All-American Girl

by Justine Dell

  Samantha did her best to keep her temper in check. All men were scum, especially overweight, stinky contractors who had no concept of boundaries.

  “I’m a practical person, Mr. Newburg, but I find it hard to believe you can give such an estimate. Not only that, I’m a numbers girl. I need numbers—hard and real numbers—before making any decisions. If you can’t give me those, I’m afraid we won’t be working out any more details.”

  “Go to dinner with me.” He stepped toward her.

  Samantha moved back and found herself pinned against the counter. The stench of his chewing tobacco made her want to vomit.

  “I think we could work well together.”

  She put a hand on his chest, trying her best to maintain what little distance remained between them. “No thank you. I’m afraid dating is not high on my list of priorities while I’m in town. I just need the estimates. If you can’t give me those in a professional manner, then you need to leave.”

  His face flashed a hint of confusion, quickly replaced by frustration. “I’m the only one in town who can satisfy your needs, Miss Moore.”

  Her gag reflex twitched as statement brought some disturbing images to mind. “I highly doubt that. There are other carpenters in town. Back off. Now.”

  He leaned closer, and she clenched her hands into fists, perfectly willing to punch him if it came to that.

  “But—” Mr. Newburg voice was cut off as he was jerked back by his collar. Samantha blinked. Lance stood a few feet away, the fat carpenter tight in his grip.

  “Jason.” Lance’s deep voice echoed through the shop.

  It gave Samantha the chills. The good kind.

  “I believe Sam said to back off. You didn’t. I think you owe her an apology.”

  Jason struggled against Lance’s hold but quickly fell still. “I was just asking her out. No harm, no foul.”

  “I beg to differ. She obviously wasn’t interested and you kept pressing. That’s rude.”

  “She would’ve been interested if you hadn’t interrupted.”

  “Are you insane?” Samantha shot out.

  “See?” Lance asked. “You’ve offended her. Apologize.”

  Mr. Newberg rolled his eyes but obeyed. “I’m sorry.”

  Jason stumbled the entire way to the door as Lance shoved him out. “Don’t bother coming back,” Lance said as the door closed quietly behind the man.

  Lance. His name echoed in her head as he turned back in her direction.

  She tried her best for casual, but after one glance at his broad shoulders, tightly encased in a red T-shirt, her mind went to places it shouldn’t go. The way he stared at her made her want to double-check her appearance in a mirror. He tilted his head in a cocky fashion, intently gazing at her. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, and he looked smug, yet concern creased his brow. It was both intimidating and alluring at the same time.

  Why did her legs feel so heavy? She was stuck in place, unable to take a step closer to him, which she suddenly wanted to do. What the hell had gotten into her?

  “Lance,” she said. She forced her right foot to take a step back. Then her left.

  “Sam,” he replied in an all-too-smooth tone. The hairs on the back of her neck instantly stood at attention.

  His boots thudded on the wooden floor as he walked in her direction. Damn him for being in all the right places at the right times. He’d saved her butt twice now—yesterday at the diner and now from a brute of a man who couldn’t take no for an answer. God, would she actually have to thank him twice too? Not on her life.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she shuffled papers on the counter, making sure the corners and edges were lined up.

  “Well,” he said lightly, though his expression reflected concern, “it seems I was saving you from a rather uncomfortable situation.”

  His eyes gleamed confidently and made him look both ridiculously handsome and annoying at the same time. She hated the handsome part more; it was harder to ignore.

  “What situation? I had everything under control.”

  “Didn’t look like it to me.”

  “Well, Lance, I don’t care what it looked like to you.” She stopped shuffling the papers and moved away from the counter. She needed to keep her hands busy, her eyes focused on something—anything but Lance. She was irritated he thought she actually needed rescuing. In New York, Samantha had dealt with much bigger slime-bags than Mr. Newburg. He would have been no problem for her. She moved to the glassware on the far wall and rearranged it, turning them so the designs matched up.

  “You know, sometimes a ‘thank you’ would be nice, instead of the attitude you give off all the time.”

  “Well, thanks for the tip. I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, you know. I’ve been on my own for quite some time and I don’t need someone else butting in to my affairs.” She turned to face him; to her surprise, he was just feet from her. She hadn’t heard him move at all. She had to tilt her head up to look at his stern face and was abruptly uncomfortable as his silvery gaze focused on her. “And as far as you’re concerned, the attitude problem was well-earned.”

  He snorted. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.” He closed the distance between them, his musky scent overwhelming her senses and quickening her pulse.

  “What are you doing here anyways?” His mere presence was stirring heat in all the wrong places and for all the wrong reasons. He brought his hand up to side of her face and she sucked in a breath, getting ready to let him have it if he yanked on her ponytail. She could do no more than dazedly stare at him when, instead of jerking on her hair, his rough fingertips slid down her left cheek. The gentle touch sent shocks to places that had been dormant for quite some time.

  “I just came to say thank you,” he replied softly as his hand fell away.

  Elves must have come and snatched her brain. Had he just thanked her?

  “What?” she asked through the mental fog.

  “Thank you. You know, those two words you can’t seem to say to me?”

