by Alisha Rai
More so now that he knew the word for what he’d done. Ghosting. Ugh.
But Harris wasn’t asking about Rhiannon, he was asking about his time at Matchmaker. “Not yet. Soon.”
“You nervous?”
“No. Why would I be nervous? I’ve been on dates.” He winced when Miley’s nails scratched his nose. Baby nails were surprisingly sharp.
Dean and Harris exchanged a glance. “Uh, do you want to come out with me some night to dip your foot in the shallow end first? The world has changed since the last time you were out there,” Harris said.
“When it comes to how you find a date, maybe. Not the mechanics of actually talking to women, that hasn’t changed. And I was always pretty good at that.” He may never have had a long-term relationship or a grand love affair, but there were good, logical reasons for that. His focus had always been on something else: school, football, his dad, his uncle. He’d dated and had lovers, though he’d never reached Harris’s borderline player status.
He’d be fine. Sit down with a woman for an hour or so, engage in some light banter that would play well for the camera? That, he could handle.
“Yeah, you weren’t called the Lima Charm for—” Harris cut himself off. “Sorry, Samson.”
Samson dipped his head in gratitude. He was resigned to hearing that nickname from strangers, but his friends knew exactly why it made him tense up. A little teasing and ribbing was normal, but he loved Dean and Harris because they weren’t cruel in the name of joking around. “It’s fine.” He gently removed Miley’s grasping hand from his hair, and the baby’s face screwed up tight. Samson was shocked at the piercing wail that came out of her tiny mouth. “What did I do? Is she—”
“Hang on.” Dean unzipped his jacket, revealing a baby carrier strapped to his front. “I got her. She’s due for a nap. Miley’s always on schedule.” He took the baby from Samson and deposited her in the carrier, deftly maneuvering her kicking legs. His giant hand cradled her head and he moved away. Samson watched with bemusement while his buddy started doing walking lunges down the length of his big apartment.
“What are you doing?”
“It calms her down and puts her to sleep,” Dean explained over his shoulder. Lunge. Step. Lunge. “We can go get dinner once she’s out.”
“Plus, the exercise maintains his figure. Gotta keep it tight for his hot wife,” Harris explained mischievously.
Without breaking pace, Dean flipped his cousin off.
They watched him for a second, then Samson grabbed a cracker and tossed it into his mouth. “He must be driving Josie insane.” He dropped his voice so Dean wouldn’t hear him.
“I think she’s trying to convince him to adopt another kid so his attention will at least be split. There isn’t a baby book, an opinion piece, or a parent forum that man hasn’t read at this point.” Harris shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day Dean would be an expert on diapers and transracial adoption.”
Samson huffed a laugh.
Harris sobered. “Hey. How are you holding up? I know it’s been tough since Big Joe passed.”
“I’m . . . I’m doing good. I think I was really in a fog for a while, but I feel better now.” The gig had helped. It had given him a schedule. A purpose, as Dean might say.
“Yeah, you seemed pretty out of it at the funeral.”
Samson barely remembered Joe’s service. Harris and Dean had been the only contemporaries of his to attend. The rest of the mourners had been the few of Joe’s friends that the man had stayed in touch with. And Annabelle, of course, her eyes still sunken from weathering Joe’s illness and mourning her sister barely nine months prior. “Listen, I’m sorry if I’ve been distant since then. His death really hit me harder than I’d thought it would.”
Samson had felt occasionally lonely when Joe had been sick, but with his uncle gone, he’d been totally alone. The last Lima, a short-lived dynasty over. Some charm.
“Nah, man. You did kinda disappear, but Dean and I got it. We knew you didn’t mean anything by it.”
His nose twitched. Here was the easy forgiveness he’d hoped Rhiannon would give him, but Dean and Harris knew him. They could afford to give him the benefit of the doubt in a way that Rhiannon could not. “Thanks.”
