I lean forward. “Are you trying to justify being with me when you should be home with your wife? I thought you said she was dead.”
He plucks the napkin from his lap. “I never said that,” he starts, and I feel my cheeks burn. “And I wasn’t lying when I said she was in an accident.” He drops his unused napkin on the table. “I’m her caregiver now, nothing more. She lives here with my sister most of the time so she can take care of her, since I’m travelling so much.”
I watch him, astonished and dumbfounded that he doesn’t even feel the need to lie to me—to try to make himself look better.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says again. He stands and fishes out a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “Unless you feel differently, I want you to know that this doesn’t change anything—with the horse, I mean.” He points to the vintage on the table. “Enjoy the wine.”
And just like that, Adam Naser walks away, leaving me to stare at his empty chair, my mind reeling. He has a wife. Mr. Exotic Dreamboat—who wasn’t really as dreamy as I thought—ditched me at a fancy restaurant with a full bottle of wine embossed with a name I can’t even pronounce. Suddenly, Tara’s busy schedule starts to make sense.
When the waiter shows up to take our order, after already waiting patiently for Adam to finish his call, he looks at Adam’s empty seat, confused.
I take a greedy gulp from my wineglass. “Mr. Naser won’t be coming back. Apparently his wife needed him.” I flash the waiter a disgusted smile.
The waiter eyes me wearily and then his expression softens. He holds up the bottle of wine. “More wine, Mademoiselle?”
I smile. “Yes, please. It’s the best part of the whole night.”
The waiter asks if I’m still hungry, but I shake my head. I hand him the $100 and tell him to keep it, all of it, and hope it’s enough to cover the cost of the wine.
Assuming hysterical laughter in the middle of a fancy restaurant would be problematic, I decide I should call Mac to come get me. The line doesn’t even ring once, but goes straight to voicemail. “It’s Mac. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.” I look at the display on my phone. It’s only 7:30. She can’t possibly be asleep already. I hang up, wait a few seconds, then try again. “It’s Mac. Leave me a—” I hang up. Where the hell is she? Taking a few more sips of wine, I tear off a piece of bread and slather it in butter. Then, I try her cell again. Same thing.
Leaning back in my chair, I know calling Alison is pointless. She’d be in no shape to pick me up, so that leaves Nick. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Sam, what’s up?” I can hear music in the background and a mob of voices. I hate that I’m bothering him while he’s at work.
I swallow a mouthful of bread. “Um, I’m sorry to bug you, Nick. I didn’t realize you’d be working. It’s no big deal.” I wipe the corners of my mouth and sit back in my chair.
He’s quiet a moment. “Sam, what’s going on? I thought you had your date tonight.”
I lean my elbows on the table and laugh-sigh. “Yeah, well, he’s sort of married, apparently, and he left.” I catch myself as my laugh loudens, and I glance around the restaurant. “His wife just called and he had to go home, or to the hotel or whatever. I don’t know.”
“What?” I can hear the anger in his voice, and I wish I hadn’t called him. “You’re fucking joking me. Tara’s brother asked you out, and he’s married? Like that’s not going to be awkward at all later.”
“I’m trying not to think about that right now.” I tap my fingers on the table. “I called Mac, but I keep getting her voicemail. I’ll figure something out though, okay? I don’t want you leaving work or anything. I can always walk to Lick’s and wait for you to get off.”
“Where are you?”
I tear off another piece of bread and shove it in my mouth. “I’m downtown, at the Apple and the Pear.”
“Just stay there. That’s like four miles away and Mac told me she was going to make you wear heels.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“Gee, thanks, but I think I can manage,” I say flatly.
“Just hang tight, Sam. I’ll be right there.”
“Take your time,” I say. “I have a whole bottle of wine to drink until you get here . . . it’s vintage,” I say, as if it matters.
Twenty-Six
Reilly
I’m painting my empty, old bedroom, which the realtor wants to list as an office with a bath, when in reality they aren’t even attached. It’s not like it matters to me, I guess. I’m just trying to get out of here as soon as possible.
