“But you came to campus. I slammed into you.” Her voice sounded sharp in her own ears. She moved her hands down—just enough to see him over her fingertips.
“You did.” Alex smiled softly. “You barreled out of that lecture hall and into my life. I came to campus to catch a glimpse of you, not to meet you.” He paused. “I didn’t plan it. You could say ‘I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.’”
“Not funny. Quoting Darcy will not get you out of this. First that proposal and now this . . . You asked me to marry you. Was I going to stumble across my letters someday? How long were you going to let me write? Forever? Were you—”
“Sam, stop. I wanted to tell you. I was going to, I promise.”
“But you didn’t. Not until I pushed you into meeting me. Not until . . . you read my lette—in the e-mail! How could you do this to me?” She fluttered her hands, trying to encompass the enormity of the pain and exposure.
Alex leaned forward and stretched out his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I tried so many times, and I tried not to cross that line. To keep a distance until you knew the truth. I screwed up.”
“You crossed that line every day. With every letter. Kyle, you know about Kyle . . . my appendix, my classes . . . why I run . . . my parents, Josh . . . you know all about him.” Sam gasped. “You’re another Josh.”
“Don’t say that. I love you. Every bit of you. I’m not a Josh.” Alex’s voice became hoarse and raspy. “Please forgive me.”
“I . . . I can’t. You’re not who I thought you were.” Sam dropped her hands and watched Alex’s eyes travel with them. His gaze rested on her fists, clenched at her sides. Neither spoke. And then she did the only thing she could—she turned and walked out the door.
As she rounded the corner, she heard Alex gulp in a wrecked breath. It sounded like a sob, but she refused to consider it. She reached the hall before her legs gave way, and she grabbed the wall for support. She looked toward the lobby and remembered the Muirs waited there. She couldn’t handle their questions. Not now. She slid down the wall and held her head in her hands. How could he?
Her legs ached. Eventually the thoughts stopped firing and only a soft gray color remained in her mind. She slid further down and sat, truly believing she could rest there and never move again. She closed her eyes and knocked the back of her head against the wall. The thump felt good.
She felt someone sit next to her, but she didn’t open her eyes.
“I thought I’d find you out here.” The professor. Dad.
“You know?”
“He told us everything last night. I’ve never been so angry in my life. I don’t know what he was thinking. The cowardice, the deceit . . .”
“I can’t forgive him.”
“You don’t have to. You can walk away.”
“Walk away?” Sam’s eyes popped open.
“You trusted Mr. Knightley. Alex betrayed that trust. He played false.” The anger in his voice startled her. She knew how deeply he loved Alex.
Sam closed her eyes and imagined life without Alex, and then she pictured Alex’s life without the Muirs. She saw herself walking away. No Alex. Then her heart squeezed tight. No Alex? And the Muirs? Life without the Muirs would kill him. Was that what she wanted to do to him?
The professor cut through her thoughts. “I guarantee this whole thing terrified Alex. What a mess. I haven’t seen him so invested, not even in—”
“He was scared, Dad. You said it yourself, and even I see that.” Sam thumped her head against the wall again, letting weariness wash over her.
“That doesn’t excuse him.”
“It doesn’t, but you can’t walk away.”
“I won’t,” the professor whispered and bumped her shoulder.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her.
“I love him like he’s my own son.” He paused and bumped her shoulder again. “But you are my daughter, dear Samantha, and I stand with you. I will do whatever is needed to protect you. You can walk away and never see Alex again if that is your wish.”
Sam felt a single tear fall as she absorbed the depth of his commitment and love for her. She sat for a moment. “I don’t know.”
He smiled, soft and knowing. “What don’t you know?”
“Part of me wants to walk. I’ll admit it.” Sam swiped at fresh tears. “But, Dad, that’s not who I want to be, always running away. This summer meant more than that. Alex and I . . . we became friends. No, we were more than that. We understood each other. I let him in, Dad.” Sam paused. “I thought when he walked away this fall that I’d misunderstood, but I hadn’t.”