The baby’s crying rose in volume and intensity and Dean’s lunges became longer, taking him into the bedroom. Harris shifted. “Did Joe . . . I mean. I know he talked about donating his, um . . .”
“His brain. Yeah. He donated it to the Concussion Research Alliance.” Samson took a sip of water to wipe the taste of grief out of his mouth. Joe had been adamant about that donation. He’d wanted his brain to help with the research that was going on with chronic traumatic encephalopathy in football players. “Getting the results back takes time. Might be months longer.” They could take as long as they wanted, as far as Samson was concerned.
Samson had had to fight his mother to get his dad’s brain donated to science. Back then, CTE had only been diagnosed in a couple of deceased players. But Samson had had a hunch that his dad had the disease. He’d wanted his father to have the disease. He’d needed something. A diagnosis, an explanation for why the man had gone from a kind and loving father to a mood-spiraling, angry, unstable man.
The tests had taken a long time back then, when funding for CTE research had been nonexistent. Lulu had died before the diagnosis could come back. Aleki had had CTE, the buildup of tau proteins in his brain excessive and obvious even to a layman like Samson. Most likely linked to all the hard hits he’d taken over the years playing the game, the researchers had explained to Samson.
The National Football League had disagreed. Loudly.
Years after his death, in the big class-action lawsuit against the league brought by retired players, Aleki’s brain and his seventeen years of pro football playing had been cited by more than one attorney as evidence of the link between football and CTE.
“Are you gonna try to get a piece of the settlement?”
Samson shook his head. “Joe wouldn’t let me contribute any money toward his health care, so I’m okay, financially. I might have tried to navigate that mess for him, but he was lucky enough to have Annabelle. When his savings ran out, she took care of him.” Everyone thought all football players were rich, but money went fast when illness kicked in.
Harris drained his beer. “Okay, good. ’Cause I was gonna say, you know that settlement fund is a clusterfuck, so you’d have to lawyer up hard.”
“You know how it goes. Deny—”
“Until they die.” Harris finished the dark rhyme one high profile former player had applied to the claims process. The NFL might have settled the class-action for a billion dollars to compensate retirees exhibiting symptoms of CTE, as well as late players’ families who came with posthumous diagnosis in hand, but they were notoriously heavy-handed when it came to denials. “Hey, speaking of . . . You know, Trevor was asking me about you.”
Samson’s sneer was immediate. “I have nothing to say to Trevor.”
“That’s what I figured.” Harris patted Samson’s back gently. “It’s okay, man.”
Dean walked out of the bedroom, his baby’s face smooshed against his chest. “Thank God, she’s asleep,” he said, sotto voce. “You want to order dinner now? Or we can go out. Heard there’s a cool new vegan place on Melrose.”
“You can’t do those fucking lunges around a trendy restaurant if she starts hollering,” Harris said bluntly.
Dean covered his sleeping daughter’s ears with one hand. “What did I fucking tell you about swearing around her?”
Samson chuckled softly and slapped Harris’s back. Christ, he’d missed this. His brothers. “Okay, come on. Dean, there’s a family-friendly vegan place not too far from here. Let’s go there.”
Dean sniffed, his feathers still ruffled. “No swearing around the baby.”
Harris sighed when Samson glanced at him. “Fine! Fine. No swearing around the nonverbal, sleeping baby. For fudge’s sake.”
Chapter Eight
RHIANNON RESISTED the urge to check her face in any reflection before she walked inside the huge historic hotel. There was no need. She hadn’t bothered with makeup or her hair or changing out of her usual casual day hoodie.
She’d dressed up for this man once before, had slicked on some tinted Chapstick even, and he’d left her high and dry. Extenuating circumstances or not, she wasn’t about to repeat the mistakes of her past.
Eye on the prize.
She walked inside the trendy place and glanced around with some interest. Matchmaker had chosen a good location to film their first spot in their Win a Date with Samson Lima contest or promotion or whatever it was. The ceilings were tall, the architecture was gorgeous, and Samson and his date would pop in a luxurious setting surrounded by expensive views.