It’s a weird feeling, though, trying to picture a family living in this house, everything shiny and smelling like fresh paint, so different than before that it’s barely recognizable. It even feels different. I peer around my old room, wondering how the next owners will decorate it, oblivious to the lives of the people who lived here before them.
I drop the paint roller in the tray, deciding a break from the fumes is probably a good idea. The house creaks as I walk through it, but the hardwood floors are sturdy and new, the ceiling is painted and the roof is fixed. The windows and the porch are replaced, the living room decorated with basic furniture, enough for staging, and the master bedroom and bath are done. All of which makes me hopeful that I can sell it sooner than I thought.
Walking into the kitchen, I try to ignore everything I still need to do in here, and I grab a cold soda out of the fridge. This is the one room in the house that still needs to be completely gutted, but while it means that there’s light at the end of the tunnel, it’s still too far off to get excited yet.
I head out to the porch, inhale the fresh night air, and as I sit down in a teakwood rocking chair, facing the direction of Sam’s place, I realize this is probably counterproductive.
I want to forget about her so bad it hurts. I don’t want to care, I don’t want to think about her, and I can’t be just her friend, not after I’ve tasted her again, not after I’ve held her and felt her against me. Not after I’ve seen the pain in her eyes that I want to cure or soothe or even just be present for so that she doesn’t feel so alone. I know the feeling—being alone. It was my life until I met her. Everyone thought they understood me and my life, but they didn’t. Somehow, Sam did.
But she doesn’t want me or my help. She’s too stubborn to admit it anyway, and I’m tired. Distance is the only defense I have left. A temporary stay was the plan all along for a reason, something to remind myself of the next time I try to get beneath her false smiles just for her to push me back out again. A part of me hates that I care so much, but then I think about her jumping from the rock last weekend and the light in her eyes after. She was different, alive. She slipped up and showed me a hidden part of herself, and I want more.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I fish it out. Nick’s number flashes on the screen. I know he’s at the bar, working. Reluctantly, I answer. “Hello.”
“Hey, I have a favor to ask you,” he says as I crack open my soda.
“That doesn’t sound good.” I take a swig from the cold can and rock back and forth, waiting. “Well?”
“I know she’s not your favorite person right now, man, but I need you to pick Sam up for me. It’s a long story, but she was ditched by her date, and I’m not off until two. It’s just me and Savannah, I can’t leave her right now. It’s crackin’ in here tonight.”
I lean my head on the back of the chair and stare up at the moths and bugs fluttering around the porch light.
I know I’m probably going to regret this. “Where’s she at?”
Moth to a goddamn flame.
Twenty-Seven
Sam
Where is he? I groan and stare at the half-empty bottle of wine I’m turning around in my hands. This wine, from Bordeaux, is quite delicious, and luckily for me, it helps to lessen the sting of being ditched within the first twenty minutes of my date.
I reach for my wineglass, realizing that it’s empty. Instead of pouring myself a new
glass, I reach for Adam’s, still untouched. “You don’t mind, do you?” I ask his vacant seat. Smiling at my cleverness, or the fact that I’m losing my mind, I lean back and watch the red wine swirl around and around. Around and around. Just like my thoughts of Mr. Joshua Reilly.
Surprisingly, Papa comes to mind too, and no matter how adamant I am that I need to keep my distance from Reilly, that we won’t work, I know Papa would be disappointed with me—the way I’ve handled it, the way I know I’ve hurt Reilly. I know he probably never wants to see me again, not after yesterday. His eyes dulled, almost deadened right in front of me and I can only imagine what he thinks of me now.
Taking a hearty sip, I realize I’ve probably ruined everything between us. I count how many horrible things I’ve said or done to him, and when I run out of fingers, I take another drink.