The professor took her hand and squeezed it, but he said nothing.
“But now it’s all wrong. Was I a game to him?” Sam’s voice cracked.
“No, darling, no. You musn’t think that.” The professor nudged his arm around her and held her tight. “It wasn’t a game at all. From what Alex told us last night, you mean everything to him. Besides, he’s never been good at games.” He chuckled lightly. “Think about this . . . remember when you asked us not to tell Alex about your past?”
Sam nodded.
“We never did. But he’s known all along, and rather than go away, he pressed closer.” He paused and let his words sink in. “He did it all wrong, Sam. We both know that, but it wasn’t a game. As you just said, the boy was scared. Can you understand fear like that?”
“What do I do?”
“That’s between you and Alex . . . but I agree with your instincts. Don’t run away. Walk away, if that’s what you decide, after all is said and done, but wait for that moment. You’ll feel it when it comes and then, perhaps, you can leave with no regrets.” He sighed and shifted his weight. “My dear, my knees are killing me. Help me stand?”
Sam smiled and pulled him up, and he tugged her into a deep hug.
“You’re known and loved, my dear girl. You always were.”
Sam nodded and held on tight. His words sifted deep within her. She was known and loved and had been all along . . . by Alex too. He had seen her heart from the beginning, and rather than walk away—Alex sought her, pursued her, and fell in love with her. Her heart softened.
Then she recalled how he went about it . . .
She felt her jaw grow tight and noticed the professor watching her. He chuckled.
“I’m going to find your mother. She’s a nervous wreck. But I think you have some talking to do here.” He nodded toward Alex’s door and walked down the hall.
Sam looked through the doorway. Alex held his fists pushed into his eyes and his chest rose in an exaggerated fashion, as if he too was finding it difficult to draw air. Sam remembered his words—I let people down, then run like a coward before it hits the fan—and Ashley’s indictment from the day before—You rejected him so he couldn’t hurt you. You had to be the last one standing. All alone.
So much mess, so much pain—the professor was right. There was talking to do.
Sam stepped into the room. “How many ribs are broken?”
“I thought you’d left. I thought you hated me . . . What?”
“What’s broken? What hurts?”
“Three ribs, they took my spleen . . . I don’t know. Why?”
“I want you to hurt really badly right now . . . Because you’ve hurt me. You need to share in that.”
“I can’t hurt any worse.” Alex studied her. “But I won’t run, Sam. No matter what, I’ll take it. I’ll stick.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“I wrote that to Mr. Knightley . . . You don’t get to use my words. They weren’t meant for you . . . Look what you’ve done, Alex. You’ve messed this all up.” She took one step forward. “I’m mad . . . so mad I can’t see straight. But you know that because you know exactly how I think, how I feel things—because I’ve armed you. I gave all that to Mr. Knightley, and now you’ve got it.”
She paused to organize her feelings. It felt crucial to say h
ow she felt, not to hide, but to stand. “I’m angry, and worse, I’m hurt. I feel betrayed.”
“I know, and you’re right.” Alex looked out the window. “I should’ve written you back last year. Remember when you asked? Right after your time with Kyle?”
Sam cringed.
“I could’ve ended this. I was a coward. We both know that. But you needed Mr. Knightley. I couldn’t take him from you. I wanted you to need me.”
“You never gave me the choice.”
“If I could take it back, I would. You must know that . . . I know you said I can’t quote Mr. Darcy, but that is exactly how it was for me. ‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.’ And that’s how it felt, Sam. I can’t recall a moment in which I didn’t love you. But I made a mistake. I thought I could walk that line and know you as both Knightley and me—we could remain separate. And then it was too late.