How Lakshmi had gotten information on this, Rhiannon wasn’t sure. She’d intended to casually stroll into a bar or a club that Samson was at some night, but Lakshmi had said the man didn’t seem to be much of a party animal. So here she was. Crashing his date.
If this was solely about shedding her anger and finding inner peace or closure or whatever Katrina wanted to call it, she might have already left. But this was also about business, so she was all-in.
She bypassed the reservation desk and made her way through the chandelier-lit lobby to the hallway that connected to a restaurant. There was a discreet sign in the window that said the restaurant was closed, but Rhiannon ignored that and tested the handle. The door easily opened.
The film crew was small, only about five or six people, but even if the room hadn’t been blocked off, she would have spotted Samson immediately. He towered over the other occupants, his broad shoulders big enough to block out the sun. He wore another suit, but no tie this time.
A shame. The sexy factor of a perfectly tied knot was undeniable, even to a casual dresser such as herself.
A small blond woman bopped her way, perky ponytail bouncing, a polite smile on her face. “I’m sorry, the restaurant is closed—”
“I’m not here for the restaurant,” Rhiannon said gently. “I’m here for your star.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?” She blinked at Rhiannon, and recognition dawned in her eyes. “Hey, aren’t you—?”
“Tina, it’s fine.” Samson appeared behind the sentry and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I asked her to come.” His dark eyes were warm when they rested on Rhiannon’s face, and she could almost believe he had asked her to crash his date. Or whatever it was called when a film crew was present.
Rhiannon tilted her head. “I was hoping I could have a minute to talk privately.”
“Absolutely. Tina, how much time do we have?”
“Um.” Tina looked back and forth between the two of them. “Your date is going to be here in a half hour. But you said you wanted more prep . . .”
“I’ll wing it.” Samson nodded at Rhiannon. “There’s some space to talk outside. Let’s go there.”
She exhaled long and low as they walked away from Tina and the rest of the curious group. She’d expected Samson to be a number of things: shocked, panicked, annoyed. At the very least, she’d thought she might need to explain why she was here. She had a fast-talking spiel lined up and ready to go.
This had been relatively easy.
They exited to the patio, which looked out over a paradise of rolling hills and sprouting spring flowers. The view was designed to nourish and calm, but it had the opposite effect on her, ramping up the low-grade anxiety that had been humming under the surface since Lakshmi had told her where she could find the man.
Weird. She’d run from him and fought with him, but she supposed this was the first time since they’d been in her bed that they were alone with each other. She cast about for something to say. “Nice choice, filming here. Pasadena’s picturesque.”
Samson glanced at the surroundings and smiled. “Yes. Quieter than downtown for sure.”
“Is that where you live?”
“Yeah. Not permanently, Matchmaker put me up. What about you? I know Crush is in L.A., but not sure where.”
“Not far from there. Silver Lake.” She hadn’t wanted to be a Silicon Beach company, and the area had been more affordable when they’d established Crush.
“You live in that area too?”
“Part-time.” If not for Katrina, she’d live and work in L.A. full-time, but she cared about her best friend more than the city. Santa Barbara had its own charms, and she could commute down easily after each weekend. “Why?”
“No reason. Making small talk.”
She rolled her neck, trying to ease the tension there. “I’m not really here to make small talk.”
His face grew grave. “I understand.”
She gestured to a low stone bench, judging them far enough away from the restaurant and hotel that they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He sat at one end of the bench. She took the other end, though it was a tight squeeze. Then again, he’d make anything a tight squeeze.
His body angled toward her. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“My assistant has some creepy powers.”
Samson’s smile was small. “Apparently.”
She bit her lip, aware the clock was ticking. His hair was rumpled. She had a brief, untimely vision of it when it had been long, long enough to slip over his shoulders and brush her nipples and she looked away, focusing on a spot right over his shoulder.
Get this over with.
“Rhiannon—”
“I’m here for closure.”