The minutes tick on as I wait for Nick. Couples come and go, and the waiter checks on me a couple times, refilling my glass when he realizes it’s empty. I can tell by his drawn brow that he feels sorry for me, so I smile at him, just happy he’s not kicking me out since I’m not ordering anything else.
I’m about to call Nick again when I hear a familiar voice coming from the doorway.
“Sam?” A chill licks up my spine, and I squeeze my eyes shut, take a deep breath, and exhale before I turn around. Mike’s walking toward my table, a tall brunette hanging from his arm. Of course this is one of Mike’s pretentious hangouts. Why wouldn’t it be? I flash him a pretty smile and wave as if his sudden presence doesn’t bother me in the least. And I guess it really doesn’t, it’s just annoying.
His eyes lock at my cleavage for a heartbeat before shifting to my face, and his tall, slender date, with double D’s and enough collagen in her lips to make it look like she is permanently smiling, looks me up and down, too.
“How are you, Sam? You look . . . different.” He flashes me a smile that a year ago, hell maybe even six months ago, might’ve left me feeling uneasy, but given the amount of wine filling my veins and the more pressing matters in my life right now, it just seems repugnant and pathetic.
I scan his attire, from his loafers and khakis to his predictable button-collar polo. “Well, you don’t, Mike.” Feeling strangely steady in his presence, my false smile broadens. “How many women are you screwing at once these days?” I look to his date. “Are you number two or three?”
The smile on the brunette’s face falls, and Mike’s eyes narrow on me. I’m certain I could win an Oscar for the performance I’m about to launch into—but then Reilly walks through the door. His presence unnerves me more than Mike’s ever could, and my confidence skidders and crumbles.
“Sam,” Reilly says, low and steady, as he walks up to us, glaring at Mike.
I close my gaping mouth. “Uh, Josh . . .” I glance between them. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I wait with bated breath.
Mike looks extremely uncomfortable and pulls his date closer. “Have a nice night,” he mumbles, but I don’t respond. I watch as him and his date follow the hostess, who’s been patiently waiting to take them to a table on the other side of the room.
Steeling myself, I look at Reilly. “Uh, hi.”
He frowns, his attention shifting from Mike’s retreating form to me. “Is everything okay?”
Nodding, I grab my clutch and sweater. “Yeah, it’s fine.” I swallow. “No Nick?” I know there is no other reason for Reilly to be here.
“He asked if I’d pick you up.”
It’s clear from Reilly’s tone that he doesn’t want to be here right now, and I don’t blame him. “Sorry, I told him I would be fine. If I would’ve known I—”
“It’s fine.” With a nod toward the wine bottle, Reilly asks, “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s probably a good idea.” Nerves rattled a little, I follow Reilly out the door.
“I’m around the corner,” he says brusquely, and with a pace much faster than mine, he stays a few steps in front of me as we follow the sidewalk around the side of the restaurant. He’s in his paint-splattered jeans and work boots again.
“I appreciate you coming to get me. I’m sorry if I interrupted something,” I say, afraid to look away from the uneven pavement. At least that’s the excuse I tell myself, and that seeing that severe expression on Reilly’s face has nothing to do with it. Part of me is still mortified by what he knows, what he saw yesterday, but mostly I’m just sorry for being so horrible to him.
“Don’t worry about it.” His pace and his hands in his pockets, makes it clear this is the last place he wants to be.
I don’t know if it’s the wine or remorse, but I feel the need to fill the silence. “Did Nick tell you Adam’s married? I sure know how to pick ’em, huh?” I hurry my pace to keep up with him and wrap my arms tightly around myself in the sudden chill, though I’m not sure if it’s the weather or Reilly’s indifference toward me.
“He told me.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me I told you so? Or are you going to give me the cold shoulder the entire ride home?”
Reilly stills and turns to look at me for the first time since we left the restaurant. “You’ve made it more than clear that my opinion and concern is worth nothing to you.” He turns away from me and continues walking.
“Well . . . I . . .” I trot to catch up to him, my heels clacking against the cobblestone sidewalk. His red Chevy finally comes into sight half a block down, across the street. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket.
