Should Sammie feel guilty?
Yes.
No.
No, she shouldn't. She and her parents had reached an agreement before Sammie moved back in with them, and this situation fell under that agreement. But it would be so easy to let her mom handle this. To fall back into the role of the child herself instead of the parent. To let her parents take care of not only Clare but her as well. She absolutely could not let that happen.
She turned back to face her daughter. "Clare Margaret Reigler. Get over here right now and get these jammies on."
Sammie held her breath, waiting to see if Clare would listen or if she would throw a full-blown tantrum. Long seconds ticked by before Clare finally heaved a long-suffering sigh and made her way across the room, each step slow and heavy, as if she was walking toward certain doom.
Sammie bit back her smile then pulled Clare into her arms and carried her to the bed. Several minutes later, her daughter was dressed in her pajamas and snuggled against Sammie's side as she read her a bedtime story. And not long after that, Clare's small body relaxed, the sounds of her breathing deep and even.
Sammie closed the book and placed it on the white nightstand, then gently eased away from Clare and tucked the covers around her. So peaceful, so serene.
Sammie's heart grew in her chest, threatening to explode with the love she had for her daughter. Clare was everything to her. Her reason for breathing. Her reason for living. She was…everything.
And God, she was getting so big. Growing up every single day. Sammie reached out and smoothed the curls from Clare's face then brushed her knuckles against the soft skin of her sleep-flushed face. It wasn't quite as round as it had been, even a few short months ago. Her little girl was growing up, becoming her own little person.
Sammie blinked against the tears burning her eyes then eased away from the bed, her steps soft so she wouldn't disturb Clare. She palmed the light switch, throwing the room into shadowy darkness broken only by the small nightlight in the corner, then pulled the door closed behind her.
Her parents looked up when she entered the family room a few minutes later. Her mother sat in the corner of the overstuffed sofa, legs curled under her, her finger holding the spot in the book she was reading. Her mother was so much like Sammie in build and looks, with dark curly hair threaded through with fine strands of silver hair, barely noticeable among the highlights she'd added a few weeks ago.
Her father was in his usual spot in the recliner, the open paper spread across his lap ignored in favor of the television. Sammie glanced at the flat screen television mounted on the wall, not surprised to see that some war documentary was flashing across the screen. He reached for the remote and nudged the volume down.
"Did you get her all settled in?"
"Yes, finally." Sammie flopped onto the loveseat with a sigh and a small smile. "She's really starting to become a handful, testing those boundaries."
"Just like you did when you were her age."
Sammie glanced at her mom and frowned. "Me? You said I was a happy, quiet baby."
"Baby, yes. Toddler…" Her mom's voice trailed off as she shared a conspiratorial look with her father. "Maybe not so much."
"Don't worry. Clare will outgrow it just like you did. It's just a stage."
"I know. I just didn't expect her to flip the switch so quick, you know?" Sammie leaned to the side and grabbed her e-reader from the end table, but instead of turning it on, she just sat there, staring at nothing.
"Everything okay, Sam?"
"Hm?" She looked up and noticed her father watching her, his brow creased in a small frown. Which meant absolutely nothing, because her father always looked like that, like he was trying to figure out the solution to some puzzle only he could see. Her mom always laughed and teased him about it, then told everyone it came from living in a house full of women.
Her father shifted his bulk in the chair as he carefully folded the newspaper, making sure each crease was crisp and perfect. "You just looked like you were in deep thought."
"No, just zoning, I guess. Reviewing my schedule for this week. Wondering what I was forgetting to do. Things like that."
"Anything on the schedule other than the usual?"
"No. Work. Practice Tuesday and Thursday. Game on Saturday." Should she tell them about the interview she was supposed to be doing with one of the local papers Tuesday night? No, they'd only ask a million different questions and make a big deal out of it. At least, a bigger deal.