  She shook her head and thought she heard it rattling. “For what?”

  “For going to see Candice,” he said before shifting away from her. The sensation of losing his closeness—the heat—confused her. “For being such a good sport about it. It meant the world to her. Thank you.”

  “Umm…well…” Geez, was that all she could do? Ramble like an incoherent idiot? At one time she had been famous for writing elegant words that flowed like dazzling poetry and here she couldn’t even say…what? What was she going to say to him exactly?

  “You’re welcome?” She actually said it like a question, not really sure where this conversation, or her current state of mind, was going. Every corner she turned, she hit a new peak she wasn’t used to. Elation. Thankfulness. Arousal.

  Crap.

  He had to leave.

  “See?” he asked. “You’re learning already.”

  “Yeah, well—don’t get your hopes up. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

  “One more thing before I go,” he said. “I saw your brother today.”

  Samantha put down the items she was fumbling with. “Cole? He’s in town? Is he okay?”

  Lance winced and quickly smoothed out his expression. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen him. I want to warn you that he’s not like he used to be.”

  “I’ve dealt with him, remember? Surely he can’t be any worse than he was at Gram’s ten years ago during my first book launch party.”

  “Yeah, he can be.”

  Samantha’s heart sank. Yet another battle she was going to have to fight. She didn’t know if she had the courage, or stamina, to deal with more.

  “Don’t worry about him right now, Sam. I’m hoping he’ll keep a low profile for a bit. If he gives you any trouble, let me know.”

  Lance was being helpful? Caring? She shook her head, convinced her mind was playing tricks on her.

  “I�
��ve gotta run,” Lance said. “But thanks again. And remember what I said about Cole. I’m here if you need me.”

  When Lance gave her a quirky smile and turned to leave, Samantha couldn’t help but wonder why she felt lost when he walked out the door.

  Chapter Five

  “I don’t believe things happen in vain.

  I believe they happen for a reason.”

  ~Tracey Gold

  DESPERATE TO GET HER MIND OFF of what had just happened, Samantha turned her attention back to the shop. Before being hit on by the brainless carpenter, she’d decided the office, like the main gallery, was in dire need of a cleaning and major reorganization. As she walked in and looked around, she couldn’t believe the amount of receipts and paper littered about. There was no way anyone could’ve worked in this space, and she wondered, once again with terrible guilt, how her grandmother had managed this alone.

  Samantha shuffled the papers and ledgers on the desk and came across the shop’s checkbook register. She glanced at it once, flipped through the pages, and sat down. She squinted and went through the pages again. As her eyes focused on the numbers, she discovered a big problem.

  Cole, Samantha’s own brother, had received a large number of checks, all for considerable amounts. As far as she knew, Cole wasn’t an employee, so what the hell were all the checks for? One thing was certain: Samantha knew all the checks hadn’t been written by Gram. The handwriting in the register was neater than Gram’s scribbled notations.

  As she continued to flip through the pages, Samantha saw more and more checks written to people and places that had no relation with the shop.

  What had been going on here? The place was a mess, the books were off balance, and last Samantha checked, her grandmother hadn’t been at the shop for months. Resentment toward Cole knotted in her stomach. She was furious at herself for letting this happen, and even more enraged that her own brother had taken advantage of Gram.

  She rose from the chair, unconcerned with the mess of the office, and focused on the only place that could clear this mess up: the bank. Gram was in need of some stop payments and possibly a new account. Samantha blew out a sigh of relief when she realized how important the power of attorney she’d secured when she came back into town was. Gram needed more help than Samantha had realized, and now she was determined to straighten everything out.

  “Don’t you have signature cards for a reason?” Samantha yelled at the bank manager. “I mean, why do you go through all that trouble if you don’t ever actually check the signatures?”

  The older man with a comb-over and pin-striped suit gaped at her, at a loss for words.

  “Well? Forty-two thousand dollars gone from my grandmother’s personal and business accounts and all you can do is sit there with a blank look on your face?”

  Samantha rose from her seat and slapped her hand down on the manager’s sleek mahogany desk. “Tell me, are all local banks this incompetent or is it just yours?”

  The look of shock and disgust the old man gave her made Samantha want to take back the words. Three deep breaths later, remorse hit Samantha full force. She closed her eyes and swallowed all the feelings that came with regret, like the sunken heart, clammy hands, and aching head. God, she really was a train-wreck. She couldn’t believe she’d just gone off like that on an innocent man.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe. I’m not used to dealing with this kind of stuff. I wasn’t expecting to walk into this kind of mess when I got back into town. Stress and I don’t have a bosom buddy relationship. You have every right to kick me out of your bank. I will go freely if you ask, but I would like some help dealing with this mess first.” She hung her head and played with the hem on her shirt. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  A hand landed gently on her shoulder. She looked up and saw Mr. Monroe’s kind eyes. After the way she’d treated him, she hadn’t expected kindness. Why could everyone handle tension better than her? Maybe her brain wasn’t wired right.

  “My grandmother has passed away, but I do have a mother,” he said. “I would be just as upset as you are.” He tilted his head and dropped his hand. “But I don’t know if I’d have the guts to say such things.”