I’m practically running to keep up. “Josh, would you stop for five freaking seconds?” I pause at the edge of the curb, refusing to follow him any further.
Reilly stops in the middle of the street lined with fancy cars, but no real traffic to speak of. He turns to me and opens his arms as he takes a step closer to the curb. “What do you want from me, Sam?”
“I want you to look at me.” Though I’m surprised I mean that. “I want you to talk to me.”
He shakes his head. “Since when? I thought you wanted me to leave you the fuck alone,” he says, throwing my words back in my face. He turns and continues toward the truck. “Let’s just get you home.”
I stay on the curb, refusing to let him just walk away. We’re done playing this game. I’m done. “Look, I know yesterday ended badly. I shouldn’t have said that. I want you to know how sorry I am. I was scared and thrown off guard and I . . . What do you want me to do to—”
“Sam, I’m not talking about this in the middle of the street.” Reilly walks around to the passenger’s side of the truck and unlocks the door. When he finally realizes I’m not behind him, he glowers at me. “Are we going or what?”
Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. As I step off the curb, I realize too late that I’m stepping onto a metal grate, and my heel goes through it. “Son of a—!”
My ankle twists and I lean onto the hood of a black Mercedes for support. “Shit,” I rasp, breathing out the shooting pain. “I told Mac heels were a terrible idea.” I wince and let out a deep breath, hoping the pain will go with it.
“Are you alright?” Reilly asks on a sigh as he steps up beside me.
I nod, counting to ten as I take another deep breath in and out.
Reilly bends down so I can wrap my arm around his neck, but I flinch as pain shoots up my leg and through my toes when I try to put weight on my foot. “Nope, I need a minute,” I grind out, trying not to scream.
“Let me help you,” he says, reluctant. I shake my head, but he’s already lifting me up. “Put your weight on me.”
Helping me hobble over to the truck, Reilly opens the passenger’s side door again and sets me up in the seat like I weigh little more than a sack of oats, then takes my injured ankle in his hands. Pleasurable tingles mix with piercing discomfort.
“How bad is the pain?” he asks, removing my shoe. “On a scale of one to ten.”
I appreciate the command and concern in his voice, even if he�
��s forcing himself to be chivalric. “Twelve,” I gripe and blow a stray curl from my face.
Pressing gently on the skin around my ankle, he peers up at me, waiting for a real answer.
“It’s not broken, if that’s what you’re asking. It just feels bruised and it’s throbbing. It will probably be fine by tomorrow . . . I hope.” It needs to be; I have tons to do around the ranch.
Reilly removes my other shoe, hands them both to me, shifts me so my legs are inside, and shuts the passenger door.
When he climbs up into the driver’s seat and the engine belches to life, he looks over at me. “Do you want me to take you to the hospital? Make sure it’s nothing more than a sprain?”
I wave his concern away. “I’ve had broken bones before, and this doesn’t feel like that. I’ll be fine.”
When Reilly pulls away from the curb, the truck’s engine echoing off the old brick buildings that tower over the narrow side street, it hits me that I haven’t been in the Rumbler since the day before Reilly left, when we went camping under the stars for our last night together. It was one of the best, saddest nights of my life.
I lean my head back and watch the streetlights and buildings rush by as we head toward the edge of town, trying not to let the past bog me down tonight. “Sorry you had to come to my rescue again. It’s a kindness I appreciate more than you know.”
“It’s fine, Sam, really,” he says and scratches his jaw. “I’m happy to do it.”
“You don’t seem happy, but I don’t blame you.” We’re quiet for the drive up the mountain, except for the sound of the accelerating engine, the clicking of the blinker, and my impatient sighing. Tonight feels like a strange dream, and the looming emptiness of being home drains away what little buzz I have left.
As we round the second-to-last bend in the road, I look at Reilly. He’s slouched in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel as he focuses beyond the windshield.
“Josh?”
Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1) Page 25