"I'm Jonathan Reigler. Sammie's husband."
You'd think he had just announced that the building was ready to explode from their reactions. Stunned disbelief gave way to angry exclamations, the exact words lost in the combined shouts of Sammie's teammates—and from Sammie herself. He didn't miss the silent accusation on Sammie's face, didn't miss the way her eyes narrowed as she shook her head and took a step back.
The other two women were giving him their own dirty looks, the expressions holding more than a hint of confusion as they studied him.
"You're her ex?"
Jonathan mentally winced at the sharpness of the other woman's voice—not the blonde, but the one with the odd amber-colored eyes. He didn't have a chance to respond—not that he had really planned on it, since there was nothing to respond to—before the blonde stepped forward and pointed an accusing finger at his chest.
"You're the one who's been following her. I saw you at the bar last weekend. You were watching her."
"I—"
"Don't fucking deny it. I saw you."
Jonathan clenched his teeth, felt the muscle jump in his jaw. "I was there. Yes."
"What are you, some kind of fucking stalker?"
"I—" Jonathan snapped his jaw shut. He'd been ready to deny it when the realization hit him. Yeah, he had been stalking Sammie. Not deliberately, not in that sense—and certainly not with sinister intentions. But the woman in front of him wouldn't believe that so he kept his mouth shut and simply stared at her. Any other person would have backed away under that stare, their sense of self-preservation kicking in. But not the blonde. Instead of running away, she actually moved closer and returned the stare, not giving an inch.
Unwelcome admiration flashed through him. She had balls, he had to give her that. And he honestly wasn't sure who would have backed down first if Sammie's other teammate hadn't pulled the blonde away.
"Shannon, don't start."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. Now's not the time." Whiskey-eyes leveled her own stare at him, one that sized him up then quickly dismissed him, the way someone would dismiss a discarded piece of windblown trash tumbling through an abandoned parking lot.
He ignored both women and focused instead on Sammie, who was still standing there, watching him with wide brown eyes.
"Can we talk?"
She shook her head, causing a few curls to fall into her eye. "I don't think—"
"Ten minutes. That's all." For now. He glanced at her teammates. "They can wait for you."
Sammie chewed on her lower lip, her gaze darting from him to the two women and back again. She turned her head, looking behind her, then released a heavy sigh. The sound was filled with resignation—and with doubt.
"Ten minutes. And Shannon and Taylor stay here."
"Sammie, I don't think—"
Sammie waved her hand, interrupting the blonde. "It's only ten minutes. And we'll be right over there."
She pointed to the closest row of seats, ten yards away, then started walking toward them. Jonathan hesitated then started following her. He had hoped for a little more privacy but he wasn't in a position to be picky. Hell, he wasn't in any position, period.
Sammie came to a stop near the end row of seats then turned to face him. She folded her arms in front of her as her chin edged up a notch. Stubborn. Determined. Maybe even a little impatient. But he didn't miss the wariness in her deep brown eyes, or the flash of pain.
He hesitated, not sure if he should stand or sit. Sit, he decided. It might put her a little more at ease, if he wasn't standing there, towering over her.
Silence stretched around them, sharp and uncomfortable. And fuck, now what? He had no idea what to say, where to start. He hadn't planned this through, and he sure as hell hadn't counted on an audience. He glanced behind him and yes, sure enough, her teammates hadn't moved. The two women stood there, watching them, no doubt ready to rush to Sammie's defense.
Jonathan turned back and flashed a small smile at Sammie. "Your friends look like they're ready to tear my head off."
"Stop it, Jon. You didn't come here to talk about my teammates."
"You're right. I didn't. I—"
"Have you been following me? Stalking me, like Shannon said?"
"No." Jonathan shifted on the hard seat and looked away. "Not like that. I—I was at the bar last weekend, yes. But I—" He stopped, cleared his throat, met her gaze for a second and quickly looked away. "I wasn't stalking you. I just wanted to see you."
"Why?"
"Because I—" He stopped, the words he wanted—needed—to say refusing to come out. He took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Sammie's questioning gaze. "I wanted to see you. To explain. To apologize—"
"It's too late for that, Jon. I told you that last weekend at the house."
"Yeah, I know you did. But you deserve to hear why."
"Really?" She tilted her head to the side and stared at him. "Don't you think you should have thought of that over two years ago?"
"Yeah, I should have. But where I was—" He looked away and cleared his throat. Fuck, what was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just tell her? He'd been so fucked up, convinced he was a monster. Convinced the best thing he could do was let her go. To let her find happiness with someone who deserved her.
Yeah, he'd been so totally fucked in the head back then. But how could he tell her that without sounding weak and whiny?