“Closure.”
“Yeah. My best friend says I need it.”
“Do you think you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re mad at me. I treated you really badly, and I am so sorry I hurt you.”
She drew herself up, feathers ruffling. Bad enough, showing Katrina her vulnerabilities.
Don’t get defensive. Don’t run away, or you’ll feel worse, as you discovered. This is what you’re here for. The voice in her head sounded oddly like Katrina’s, and it did calm her, but she still had to push back. “We knew it was going to be a temporary affair. It would have ended that second night anyway.”
“Not like it did.” Samson looked down at his hands. “The thing I said onstage, about the family emergency? That wasn’t a hypothetical.”
She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but she knew what that would convey. She didn’t interrupt him. Katrina may have connected the dots via Google, but that was a search engine, and she didn’t trust that hope wasn’t coloring their interpretation of what had happened.
There wasn’t a more optimistic creature in the world than a person who wanted to believe someone hadn’t treated them like shit. Let him corroborate what they’d cobbled together.
“My uncle had degenerative neurological diseases—Alzheimer’s, ALS. I was his caretaker. He was always on me to get out, take a night off, have some fun, and that’s not always easy to do in a small town. I’d grown up around most of the locals, and the tourists weren’t usually single people my age. I’d never been on an app before, but it seemed like the easiest way to see who was out there. Spending those hours with you was the first time I’d done something purely for myself in I don’t know how long.” His gaze on her was steady and sincere. “I swear, I did mean to see you again. But when I got home, Uncle Joe was having trouble breathing. I knew that it was inevitable, but his decline was rapid, and his death a few days later hit me hard.”
Samson’s recitation was matter-of-fact, but the underlying anguish and quiet sadness couldn’t be faked. She didn’t want to think anyone was cruel enough to try to fake it.
There are men who would fake it, her subconscious whispered. Don’t trust this.
There was corroboration, though.
He could have let you know that day so you wouldn’t have sat there waiting for him like an idiot.
Except she’d never given him he
r number. She rarely gave her number out to anyone, especially a one-night stand. A number was personal, and these sexual encounters were never personal.
As if he were reading her mind, he continued. “I could have—I should have—sent you a message through the app before we were supposed to meet. I didn’t, and I apologize for that. I completely forgot until days later. By then you’d already unmatched me, and I didn’t have a number to contact you otherwise.” He didn’t say it as accusation, but as fact. He shrugged. “I am sorry. I didn’t intend—” He broke off. “I know you don’t like hearing that, that you have no reason to give me the benefit of the doubt, but I truly didn’t consciously stand you up.”
She tried to marshal her chaotic thoughts. She hated feeling emotions. All these things inside her, anger, regret, sadness, relief, hope.
Stuff ’em down forever.
“I did try to find you afterward.” His lips quirked, making her heart thud. “I went to the house you’d rented, talked to the owners. Googled you. Unfortunately, it’s hard enough to find a Claire when her name is Claire. Much harder when her name is actually Rhiannon.”
She finally spoke. “My middle name is Claire.”
One snippet of personal information. It didn’t mean anything.
He smiled, slowly, as if it did mean something. “It’s a pretty name. I’m sorry, Rhiannon Claire Hunter. Truly.”
She bit her lip. “I understand being out of it because a loved one dies. You had no obligation toward me, we’d only slept together once.” She thought he was about to speak, so she lifted her hand. “That’s the truth of what happened.” Even if they had been silly about it, making plans for a second date. “So, um. Maybe you’re not evil. Thanks for explaining. I am sorry to hear about your uncle. I don’t follow sports, so I don’t know anything about him, but it sounds like you loved him an awful lot.”
His eyes flickered. “He was like a second father to me. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
Something tightly knotted within her unraveled and she frowned, confused at the feeling. What . . . what was that? Her anger at him dampening? Her anger at herself, for feeling fooled, unknotting? Was this what . . . closure felt like? This light buoyancy?