Sammie was going to be interviewed about playing on the team, about how important it was to be playing for the Blades and how she juggled the team, working full-time, and being a single parent. She was nervous enough about it, worried that she'd say all the wrong things. Having her mom and dad ask about it would only make it worse.
"At home? Maybe we can bring Clare since we had to miss it yesterday."
Sammie frowned, trying to figure out what she missed. Oh, that's right. They were talking about the game this weekend. "Yes, home. We're playing Philly."
"Maybe we should go, take Clare—"
"Thanks, Dad, but don't worry about it. She's got her heart set on going to that matinee you promised to take her to." Just one more thing Sammie seemed to be missing out on lately. "That would make for a really long day. For all of you, but especially for Clare."
"And what about you? All your days are pretty long, it seems. How are you holding up?"
"Fine. Everything's fine." So what if she was tired? This was still new to her, juggling work and hockey and weekend schedules. She'd get used to it.
"Are you sure you don't want us to bring Clare next weekend? I just hate that we had to miss the game yesterday."
"It's not a big deal. Honest."
"It is to us. We're proud of you. We want you to know that."
"I do know." Sammie swallowed against the lump growing in her throat and offered her dad a small smile. What was with her today? She wasn't usually this emotional, not really. Maybe she was just overly tired. Maybe she should go upstairs and go to sleep instead of sitting down here to read.
"How's your jaw feeling?"
"Better." And it was—for the most part. As long as she was careful and didn't chew on her right side, or accidentally hit it somehow, she barely noticed it. At least, until she looked in the mirror. Then she couldn't help but notice it, not when it was a slightly-swollen purple blotch that stood out against her fair complexion.
That didn't mean she had any intention of hiding it with makeup or anything. She was proud of the bruise, proud of how she'd gotten it. It made her feel like a professional athlete, wearing a badge of honor.
"If you need more ice, let me know. I made sure there were extra cold packs in the freezer."
"I'm fine. Really." Sammie placed her e-reader back in its normal spot then pushed to her feet. "I think I'm going to head up. Maybe get an extra hour of sleep."
"Already?" Her mother glanced at her watch then looked back at Sammie. "It's not even seven-thirty yet. Are you sure everything's okay?"
"I'm positive, Mom. It's just been a long weekend." She leaned over and pressed a kiss to her mother's cheek, then did the same to her dad as she passed. She didn't miss the concerned looks they exchanged, or her mother's quiet murmur of worried words as she left the room.
Sammie wanted to reassure them again that nothing was wrong. That she was simply tired. And that was the truth. A little more tired than usual, maybe, but nothing to worry about. It was just the frantic schedule. Teaching every day then hurrying to practice twice a week for several hours to prepare for the weekend game—all while making sure she carved out enough precious time for Clare.
At least being busy made sure she didn't have time to think about how lonely she was. About how lonely she'd been for the last two years.
Yeah, she definitely needed some extra sleep. A good night's sleep would help with all these ridiculous, morose thoughts she'd been having lately.
Sammie had just placed her fo
ot on the bottom step to head upstairs when she heard the knock on the front door. Hesitant at first, like whoever was there was afraid of disturbing the household. Then louder, a little more determined somehow.
Knock. Knock knock. Knock.
Sammie glanced at her watch and frowned, wondering who might be stopping in for a visit at this hour on a Sunday night. They didn't have any close neighbors, not up here in the mostly rural area of the north county.
Sammie backtracked to the front door, curiosity eating at her. Maybe a stranded motorist had somehow found their long drive. Or maybe it really was one of the neighbors, stopping by to borrow something or see her dad for some reason. He was retired from his veterinary practice now, but he still offered help if any of their neighbors needed it for any of their animals.
She turned the knob then tugged on the door, a small smile of greeting on her face. The smile faltered then quickly died as the blood froze in her veins. Her lungs seized, forcing the air from her chest, making it impossible for her to breathe. The sounds of a million crickets filled her ears, obscuring all other sounds. No, not crickets. Bees. Wasps. Loud and buzzing, dangerous, the sound growing louder with each passing second as she stood there, her fingers curled in a death grip around the edge of the door.