He ran a hand down his face, felt the stubble prick his palm, heard it rasp in the chilled silence. "Sammie—"
"Why, Jon? Why are you here? Why now? What do you want?"
I want my family back. You. Clare. The three of us.
The confession echoed in his head, over and over. But fuck, he couldn't tell her that. Not yet. She'd laugh in his face, or worse—and he would deserve all of it and more.
"I just want to talk. That's all. You deserve the truth." He pushed to his feet, the motion bringing him within inches of Sammie, close enough he could feel the heat of anger and smell the faintest hint of whatever shampoo she had used. He expected her to take a step back, to put distance between them, but she didn't. Was this her way of standing up to him? Or did she feel it too, the invisible pull that still existed between them? It would be so easy to close the physical distance, to pull her into his arms and hold her and wish the past away.
And probably get his ass kicked in the process.
"All I want is to talk, Sammie. That's it. After that, if you tell me to go to hell, I will. But here isn't the place, not with your friends ready to come over here and tear me apart."
"I don't think—"
"I know. I wouldn't want anything to do with me, either. Not after what I did. But I'm still asking for this chance to talk."
"It won't change anything, Jon. I've moved on. We both have."
He didn't miss the way her eyes narrowed when she said we, didn't miss the cold accusation in her voice. She wasn't talking about the two of them—she was talking about her and Clare.
He ignored the pain that sliced through him, swallowed the urge to ask about his daughter. He couldn't, not yet. He wasn't ready, was afraid that just saying Clare's name out loud would reduce him to a quivering sack of spineless jelly. But fuck, it had to be killing Sammie, she had to be wondering why he hadn't said anything, why he hadn't asked about his daughter.
He needed to tell her. Had to force himself to admit his biggest fear. But not here, not with an audience.
"Wednesday evening. When you get off work."
Sammie frowned and stepped back, finally putting distance between them. "What?"
"Meet me Wednesday after work. Just to talk."
"You can talk now."
"No, I can't. Not with an audience. Not with a time limit."
"That's not a good idea."
"You're right, it's probably not. But I'm asking you anyway."
"Jon—"
"At the upper level of the town center. The parking lot by the movie theater."
"Seventeen hundred—five o'clock. Just to talk."
"Jon—"
"Wednesday. Five o'clock."
He reached out, ran his hand along her arm to her wrist, then stepped back. He didn't miss the way her body stiffened, didn't miss the way her eyes flared in surprise.
And he sure as hell didn't miss the soft intake of surprised breath or the way the pulse beat in her throat sped up. Anger? Maybe. But maybe there was more to it than that.
He turned and headed for the exit, moving past the other two women with a quick nod of acknowledgment. He heard them swear under their breath, heard the sound of their steps as they hurried toward Sammie.
No doubt to make sure she was okay.
Would she tell them he had asked to meet her on Wednesday?
Probably.
Would they try to talk her out of it?
Definitely.
Would she listen to them?
Fuck, he hoped not. But it was a chance he had to take.
Chapter Ten
Sammie had been distracted all day, which was fair enough, she supposed, since all of her kids had been just as distracted. She'd done her best to keep them focused, to keep them on task throughout the day, but her mind was too focused on the clock.
She glanced at it now then pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach, trying to stop the odd quivering that had grown worse with each passing hour. It was almost three-thirty now. In a little more than ninety minutes, she'd be meeting Jon.
Maybe.
She hadn't made her mind up yet. In fact, she had tried to convince herself that she wasn't going to go. She had no desire to meet him, no desire to hear what he had to say. She owed him exactly nothing. And there wasn't anything he could say, no excuse he could give, to erase the pain she still felt.
So why was she still looking at the clock, watching the minutes tick away?
She knew why and called herself a fool. She was going to meet him, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, because some perverted part of her wanted to hear what he had to say. What excuse would he give her for throwing away their marriage, for tossing her and Clare to the side?
The pain was still sharp, brutal, even after all this time. God, she was such a fool. He shouldn't hold the power to still hurt her, not after everything that had happened. But he did, and she was very much afraid of what that meant.
She opened her eyes and tried to push all thoughts of Jon from her mind. She wouldn't go. She couldn't. It was too late. Whatever he wanted to say, whatever excuses he thought to make, couldn't matter.
She repeated the words to herself as she moved around the room, straightening the small chairs, picking up the stray toy here and a forgotten book there, things that never seemed to make their way back to the shelf. She moved to the chalkboard, mindlessly erasing the simple spelling words she had so carefully printed in big block letters on the black surface earlier.
If only she could erase the memories just as easily.
A knock echoed in the quiet room and she looked up, startled at the noise. Chris Godfrey lounged against the doorframe, the tie loose around his neck, the top button of his collar undone. A worn leather briefcase dangled from his right hand, his blue eyes shining with amusement as he watched her.