  “I—”

  He waved a hand at her. “Part of the world runs on forgiveness, Ms. Moore. Another part runs on knowing words are just words. My mother or grandmother would have appreciated someone sticking up for them like you did. But next time, try it with a little more finesse.”

  He smiled, and she returned the gesture. She couldn’t believe he was being nice after all that. She needed that kind of control.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “What now?”

  “Well, first I think you need to know that your brother, Cole, is a co-owner of the account.”

  “What?”

  “Dorothy came in over a year ago and had him put on the account.”

  If she could have swallowed her tongue, she probably would’ve. “I—I…” She leaned forward and turned all the pens in the cup holder tip-side down before lining it up with the tape dispenser and stapler. “I didn’t know. Which makes me look even more like an idiot for yelling at you. I’m at a loss for words.”

  He smiled effortlessly. “It’s okay. We all have bad days.”

  Samantha had more than just bad days; her entire last year was one big ball of anger and resentment toward damned near everyone, even those who didn’t deserve it. And she was tired of it. It was long past time to flip over a new leaf.

  She rose, plastered a meaningful smile on her face and held out her hand. “Thank you for talking with me,” she said, and Mr. Monroe shook her hand. “I greatly appreciate your understanding and helping, and I’m sorry again for yelling at you. I’ll work on my finesse ASAP so I don’t scare everyone away.”

  He smiled. “Good to hear.”

  Samantha left the bank, feeling somewhat better than she had before. Mr. Monroe was a good man who could’ve kicked her out on her butt—but didn’t. She was grateful, and felt wretched for the things she’d said to him. “I’m sorry” didn’t quite seem like enough, but it had been for him.

  Take it as a lesson learned. She half-grinned as she walked down the street. Dr. Wade would be proud of her—not for chewing out an innocent man, but for learning something from it and hopefully applying it sometime in the near future.

  Samantha needed to pick up some supplies and head for the recovery center. She wasn’t looking forward to discussing the money issue with Gram. Even though Gram had purposely put Cole on the accounts, Samantha highly doubted her grandmother knew how much money Cole had taken.

  When Samantha realized she was more pressed for time than she’d thought, she picked up her pace to a jog and rounded the corner at the end of the street.

  “Watch out!” a deep voice yelled.

  A window dangling by a rope came swinging in her direction and someone shoved her out of the way, slamming her into a brick wall. Her head snapped back and bounced against the hard surface. She stumbled forward, then back, before a body tossed her to the ground, glass shattering and sprinkling the pavement. Her vision went blurry and she couldn’t breathe; there was a three-hundred-pound monster lying on top of her.

  “Move!” someone called out.

  The body on top of her shifted. Someone groaned. Someone cursed. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her into a sitting position. She shook her head in complete confusion—and agony.

  “It’s all right, Jeff, we’ll order new window panes. We can have them here soon.” The voice that drifted from the shadows had Samantha cursing again. Why was he everywhere she was?

  “Sam,” Lance said, shaking her shoulder.

  Her mouth wouldn’t work, and she tried to focus her eyes, but couldn’t. Crap, her head was pounding so loudly in her ears she couldn’t even think, let alone speak.

  “Sam, you’re bleeding.”

  A quick glance revealed a deep cut on the palm of her right hand. Through the haze she could tell it was clean and s
mooth, almost like it had been made by a razor. But it was bleeding—badly.

  “Sam.” Her shoulders shook again. “Sam, can you hear me?”

  She looked up, the curtain lifting from her blanketed mind, and she saw Lance, close enough to touch and smell. His expression was grim, his eyes full of concern. Samantha let her gaze flicker to her blood-stained hand, to the glass all around her, and then back to him.

  Why did he always make her bad days worse? As quickly as she’d hit the ground, she was shuffling back up to her feet. “Don’t touch me,” she said as Lance tried to wrap her hand in a dirty towel.

  “You need to see a doctor. Your head is bleeding, too.” He tugged on her shirt. “Sam.”

  With the world clearer, her head pounding to beat all hell, and the searing pain in her hand, Lance seemed a fine candidate to lash out at.

  She brushed herself off with her good hand. “Why are you always in my way?”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time,” he growled. “You were the one sprinting madly around a corner. You should watch where you’re going.”

  “Don’t blame the pedestrian. I was walking on the sidewalk and last I checked, they were supposed to be safe and clear of whatever this mess is.”

  He hovered over her. “Seriously? Look around you. Construction equipment, people, glass, sharp objects. You threw yourself right in the middle of it and didn’t pay a lick of attention. What the hell is wrong with you?” He rubbed his temples. “Jesus, forget about that. Forget about the mess. Look at you. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “No.” Samantha inched away from his outstretched hands and wobbled.

  “For God’s sake. You’re bleeding and can hardly stand. Let me help you.”

  “I don’t have time for that. Not that I would let you help me if I did.” Samantha maneuvered around his large frame. “You’re the one who’s always in my way. Maybe you should watch where you’re going. And I don’t need a damn hospital. The cuts are superficial. I’ll be fine.”

  She took five quick, unsteady strides in the opposite direction before he called out, “Wait! You dropped something.”