“Why do you do this?” he whispers, his thumb brushing gently over the wound.
“I told you, I scraped myself.” Even though he knows I’m lying—I can tell by the pitiful look on his face—my self-preservation won’t let me act anything other than stupid. I push him away and fix my bra.
“You said that last time,” he says. When Reilly looks at me, I can’t help but feel shame and anger at the concern that fills his eyes. “Why do you do this to yourself?” His thumb brushes lightly around the red, irritated cut, and I slap his hand away.
“I said it’s nothing.” I push him away from me and jump down, scrambling to pull my shorts back up. They stick to my sweaty body, making it difficult, and my frustration only amplifies the more I struggle.
Reilly steps closer, his bare chest in front of me, a reminder of the mistake I almost made, and my anger builds to blazing. I can feel his gaze on me, burning against my skin as I hurriedly dress. “Sam, please—”
“God dammit! No, Reilly. Jesus! We make out and suddenly you think I’m going to bare my soul to you or something? I told you it’s nothing, so just leave it alone. Stop asking me about it.” I pull my tank top over my head, unable to even look at him.
“I think that was a little more than making out.”
When I look up, his cheeks are flushed and his chest is still heaving slightly.
“Yeah, well, thank God we stopped before it turned into something we’d both regret.” I pull my crooked ponytail out and run my fingers through my tousled hair. I stop halfway through, gripping at my hair, wishing I could pull this whole memory from existence. “I can’t believe I almost did that,” I mutter.
“Because being with me would be so horrible,” Reilly says, and the edge in his tone makes me bristle and cower at once. His sweat-sheened face is hardened when I look at him again.
“You know this isn’t easy, Josh. We’ll always be complicated. It’s as simple as that. This wasn’t going to make it better.” I have no idea where my decidedness comes from, but I embrace it. I need it now, more than ever.
“Look,” he says, pulling his shirt back over his chest.
I hurry past him, out the open stall door.
Reilly steps out behind me. “I know you don’t want to talk to me about it, and I get it, but you should talk to someone. You can’t just keep doing this to yourself. It’s not—”
I round on him. “—your business!”
His eyes widen, round with surprise, then turn hard and cold. His jaw clenches.
“You don’t get to show up after being gone for four years and decide you want to be with me, to decide you want to protect me and be a part of my life again, Josh. I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone. I’ve been doing fine on my own—”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
“—so leave me the fuck alone!” My body is trembling, my vision clouding with tears, and I clamp my mouth shut, locking in the impending scream rising in my throat.
Reilly’s nostrils flare, and I wait for him to yell something horrible back at me, but he just takes a step back, gives me a curt nod, like he finally understands, then walks past me, out the stable entrance.
Shit. Shit. Shit! “Josh,” I breathe, rubbing the back of my neck. There are too many thoughts and too much feeling to know what’s right and wrong anymore. I follow after him. “I’m sorry, it’s just that . . .”
But he is already disappearing toward the hill, and the last ounce of pride I have left prevents me from running out after him. So I stand in the stable, dumb with my racing, miserable heart, feeling more humiliated and tangled and broken than I know what to do with.
Twenty-Five
Sam
“So, are you wearing the red, off-the-shoulder cocktail dress or the one with the black lace bodice and the tan chiffon skirt?” Though I can hear Mac speaking, I’m too busy staring out the window and down the drive, searching for approaching headlights.
“Sam?”
Standing up straight, I turn and face my full-length mirror for the seventh time to double-check that everything is in its place. “I’m wearing the black bodice with chiffon skirt. I decided on the black heels and that pink lipstick you gave me.” I stare at my somewhat exposed cleavage. “I look like a slut, Mac. I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
“I guarantee you don’t look like a slut, Sam. Wait, how did you do your hair? You didn’t put it up in a god-awful bun, did you?”
I can’t help but laugh. “You would be proud of me . . . I think. I left it down, and before you ask, yes, I also showered and shaved my legs.”