It couldn't be. She was hallucinating. Seeing things. She was caught in a nightmare. All she had to do was force herself to wake up, and this would all be over.
But she wasn't in a nightmare. At least, not a sleeping one. And instead of waking up, Sammie was very much afraid she was close to passing out. She tightened her grip on the door, using it to prop herself up as she stared at the man in front of her through the haze of gray filling her vision.
Jon.
Chapter Four
Jon.
Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Jonathan didn't need to hear his name, not when he could read it on her lips.
Jon.
A single syllable. Three little letters. Silent yet so powerful.
It was like a fucking punch in his gut, robbing him of air and nearly doubling him over. Coming here had been a mistake. An impulse that he'd been powerless to ignore. And now that he was here, standing in front of his ex-wife, all he wanted to do was turn around and run away.
Just like he'd done two years ago.
But he couldn't, not when Sammie stood before him, her knuckles a stark white against the edge of the door she was holding so tightly. The color drained from her face and for one horrifying second, he was afraid she was going to faint. Her free hand shot toward the doorframe as her eyes closed and her knees buckled.
Jonathan didn't think, just reacted. He reached for her, his hands closing around her waist. Supporting her, keeping her on her feet.
It was the worse fucking thing he could have done.
Heat seared him, from the palms of his hands where they rested on her waist all the way through to the soles of his feet. Flames of yearning licked every inch of his body, touching parts of him he'd thought dead and buried these last two long years. Since before then, even.
Two years, three months and ten days.
But that's not why he shouldn't have touched her. It wasn't his reaction that startled him, it was hers.
She stiffened and tried to step back, batting his hands away. Her face filled with the heat of the same anger that flashed in her narrowed eyes. Her mouth no longer silently formed his name but rather pinched in distaste, a scowl of such ferocious revulsion that Jonathan took a quick step back and nearly knocked the screen door off its hinges.
And fuck, she was going to slam the door in his face. He could see it as surely as he could see that brief spark of hatred in her eyes. But he couldn't let her do that, no matter how much he deserved it, so he stepped forward and wedged the toe of his boot against the bottom of the door.
"Sammie." He said her name, silently winced at the hoarse desire and need in that single word. It made him sound weak. Pathetic. Begging.
And he was. All three. He'd always been that way with Sammie. Needing. Yearning. She was his biggest weakness, had always been his biggest weakness—even after he'd turned coward and fucked up everything that mattered to him.
"Sammie—"
"No. Get out. Now." She tried to close the door on him, actually stepped behind it and pushed, but it barely moved. Frustration flashed in her dark eyes, quickly followed by something that looked like desperation.
And pain.
He almost stepped back, almost let her slam the door in his face. Lord knew, he deserved a hell of a lot worse—because he was the one responsible for the pain she was feeling.
Coming here had been a bad idea. Stupid. Reckless. Careless. But now that he was here, he couldn't leave.
"Sammie—" He had no idea what he was going to say. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Can we talk? It didn't matter. He never got the chance to finish because Sammie's father came out of the family room, his gaze focused on the folded paper in his hands.
"Sam. Who's that at the—" Dennis Warner came to a halt, his eyes cold and menacing as his dark gaze met Jonathan's. The older man's body stilled and tensed, filling with anger, transforming into the rigid lines of a predator in the blink of an eye. Tense seconds passed, heavy and oppressive, filled with the underlying threat of danger.
The older man moved forward, stepping in front of Sammie, using his large body as a protective barrier.
"You're not welcome here, Jonathan."
"Mr. Warner—"
"You heard me. You need to leave. Now." The older man's voice was pitched low, vibrating with anger and warning. Jonathan recognized it for what it was: a very real and credible threat.
