“I thought my sisters would like it and come see me more often,” Sam said, leaning against the doorway.
“They’re barely out of their teens,” Hannah said, remembering their toothless little six-year old twin faces when she and Sam would be charged with babysitting them when they turned sixteen. “boys are much more important.”
“Bite your tongue,” Sam grimaced, making Hannah smile. “Want me to go grab your stuff?” he asked, looking completely at ease while she felt anxiety creeping in again.
“No, thanks. I’ll get it later. I didn’t mean to take you away from your work and stuff.”
“It’s no problem, Hannah,” he said, seriously. “But I’ll let you settle in. I have some stuff I need to get done. I’ll see you at dinner,” he said, backing out of the room.
--
Hannah hauled her bags up the steps, took a long hot shower, and fell onto the bed, staring tiredly at the ceiling. Her night of not sleeping was finally setting in and her eyes felt heavy. That coupled with the comfort of finally feeling like she was settled someplace safe and she drifted off to sleep.
She woke up several hours later to the sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen below. A loud rumbling in her stomach had her throwing on a pair of leggings and an old, stretched-out grey sweatshirt that hung half way down her thighs.
When she rounded the bend to the kitchen, she found Sam with his back to her, steadily chopping something on a butcher block. He was freshly showered with his hair still damp and dressed in a black and grey flannel shirt and jeans.
“Coffee is fresh,” he said, without turning around.
Hannah brought her mug over to the pot and poured a fresh cup, pulling herself up to be seated on the counter.
Sam suddenly stopped chopping and turned fully toward her. “Want to talk about it?”
Hannah shrugged a shoulder. “Not especially.”
“Alright,” Sam said, turning to drop the chopped red, yellow, green, and orange peppers into a frying pan on the stove.
Hannah watched Sam move around the kitchen with a steady, fluid motion. She wondered if he cooked often. For only himself? That seemed like a lot of effort for nothing. But maybe he had someone in his life. The idea hit her unexpectedly. Did Sam have a wife? Not likely. She would have run into her at some point. A girlfriend? He was a very attractive man. And he had become successful. It was very likely that he had someone he shared his life with.
“I can practically hear those gears turning, Han,” Sam said, not having turned toward her. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Hannah shrugged. “Nothing. Everything. The usual.”
Sam chuckled, pouring dark whole wheat pasta into a pot of boiling water. “So I heard you got some crazy big job up in that big city of yours.”
Hannah smiled. “Been checking up on me, have you?”
“Your parents love talking about you. Always have.”
Hannah felt guilt settle like a pit in her stomach. They hadn’t seen her in so long and there she was, hiding from them in her old boyfriend’s kitchen. “Yeah, I know. They have a tendency to exaggerate though. It is a great company, mind you. But I am just a personal assistant.”
“To the CEO,” Sam said, stirring the spaghetti but glancing over his shoulder at her.
“Yeah. But it is really just a glorified secretary job. But there is room for advancement in a company like this. If I can stick it out.”
“Word is Elliott Micheals is a real piece of work.”
Hannah looked down at her hands, feeling torn. Like she should defend him. But defend him why? Because they had had sex? That didn’t make him any less of a pain in the ass to have to deal with. The rumors about him were true, regardless of how good of a lover he was.
“He is,” she said, filling her coffee cup again, noticing Sam’s raised eyebrow and smiling at it.
A comfortable silence stretched as Sam strained the spaghetti and placed it on two plates. He scooped the cooked vegetables and a small amount of red sauce on top of each and brought them to the table. He gestured for her to sit and he served her a salad of at least four different kinds of leafy greens and then filled her wine glass with chilled white wine.
Hannah toyed with her salad, pouring some homemade balsamic vinegar on it and trying to determine what the greens were. She wasn’t particularly hungry any longer even though everything looked like something out of a cookbook.
Sam had already worked his way through half of his salad when he let out a short sigh. She looked up, surprised. Sam wasn’t one for frustration.
