine disappeared—only to be magically replaced by a new bottle—they relaxed and their tongues loosened. They devoured their food and drinks, exchanged trivialities and laughed a lot. It was all pretty damn great.
Samantha smiled as if she’d heard his thought and shared his contentment. “So earlier, before dinner”—she waved her hand to take in the emptied plates—“and before your invite-slash-command to join you, you were pretty funny. And fair. I’m sorry I called you controlling.”
He shook his head. “No apology needed. I can be overbearing, especially when I’m worried. I know it. I’m in over my head with Aisha. I don’t know what to tell her. Part of me is going mental because she hasn’t made a decision about adoption or no adoption. Part of me completely gets why she hasn’t. I feel responsible that she’s in this predicament—and then there’s you.”
“Me?” Sam pointed at herself with her thumb. “What’d I do?”
“It’s not what you did. It’s just—never mind.”
“No, what? Tell me. I’m curious.” Samantha leaned back in a pleasure-filled stretch. It was all Charlie could do to keep his eyes in his head and not moan aloud. Man, the woman could wear a sweater.
He took a big mouthful of pasta to stall, taking his time chewing and swallowing. “It’s nothing. Let’s not talk about my messed up head. Let’s talk about us.”
Her pretty eyebrows rose again.
“Er—not quite what I meant.”
“Too bad,” she said.
He knew she was just teasing him back, but that fact didn’t keep his heart from racing or knock away the idiot grin blooming across his face.
“Tell me about you,” he said. “You of now, of today, not the woman who gave me and Maureen the greatest gift of our lives all those years ago.”
Samantha’s eyes glistened and she gave a solitary nod, acknowledging his comment. Her perfect white teeth sank into her bottom lip for just a moment. “Me now, hey? Hmm, not so different now than I was then.”
“No?”
“No and anyway, I’m boring. Tell me about you.”
There was no way Samantha Kendall was boring. Everything about her was fascinating, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he thought so. Was it his overwhelming attraction to her, or was it that in some ways he saw her as the enemy—the person who could steal the last of his family away from him—and he felt compelled to study her, to get to know her in some sort of twisted reconnaissance mission?
He shook his head. The lavish dinner was a comforting weight in his stomach and his brain was dancing with wine. For once he didn’t want to overthink everything. He just wanted to feel. And just like that he knew the answer to what was so disturbing about Sam. She made him feel again, the whole gamut of emotion from anger to happiness to lust and frustration. . . .
Just enjoy the night, he commanded himself. You can make sense of it all later. He realized she was staring at him and knew he’d been quiet for too long.
“There’s no way Samantha Kendall’s boring,” he repeated then grimaced at his use of the third person aloud, to her face. “Er, I mean, no way you’re boring.”
“Heh, yeah . . . there’s nothing like a bottle of wine or two to make me scintillating.”
“Great word,” he said.
She laughed. “High praise from a famous author.”
“Not famous. Not by a long shot. I’m a bread and butter writer at most.”
“Bread and butter—cute way to put it. And it means, yes, you make your living writing books, right?”
Or that I used to, at least, he thought, but didn’t correct her, just nodded.
“So what do you write? What genre?”
Genre! She must be a reader. “Romance.”
She leaned in over the table. “For real?”
He nodded again. Was it a good for real or a bad for real? Not that he cared. He was just curious.
She practically squealed, which made him laugh. “What a coincidence. I read anything, but I adore romance.” She pressed a finger to her lips and gave an exaggerated shhhh. “Don’t tell anyone though, or I’ll have to kill you.”
“Why’s it such a huge secret?”
“Come on.” She looked incredulous. “I’m a big bitch. Bitches don’t read romance. They’re for sweet, nice little housewives. If it gets out, my rep will be ruined.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She was still leaned in close.
Charles bent in too, like he was going in for a kiss—and God, he wanted to. He really wanted to. “I have the insider secret on that. You want to know the dirt?”
“Yes,” she said eagerly, like he was actually going to say something mind-blowing.
“Devout romance readers are more varied—and more plentiful—than you think. There’s no one type. And why would there be? What do any of us care about more than our relationships? What motivates us greater than love and sex? It’s biology, baby.”
Sam shook her head, grinning. “I guess . . . yes, you have a point.”
“But?”
“Well, I admit I was expecting the ‘dirt’ to be a little more tawdry.”
Charles laughed, then stopped abruptly.
“What?” Sam asked.
“It’s just, ah, nothing.”
“Stop doing that. Stop starting stuff, then buttoning up and saying it was nothing.”
“Okay . . .” He poured the remaining bit of wine into their glasses, just enough for another swallow or two each. “I was going to say that I haven’t laughed so much in a long, long time. Years, actually.” He forced himself to hold her gaze, and found himself surprised—then moved—by the softness in her jade eyes.
“I had fun too.” She looked away. “But it’s getting late and I’m tired and my whole body is screaming to stretch out and sleep—and the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.”
Several excuses are always less convincing than one. The Aldous Huxley quote came to Charlie out of nowhere and struck him with mingled awe and flattered pride. Sam had quite possibly enjoyed the evening as much as he had—and might even feel similarly confused and undone by it.
Her feet, still so close to his, shifted under the table, and he sensed she was about to stand up. But he didn’t want the evening to end. Tomorrow would come soon enough. Couldn’t they visit and chat a little longer? Surprising himself—and her—he reach
ed down and caught her foot, then lifted it to his lap.
“The last thing you have to worry about is the dishes. I invited you to dinner. They’re on me—but before you go to bed, I have just one more question.”
He kneaded her foot softly.
“Sheesh, you. Always with the questions,” she whispered.
“Hey, if it’s too late, it can wait, no worries.” He pressed deeper into her sole and she sighed softly.
“If you keep doing that, I think I can muster up some energy to keep talking.”
“I was thinking about those ridiculous shoes you always wear”—her leg tightened under his grip—“that I love, that any guy who wasn’t dead would love, actually . . . ” She laughed and her muscles eased. “Don’t they hurt?”
“Not at all. They’re good quality shoes, which makes a huge difference, and I’m pretty light on my feet—plus I’ve worn heels since I was eleven. I know how to walk in them.”
He agreed with her last line completely, but couldn’t think of a way to say it that wouldn’t sound weird or creepy. I’ll say you do, hyuk, hyuk—
“But I’m not going to lie, whether my shoes kill me or not, that feels delicious. More than delicious.”
He was working her instep with both thumbs now and she was practically purring. A shudder of arousal quaked through him at her obvious pleasure. He was trying to think of something erotic—or at least not idiotic—to say in return, when a light knock at the door shut him down.
Before he or Sam could move or even say, “Come in,” the door burst open and Aisha bounced into the room.
“Hey, pops. Hey, Sam. Smells fantastic in here, did—” The happy greeting died on Aisha’s lips as she took in the dinner table—and Sam’s foot resting in Charlie’s lap.