“Thank God.” She lets out a breath.
“I even pulled out that big curling iron I haven’t used since prom.”
“You better take a selfie and send it to me.”
I laugh. “I am not taking a selfie. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“Come on, Sam. This is epic. Nick won’t believe it either.”
I roll my eyes and wipe a smudge from beneath my eyes. “You’re hilarious.” I let out a deep breath of my own, wondering if I’m being utterly ridiculous in even entertaining the idea of this date with Adam. But then Reilly comes to mind and I’m more than grateful for a bit of a distraction, especially after what happened yesterday.
“Ouch!” Mac shouts into the phone.
“Are you okay?”
She groans. “Yes, I’m trying to wax my eyebrows. I think the wax is too hot.”
I chuckle, picturing her squinting with one eye open and wax coating her face. “No more Francesca?” I ask. “I believe you referred to her as ‘the one’ the last time you went to her.”
Mac grunts, and there’s muffled movement on the other end. “Yeah, well, if I can save twenty bucks a month and do it myself, I’m willing to give it a go. I’m never going to get my own place at the rate I’m going.”
I appraise myself once more in the mirror, the nerves starting to bubble up again.
“Doesn’t it feel nice to get gussied up?” Mac says, like she can see me.
“Um, actually, it feels like I’m trying too hard. What’s wrong with a summer dress and sandals?”
“Sam, you’re not in high school anymore. You’re an adult. This is a legitimate date. It doesn’t hurt you to dress up every once in a while.”
I can hear Mr. Carmichael calling Mac in the background. “I gotta go, Sam. Apparently my dad’s burning down the kitchen. Call me when you get home so I can hear all about Prince Charming in the flesh.”
I say goodbye with the promise to do so, no matter what time I get home. I’ve only known Adam for a total of six hours and three phone calls, not nearly enough to consider him my Prince Charming, though the jumping beans in my stomach would suggest him more than just an acquaintance.
Just as I’m second-guessing my dress choice, I hear a knock at the front door. “Shit!” I panic, not wanting Alison to answer in her robe with her words slurred from too much drink. I just hope to God she’s already passed out or in the shower.
Grabbing the clutch and pathetic excuse for a sweater Mac made me promise to use so that I didn’t grab something of my own, I practically prance downstairs to get the door. Alison is just about to get off the couch as I reach the living room.
“I got it, you don’t have to get up. I’ll be home late.” I hurry past her, toward the front door.
“Where are you going? And what are you wearing?” I’m afraid to turn around, to hear what derogatory comments she has tonight, but then she simply says, “Have fun,” and I’m out the door, nearly falling into Adam’s arms.
“Good evening, beautiful,” he says as he appraises me in the porch light. “Wow, you look amazing.”
I blush, the level of ridiculousness I feel in wearing this getup quickly diminishing as Adam scans me from head to toe, slower and more appraising this time. I straighten and smile, feeling a tad more confident. “Good evening yourself, and thank you.”
“Shall we?” He gestures toward his shi
nny Audi parked in the driveway.
Adam walks me around to the passenger side, and I can’t help but feel a little giddy. “I think this is the first time in years I’ve ridden in a vehicle without four-wheel drive and a hitch in the back.” Though it’s intended as a joke, it’s sadly the truth.
Adam chuckles, his eyes gleaming with what I hope is intrigue in the interior lights as he helps me step inside.
“Such service . . .” I say, batting my eyelashes. “I’m not sure a country girl knows what to do with such chivalry.”
Adam shuts the passenger door, leaving behind the scent of aftershave. It smells rich, almost floral, and expensive, and I surprise myself when I close my eyes and inhale, uncertain if I like it or not. Like it matters.
Adam opens the driver’s side door and climbs in. “What, no cowboys swooping you off your feet?” he says, continuing our conversation from before. “No guys lining up at your door, asking your father to court you, despite his massive gun collection?”