“Eat something,” he said, gesturing with his fork toward his own salad.
“It looks amazing,” she said, guiltily.
“Hannah,” Sam said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “you look like you’re wasting away.”
Hannah lowered her eyes to her food. What was wrong with her? She had always had an impressive appetite. She had always had the curves to prove it. But being overworked and stressed and stalked by some random whackjob was really weighing on her and she never really felt hungry anymore. She knew she had been losing weight. But she didn’t think it was overly obvious. She had always carried a few extra pounds she could use to shed.
“I just lost a little weight,” she defended herself. “I’ve been really busy.”
“Bull,” Sam said, sipping his wine. “you’ve lost like twenty pounds at least. That’s a lot of friggen weight, Han. Look, I don’t know what has been going on and I am not going to pry, but I know you. I know something is really wrong. And whatever it is has been making you sick. And you’re running away from it,” he reached out suddenly, his wide, rough and calloused palm rested on her forearm. “but whatever it is, you’re free from it here so relax. Eat. Ease up on the coffee. Get some rest. Those bags are impressive.”
Hannah smiled. “Maybe I’m just getting ugly. Geez,” she laughed.
“You’ll always be gorgeous. Now eat.”
And she did. Two helpings worth and then she dove into the ice cream that he claimed was homemade. She decided to not allow herself to realize that that must mean it was made with goat milk, because that was never a type of food she could get into. But the rich, real vanilla mixed with dark, sweet raspberries was too good to pass up on.
Sam lounged in his chair, watching her with a smile. “Now that’s the Hannah I remember. So any plans while you stay here? Do you ever plan on heading into town?”
Hannah stared into her almost empty bowl, all creamy whiteness with tiny dark spots and swirls of a pinkish purple. She had left the note informing EM that she wouldn’t be returning for two weeks. Was she even planning of staying in Stars Landing the entire time? She wasn’t sure. If she stayed two weeks, there was almost no way she could avoid going into town… and talking to her parents.
In all honesty, she just hadn’t thought it out at all. What was running away for two weeks going to do anyway? When she went back, the same problems were going to be waiting for her. Ricky’s cage would be right where she had left it, empty, on the kitchen counter. A sick, lead feeling settled in her stomach at that thought. What would anyone even want with an aging guinea pig? Were they just going to kill him? Or keep him as a pet of their own; some sick psychopathic person holding onto a stolen pet trophy of terror they inflicted.
Hannah rubbed absently at the tension building at the base of her neck. No, she couldn’t just camp out in Sam’s sister’s bedroom and then go back to her life as if nothing had happened. She could feel her skin crawl at the idea of stepping foot into her apartment.
Mabye she could move. She had a decent amount of money stashed away already in just a few months. It would certainly be enough to use as first month rent and security deposit. She could be more cautious about giving out her new address. Take roundabout ways back to her apartment so she wouldn’t as easily be found. Fine a place with a twenty-four hour doorman. Buy a security system.
“Earth to Hannah,” Sam’s voice broke into her reverie.
She looked up at his one raised eyebrow, the slight quirk of his lips. Always amused, always patient Sam. “Sorry. I drifted off for a minute. I honestly don’t know. I didn’t think it out fully. I’ll let you know when I have made up my mind about how long I’m going to infringe on your hospitality. And if I’m gonna let anyone know I’m here.”
“Alright,” Sam said, standing and collecting their bowls and glasses.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, walking toward the hallway. “I just need a good night sleep to get my head together I guess.”
Sam shook his head. “Don’t apologize. You’re welcome as long as you need to be here.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Hannah said, feeling her heart tighten a bit. He was really one of the best men she had ever met.