“It happened so fast. You were at the Muirs’ for dinner. And then you were in my life and they kept talking about you, keeping you in front of me. And your letters . . . I am so sorry. I never should have come to Chicago. I should’ve stayed away, but I wanted to be near you. I wanted you to feel the same—about me. But I was too scared. Too scared to tell you the truth. Too scared to lose you. And now . . .”
Alex reached toward her, and Sam involuntarily took a step forward. She caught herself and stopped.
Tears gathered in Alex’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. “Forgive me, Sam. Deep down, please know I’d rather die than hurt you. Please . . .”
“Stop, Alex. Stop crying.” Despite the pain, Sam realized she felt strong. She felt whole. She also remembered why she had come—to put Alex first. Had that changed?
“Please give me another chance.” The vulnerability in his voice and the softening in her heart brought her another step forward. “I’m in this for keeps. Whatever it takes to make this right, to make you stay, to make you safe. Just don’t leave. We belong together.”
“I don’t know who we are,” Sam whispered.
“We’re Alex and Sam. And we’re a mess. That’s partly why we’re so perfect for each other.” Their eyes caught, and Alex smiled. “How else can two such dysfunctional people fall in love?”
Sam laughed through her tears. There was truth in his statement. “I never said I loved you.”
Alex quirked his eyebrow.
“Fine. I told Mr. Knightley, you jerk.” She let out an exasperated sigh.
“Come here.” Alex patted the bed next to him.
“Why?”
“I can’t reach you over there.”
“That’s awfully close.”
“I’m not the enemy.” Alex’s broader smile compelled her to take the last few steps. She sat on the edge of his bed and stared at her lap. She saw his hand reach as if to touch her fingers, then it withdrew.
“I want us to get to know each other. No more lies and no more letters.” He reached for her fingers. “All I want is to be with you—completely, passionately, and forever.” Alex moved one hand up to her face and brushed a tear resting under her eye, but he didn’t let her go. “We can’t start over, and I don’t want to. All of this is a part of us. Good, bad, and ugly, Sam, this is our story.”
“Don’t put it in a book.”
Alex laughed softly. “I promise. But I want to hear about everything from you, as me. I want to meet Kyle, and Father John, and Ashley.”
“You want it all, don’t you?” Sam’s voice wavered.
“Yes. I want all of you, and I’ll work every day to earn your trust and your forgiveness.”
They sat in silence and, after a few moments, she felt peace steal over her.
“I’d like to go running.”
“I wish I could join you. Ten miles and we could work this out.”
“It’d only take six.”
“What do you mean?” The hope dancing in Alex’s voice made Sam smile.
“I mean I can forgive you . . . and I do, Alex. Part of me understands all this. I hid for years, and I hurt people. But now I don’t know how to let go of this feeling, this hurt. Six miles and I could sort it out. But on my own . . . here . . . ?” She glanced around the room, fluttering her hands.
Alex sighed. “You’re not on your own.” He grasped her hands and pulled her closer. “I’m right here.” He paused, then whispered, “May I kiss you?”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.” As she nodded, Alex moved his hands to the sides of her face and gently pulled her toward him. He kissed her softly, with reverence. “Forever, Sam. I’ll love you forever.”
Sam bit her bottom lip. Questioning the kiss? Savoring it? Maybe both. She felt her eyes drift shut. I’m okay. I feel . . . I feel . . . joy. The lightness surprised her. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as she imagined it to be. She could breathe. Alex caught her expression.
“What?”
“I love you too, Alex.”
Alex smiled and pulled her across his chest, stifling a small gasp of pain. Undeterred, he settled her there and she fit perfectly. He kissed her again, this time unable to keep his love and his passion quite so contained.
A thought drifted through Sam’s head . . . Only daring to hope for a little respite of suffering;—she was now in an exquisite flutter of happiness . . . and she smiled. Finally, she knew what it felt like to be Emma.
Moments passed before Alex held Sam a few inches away, unwilling to let her go any farther. “What did that kiss say?” he whispered.