My smile falters, but only momentarily, before I salvage what I can. “Believe it or not, chivalry is pretty dead in these parts.” Clasping my hands in my lap, I take a deep breath. “So, where are you taking me tonight?” When I glance at Adam, he’s watching me, a curious look on his face.
“Last time I was in town, I ate at this great place called the Apple and the Pear. Have you been there?”
I stifle my laugh and bite my tongue, holding my impending sarcasm back. “No, I haven’t tried it yet,” I say pleasantly. Adam is a nice guy who has no idea what my life has consisted of the past three years and counting. He has no clue that I could never justify spending the money it would cost to eat there for one fancy meal. “I hear it’s great.”
“Perfect, I think you’ll really like it.”
The rest of the conversation into town is superficial, but I like it that way. It seems neither one of us wants to talk about anything too personal, seeing that we barely know one another, so there are no awkward moments of tension or reflections of the past. We talk amicably about the summer and how fast time is going by. We discuss his sister’s final year of college in the next town over, Stockum University, where Nick is also attending. And we talk about horses, or at least his lack of knowledge of them, and his desire to one day move to Kentucky and invest in horse racing.
“Can I ask you why you enjoy horses so much when you aren’t much of a rider?”
The easy expression on Adam’s face tenses a bit, and I’m worried I’ve pried too much. Adam shakes his head. “It’s something my wife always wanted,” he says and clears his throat. “But she was never able to have.”
Wanted? “Oh, Adam, I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to make it seem like the fact that he’s a widower is so much of a surprise.
“Target was originally for her. But she was in an accident, and, well, Tara asked to keep him with her here at school, and I didn’t have the heart to say no.”
Our conversation is cut short when Adam stops the car outside of a brick building. A valet attendant runs to open my car door.
“Good evening, miss.”
I smile as he helps me out of the car. “Good evening. Thank you.” Mac was right, I would’ve felt horrible had I shown up here in my turquois sundress and cowboy boots.
Adam comes around from the driver’s side and I want to say something, want him to know how sorry I am and apologize for bringing up the sore topic of his wife, but he smiles at the hostess as we walk in and I decide to leave it alone.
Gazing around, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that although it is an upscale place, it’s casual-elegant with festival lighting on the terrace outside and chaises surrounding a fire pit, and the waitstaff are professional but comfortable, wearing dark denim jeans and matching black polos. There’s nothing about this place that makes me feel too terribly out of place, and what little tension in my body remains, desists.
The hostess shows us to our table, which is happily situated by a window and illuminated by the outside lights. A soft glow flickers inside a frosted votive holder on the table, and a basket of bread and what’s no doubt house-made butter with a sprig of lavender awaits us. “Wow,” I say, grinning from ear to ear, excited to be on my first real date as an adult.
I think Adam senses my amusement and winks at me as we take our seat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to sit outside.”
“This is great, really. This place is amazing.” Smile lingering, I peer down at the menu and nearly choke. Not only am I unsure what half of the items listed actually are, but even the appetizers start in the double digits. Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, what’s good to eat here? It all looks so amazing, I’m not sure what to order.”
Folding his napkin in his lap, Adam leans forward, as if he’s going to whisper something for only me to hear. “Do you like wine?” he asks.
I tilt my head, allowing a small, secretive smile. “Perhaps.”
“Perfect,” he whispers again. “Let’s start with a vintage red and we’ll see what the specials are tonight.”
Although I’m not used to a man ordering for me, I don’t mind it in a place like this, a place where gésiers de canard, haricots verts, and winter chicories sound like French double entendres that make me blush just thinking about them rather than a delectable food.
“Adam,” I say. Gently scooting my silverware off the napkin, I unfold it and lay it across my lap. “Is this menu in French?”