Back up in her temporary bedroom, Hannah slipped into an old oversized t-shirt she was planning on using as a nightdress, despite it barely coming down mid-thigh. No one was going to see her. She slept better when her legs weren’t all tangled and restricted in pants. She felt a moment of insecurity. What if she needed to go to the bathroom and ran into Sam? But she pushed the idea aside with an eye roll. This was Sam. Someone who had seen her in every state of dress from formal prom dress to bathing suits to huge ugly sweatpants. Hell, he had seen her naked for goodness sakes.
She laid down on the bedspread, curling up under the covers on her side like a sleeping child. Like she always did when she was stressed. Despite the many miles between her and the hate mail and the threats, despite the incredibly comfortable mattress and the quiet, despite the safety of having a man around… she couldn’t get her restless mind or body to settle. She tossed and turned as the sky outside her window deepened from the navy blue of evening to the pitch black of night.
Despite herself, her mind wandered toward thoughts of EM. He had to have received her note by then. Was he furious? Confused? Completely disinterested? She tried to convince herself that she cared only because she wanted her job when she returned, but she knew she was only trying to lie to herself. And not very well. There was a part of her that wanted to know if he was thinking about her because she hoped she was on his busy mind. She hoped she was more than a convenient choice. She hoped she might have actually been more than a body to have sex with.
It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.
Sex changes. Her mother had always told her just that. “Sex changes.”
As a teenager, she had always figured it meant that as you grew and your relationships evolved, so does the idea and desire for sex. She made it known that once you’re married, and once you have children, sex was not as pressing a concern as when you are a hormone-riddled teen.
But laying awake in bed, Hannah realized her mother meant it in a different way. Sex changes… everything. Even the women she knew like her friend Emily who had a healthy, great sex life were aware in rare, quiet moments that no amount of modern thought could change the truth. Once sex was part of the equation, the problem became a lot more complicated.
If she were being completely, stripped to the bone honest… she wanted Elliott. She wanted him. In her bed. In her house. Going out to eat with her. Seeing crappy movies. Hosting his ludicrous business parties and then curling up on the couch afterward, shoes scattered across the floor, and talking about the guests and their ridiculousness and then falling into bed and having sweet, passionate sex.
She wanted him in ways that were not possible. That would never be possible.
As she finally felt sleep clouding the chaotic musings of her mind, she admitted that she hadn’t been prepared for a man like Elliott Michaels. She had no defenses in place.
And, lastly, mom was right. Sex changes.
--
She woke up with a start, sitting up immediately, the kind of waking that happens when you lay down for a short nap and end up waking up six hours later not knowing what time, day, month, or year you are in. The sun was beaming mercilessly in the windows, making her squint and make a mental note to close the blinds when she went to bed next time.
She glanced at the pretty wrought-iron clock on the wall next to the door, a thin, intricate pattern of weeds and birds, and realized it was so late in the morning that it was almost afternoon. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, deliriously unaware of her bed-tangled hair and puffy eyes, she smelled the intoxicating scent of brewing coffee.
Stepping off the bottom stair, she thought she could hear voices but figured it was simply Sam on the phone or a radio or tv playing. Her right foot touched down on the impossibly cool kitchen tile and she froze.
Sam wasn’t on the phone. There was no radio or television. There in the middle of Sam’s kicthen was a woman. Hannah felt a stab of possessiveness that she pushed down immediately. Sam hadn’t been hers in years.
The woman was lovely in all the soft, inhumanely delicate ways she was not. Her face was a heart, with big round vivid green eyes with thick lashes, plump cheekbones, and small cupid’s-bow pink lips. Her hair was cut short, barely brushing her shoulders in a rich, chocolately velvet color. She was petite in the way she had always admired, short but not too short, with pixie small bone structure and thinness, but with a gentle curve to her hip and breast that made you acutely aware she was definitely a woman.
She was breathtaking. And quite dirty, Hannah realized. Her black yoga pants were covered in powdery light brown dirt from ankle to knee like she had been gardening. She also had dirt caked on her hands and under her fingernails. There was even a small, charming smudge across her jawbone.