"Sir. I just need to—"
"No. Get out. Now." Mr. Warner's voice grew a little louder, the anger becoming even clearer. Footsteps echoed behind the bigger man. A few seconds later, another face came into view, this one an older version of Sammie.
"Dennis? What's going on?" Mrs. Warner placed her hand on her husband's arm then peered around him. Her dark eyes widened in surprise, then quickly narrowed in confusion and dismay. "Jonathan."
She infused his name with anger and scorn, making it quite clear exactly what she thought of discovering him on her doorstep. Jonathan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, searching his mind for something to say.
But there was nothing there. Nothing he could say. He had no idea how much Sammie had told them about what had happened. It didn't matter, not when they obviously knew they were no longer together. Not when they knew something had happened—and that it was his fault.
"Now, Reigler. Get out. You're not—
"Dennis, lower your voice—"
"Mom. Dad. Stop. Please." Sammie pushed between her parents, a look of mild panic on her face. "You're going to wake—"
Her mouth snapped closed and she tossed a cautious glance at Jonathan without finishing her sentence.
She didn't need to. Jonathan knew exactly what she'd been about to say: wake Clare. Their daughter.
His daughter.
And oh God, he nearly doubled over right then and there. Pain. Heartbreak. Regret. All of it and more, feelings and emotions he had no words for threatened to knock the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs. Could Sammie tell? Could she see it?
Or was he as good at hiding his emotion and pain as he thought he was, as he'd trained himself to be?
Sammie turned away from him but not before he noticed the way the muscle jumped in her bruised jaw. Her tone was calm and poised, the words barely more than a whisper as she spoke to her parents.
"Please. Let me handle this." Sammie didn't wait for their response. She reached for the coat rack just inside the door and grabbed a thick jacket, then stepped around her parents and moved outside. She pushed him out of the way as she pulled the door closed behind her then shoved her arms into the jacket. Each movement was short and brisk, filled with anger and pain that Jonathan could actually feel.
He stepped toward her. Stopped. Ran both h
ands down his face then jammed them into the pockets of his jeans. If he didn't, he'd be tempted to do something stupid. Like grab her. Pull her into his arms. Hold her.
Sammie didn't seem to notice the inner struggle raging inside him. Or, if she did, she didn't care. Could he blame her? No, he couldn't, not after what he'd done. Then to show up like this, unannounced and unexpected, after two years of silence? It was nothing short of miraculous that she hadn't let her father go after him.
Sammie moved to the end of the porch, out of the light and into the shadows. She leaned against the wooden railing and folded her arms in front of her then just stared at him for a long minute.
Jonathan stared back, his mind searching for something to say and immediately discarding every word. He took a hesitant step toward her then stopped when he saw the way she stiffened.
Her chin came up, defiant and proud. And her voice was firm, strong, when she spoke. "Why are you here, Jon?"
Good question. Excellent question. Why the fuck was he here? He knew why, but he couldn't tell her. Not yet.
At least not all of it. She wasn't ready. She might never be ready.
And God help him if that was the case.
"I—" He snapped his mouth closed, swallowed and took a deep breath. "I wanted to see you. See how you were doing."
And to see Clare. But he couldn't get those words past his numb lips, couldn't make himself say his daughter's name. He was so afraid of tainting her innocence with the mere act of saying her name out loud. It was irrational, he knew that. But it didn't stop how he felt, didn't keep the fear at bay.
No. He wasn't ready to see Clare, not yet. Wasn't ready to hold her, to study each little finger and toe, to see how much she'd grown. Did she look even more like Sammie now, with beautiful wide brown eyes and thick dark curls? Or did she look anything like him, with a stubborn set to her chin and a crooked smile?
Pain seared him, a pain he should be accustomed to by now. How fucking sad was it that he was so afraid to see his daughter? To see how much she'd grown and how much he'd missed the last two years? But he couldn't—not after the things he'd done. The idea of spoiling Clare's innocence with the blood on his hands left him sickened and disgusted.
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 3