His eyebrows draw together and he shakes his head. “I apologize, Sam, I wasn’t thinking. Yes, it is, and unless you enjoy eating duck gizzards—which are quite good, actually—I recommend the monkfish.” He says it as if I’ve ever eaten monkfish before, as if I even know what the hell a monkfish is.
Unwilling to let my country-bumpkinism show, I smile and nod, praying I’ll like monkfish. If I’m lucky, I tell myself, the portions will be small and I can fill up on dessert. My stomach is suddenly rumbling with hunger, and I open the basket of bread. It’s still warm, fresh out of the oven.
Adam orders a bottle of wine, and while we’re waiting for the waiter to come back to take our dinner orders, we somehow get on the topic of his investment company.
“Hedge funds are trickier than most people realize,” Adam starts to explain, and I try to stay focused. I find the green in his eyes less striking than I had remembered, the curve of his mouth less intriguing. At least compared to a certain someone I refuse to think about while I’m on a date.
“People who bracket between well-heeled status and the average American aren’t so keen on the ways of investing as they probably should be. Regulations are totally different and . . .”
I smell his aftershave wafting off of him as he sits back in his chair. Or is it cologne? Is there a difference? It almost smells familiar. It’s not subtle, like what a masculine scent should smell like, more ostentatious and less natural.
Adam’s laughter interrupts my quiet musings. “Isn’t that unreal?” He shakes his head, like he’s entertained by whatever he just said, and I hate that I wasn’t even listening.
I know I should feel guilty for paying no attention, but I’m too busy scrambling for something to say. I simper and nod as I reach for my glass of water. “Well, I guess that’s why they have you,” I say. I feel a tinge of relief when the waiter walks toward us, the bottle of red wine in his hands.
“Mademoiselle,” he says with a thick, French accent. He shows me the embossed label, then shows Adam.
Adam nods for the waiter to open the bottle and pulls his vibrating phone from his pocket. “Excuse me,” Adam says, an apologetic smile on his face. His brow furrows as he stares at the screen, and his gaze shifts to me. He presses his index finger to his lips, as if I’d try to talk to him while he’s on the phone, and he accepts the call.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. His voice is a bit somber, like he might be sad or angry. I try not to pay attention as I busy myself looking through my clutch. Lip gloss, mints, my cell—
The waiter p
ours a splash of wine in my glass, and then he stands there as if he’s waiting for me to try it. I set my clutch aside and reach for the wineglass. I stick my nose over the brim and inhale, because I think that’s what he’s waiting for me to do, and then I take a sip.
The smile on the waiter’s face broadens, so I allow mine to as well. He holds out the bottle. I set my glass back down, allowing him to pour more inside, and exhale in relief that I seemed to do alright, that the waiter doesn’t think me a complete idiot.
Adam shakes his head and mouths “sorry” as Sweetheart talks to him on the other end.
Smiling, I take another sip of my wine, surprised by how smooth and smoky it tastes.
“Well, maybe we need to get you a different therapist, then.”
I glance at him, though he doesn’t notice, more curious this time. Is he talking to Tara?
“No, I didn’t pick up your prescriptions. Tara was supposed to do that after her study group today.”
An internal alarm starts buzzing, and the more his brow furrows, the more uneasy I am. I find that I’m paying more attention to his conversation, and I wonder why he didn’t step away to take his call.
“I didn’t receive your call earlier. I’ve been in meetings all day.” His voice turns frustrated and a little edgy. “Fine, I’ll come home. I’m not mad. I was trying to have dinner with a business associate.”
And just as I’m reduced to a business associate, it hits me. It’s not men’s cologne I smell on Adam, but women’s perfume, or lotion, or something I’ve smelled a hundred times at Mike’s house. It’s what his mom always smelled like. I liked it at the time because I told myself I liked her, but now it’s too pungent and the scent makes me nauseous.
I’m about to rise from the table when Adam sets his phone down.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says. “I was hoping to be able to have a night out—a night away, but—”
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 24