She had been talking, a quiet, feminine voice all air and honey until she looked up and spotted Hannah. She fell suddenly silent, her mouth slightly open, creating an O. Hannah felt her eyes run her up once and she was painfully aware of her nearly naked legs and braless-ness.
Hannah watched as a stream of emotions crossed the girls wholly unguarded face. Surprise, sure. Then confusion. A quick flash of distaste. Before finally settling on heavy-lidded, down turned-lip hurt.
So Sam did have something going on. With this adorable, dirt-stained slip of a girl. Now she was in his house, half nude in his kitchen and this girl was hurt. Hannah felt guilt and sympathy well up until Sam finally noticed that the girl’s gaze was aimed at the doorway and he looked over.
“Oh Hannah…” he started, still smiling. Silly, oblivious male.
Hannah held up a hand, “Hold that thought, I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll go get dressed.”
Then the girl seemed to have recovered, her face a complete mask of indifference and Hannah had a surge of sisterly comradaree. Good for you, girl. “No no,” she said, waving a small, long-fingered hand, “it’s alright. I was just leaving,” she claimed, lying through her teeth. But she turned quickly and pulled open the French doors in a flash of angry woman.
“Annabelle…” Sam’s voice trailed off as the door slammed shut.
He looked at Hannah, his eyebrows furrowed in an uncharacteristically severe way. “Go, you idiot,” Hannah said, rolling her eyes and waving toward the door.
“Right,” Sam said, making it to the door in two strides.
Hannah closed the door behind him watching as he took across the field with the ease only long-legged people can, trying to catch up to the running figure of the lovely Annabelle who was making painfully slow progress with her small legs. Hannah felt a wave of pity. Maybe she should have told Sam to leave her alone. But no. What woman didn’t want, though they might deny it until they were in the grave, to be chased by a gorgeous man and have him fix your hurt feelings? It was all so wonderfully dramatic, so disgustingly romantic.
Annabelle was one lucky girl.
Hannah felt jealousy ebb and flow away. She was never going to be the kind of girl who got grand romantic gestures. She was the kind of girl who liked dark, mysterious, jerks and got stalkers. Yeah, that was her thing.
Twelve
Elliott felt an unusual frustration settle into every last nerve ending, into his very bones. She couldn’t just run away. He needed to talk to her. He needed to settle her nerves about this whole affair. Affair. He felt a unusual, almost hysterical laugh rise up in his throat at that word. Affair. He was actually having an affair. He couldn’t call this one of his one-night stands or a hookup. He was a married man and he had a woman in his life that he was planning to keep as a mistress.
It was all so horribly cliché. He was a textbook typical, successful, arrogant man. He felt like he should be embarrassed of himself. But the fact of the matter was he was never really supposed to marry Dan. How the hell that had even happened was a weird blur.
She had blown into his life, a hurricane of impossible-to-ignore perportions. She had been a different woman then. Or, maybe it was more appropriate to say, she wore the mask of another woman then. Dan had been every man’s ideal, gorgeous in an intimidating way with a brilliant smile and husky laugh. She had pushed herself into his social circle thanks to her father and made herself hard to ignore in her multitude of bright red dresses that screamed sex.
He had brushed her off, like a man accustomed to women who wanted to be near successful men. But she hadn’t been like those other women. She had grown up wealthy, had been raised in high society. Even the way she enunciated her words screamed of private schools and her quick wit spoke of the kind of confidence only wealthy people can wear readily. She had been an equal. And she knew it. And she knew that men loved a good challenge.
She would appear, flirt, suggest things. Then rebuff you when you came onto her in return. She made herself approachable, but not touchable.
It was only when she knew, she was absolutely certain she had him by the short hairs, that she fell into bed with him. And she did so with such wickedly wild abandon, such complete lack of shyness, that he found himself agreeing to whatever she wanted.
What the Heart Needs Page 18