Sam almost reacted, but the softness in his voice stopped her. He wanted to know. And while she suspected this was going to be a twist to the game they played, it felt too soon, too raw. “You’re quoting my letters again.”
“I’m sorry.” Alex hesitated. “I just want you to know how much I . . .”
“It said nothing.” Sam watched his face drop, and relished the new and exciting—and flirtatious—power she held. Power, she conceded, that shouldn’t be abused. “It was a ‘completely, perfectly, and incandescently happy’ moment,” she said.
“Ah . . . you’re cheating. That was from the movie, my darling Mrs. Darcy.”
“Yes, it was.” This time Sam reached for Alex.
Dedication
To Elizabeth, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth. In that order . . . And to Mason—Always. I love you. Thank you.
Chapter 1
ONE MISSTEP CAN KILL A NEW YORK RESTAURANT.
During cooking school we scoffed at Chef Palmer’s warning, knowing it was true but equally certain it couldn’t happen to us—and certainly not to me, Palmer’s protégé. I shifted the spices back and forth in the sauté pan, dwelling over each word, each inflection, and my many recent missteps.
“Elizabeth? You good?” Tabitha, my sous chef, tapped my shoulder.
“Sure . . . just thinking.” I glanced around the kitchen. “Palmer. We’re slow tonight, even for a weeknight.”
“Sounding the death knell?”
“Too soon?” I matched Tabitha’s sarcasm with sincerity.
She pinched me. “Stop it.”
“I was only kidding. Besides, we’re up this week in reservations and walk-ins.” I tilted my head toward the steel door leading to the dining room. “Is she here?”
“Just walked in.” Tabitha paused. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Getting a critic to disagree with the Village Voice review will diminish its power. We need that.”
“Not if she reinforces it.” Tabitha flicked my hand. “Careful.”
An acrid smell struck me. I’d over-toasted the spices again. I shook the pan over the compost bin, wiped it with a rag, and tossed it onto the burner grate. The clank reverberated through the stainless steel kitchen, louder than the chaos around us.
I leaned back against the counter and closed my eyes.
“I’ll do that,” Tabitha said. “Go wander. Chat her up. Face tim
e with critics helps.”
“That’s not a good idea right now.” I waved to the pan. “You go. You’re better at that stuff. I’ll fix this.”
“No one wants to see the sous chef.” She started sorting more spices.
“Fine.” I smoothed my hands down my apron and pushed through the door, glancing down at tables as I crossed the dining room.
A few customers tried to catch my eye, but the critic was somewhere, and I was afraid to see her selection, her eyes, her possible disappointment. Instead I focused on the dishes. The grilled sea bass with lime cucumber salsa caught my eye—on point and executed without flaw. Yet it lay lifeless and flat on the white china plate. What was wrong? A missing ingredient? Did it need something new? I chased the questions around the dining room before beelining back to the kitchen.
“Did you have fun?”
I rolled my eyes, and Tabitha’s narrowed in response as she moved on to a balsamic reduction. “I need to tell you something else.” She pushed a bowl of perfectly toasted spices to me.
“What?”
“Paul toured a man around your kitchen today.” She waited until she had my attention. “He was in street clothes, but he was a chef. The way he inspected the knives, the stoves . . . either that or the health board.”
“What time was this?”
“Around noon.”
“But he knew I was coming in late today.” I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll talk to him about it. Let’s finish service.”
The Wednesday evening progressed without another hitch, but I felt compressed and tight—so unlike long-ago evenings that were fun, vibrant, and flawless, when tough work energized rather than drained. Tonight my baseline required Herculean effort; a part of my mind couldn’t stop puzzling over Paul’s mystery visitor.
When the kitchen slowed, I gave up manufacturing a game face and headed to the alley. I propped the back door open with the broken stop and leaned against the brick wall. I was not stupid enough to close my eyes here—after all, it was a dark alley in New York’s meatpacking district—but I was desperate enough to stand there alone for as long as it took to regain a hint of equanimity.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 25