"I figured you would have been gone already."
Sammie offered him a small smile as she replaced the eraser then dusted the chalk from her hands. "I'm getting there. Just wanted to finish cleaning up first."
His gaze darted around the neat room. One pale brow lifted in silent amusement. "Looks clean to me."
"Yes, well, you should have seen it twenty minutes ago. Not so much."
Chris laughed, the sound cheerful and mellow and unthreatening. He taught second-grade math and had the patience of a saint and the friendly disposition of a loyal pet. Just an inch or so under six feet, with carefully trimmed blonde hair and laughing blue eyes. Friendly. Unassuming. Always neatly dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt and brown leather loafers.
Those blue eyes watched her now, quietly assessing. Sammie turned away and grabbed her coat, holding her breath and hoping that he wouldn't—
"Did you want to grab a coffee or anything before heading home?"
She released her breath with a mental wince and turned to face him, a small, apologetic smile on her face. "I can't, not today. Too much to do."
How many times had he asked her out? For coffee. A quick bite to eat. Nothing threatening, nothing serious. How many times had she said no?
Every single time.
She looked at him now, watching as he quickly hid the disappointment at her answer, and wondered why he kept asking.
And wondered why she always said no. Chris was friendly. Attractive. Even-tempered and good-natured.
Safe.
But she still said no. Every single time.
The reason why slammed into her and nearly knocked her off her feet. It wasn't because he was a co-worker. It wasn't because she simply wasn't interested—in him or in a relationship.
It was because he wasn't Jon.
And oh God, had she really been comparing him to her ex-husband all this time? Comparing him—and finding him falling far short?
He was nothing like Jon. Jon was tall, broad in the shoulders and chest, all hard planes and sharp angles. His body had been chiseled and sculpted from years of tossing hay bales and working with his family's small herd of cattle, and later from his time in the military. Jon had rugged features: a wide jaw covered in perpetual stubble no matter how often he shaved and deep-set eyes that could freeze you in place or melt your heart, depending on what he wanted.
Jon wasn't safe. He never had been.
Chris was almost the exact opposite. Too laid-back. Too relaxed. Too even-keeled. Like a cocker spaniel, who would curl by your side and patiently wait, grateful for whatever tiny bit of attention you would give him.
Jon was—he was like a pit bull. He didn't patiently wait for anything, he demanded, settling for nothing less than your undivided attention. And he'd be right there beside you in a fight, standing there and guarding your back, defending you until the very end.
Everyone except her. With her, Jon had simply walked away without a word.
Only that wasn't like him. That wasn't something he would do. Not unless he had a reason.
And oh God, why was she making excuses for him? Why now, after all this time?
Because—
No, there was no because. There couldn't be. She wouldn't—couldn't—allow it.
Except she was afraid she already had.
Sammie swallowed back a groan of frustration and anger and pain, worried that it would end in a scream of self-pity and sorrow if she let it out. Afraid it wouldn't stop at all. Maybe she wasn't as successful as she thought because Chris's brows shot up in surprise and he pushed away from the doorframe.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. Fine." Except she wasn't, and hadn't been in a long time. She jammed her arms into the sleeves of her coat, grabbed the stuffed tote bag resting beside her desk, and hurried across the room. She almost plowed into Chris as she turned to pull the door closed behind her. He caught her arm to steady her then quickly dropped it and moved back.
She mumbled an apology then practically raced down the hall, the hem of her long skirt swirling around her ankles. She needed to get out of here, needed to go somewhere to think.
She yanked the straps of the tote bag over her shoulder and glanced at her watch. Was it too late? No, she still had a little more than an hour. That should be plenty of time.
Sammie pushed through the double doors and raced down the steps, one hand grasping the railing to steady herself as she pulled her cell phone from the tote bag with another and selected a number from her list of contacts.
The phone rang three times before a breathes voice answered. "Reigs. What's up?"
"I need you to stop me from making a huge mistake."
Ch
apter Eleven
Jonathan circled the parking lot for the second time, the ball of dread that had taken up residence in his gut growing heavier. He hadn't realized the place would be so fucking crowded, not on a Wednesday evening, hadn't even given any thought to the fact that it was the day before Thanksgiving.
That was his fucking problem. He hadn't been thinking—he'd been dreaming, totally lost in a fantasy world of his own making.
He ground his teeth together and turned up the last aisle, his gaze moving from side-to-side, searching for Sammie's car. He could drive right by it and he probably wouldn't even realize it.
Fuck.
He should have planned better. Given her a specific location instead of just saying the parking lot. What a fucking idiot.
He shook his head at his own stupidity and turned out of the aisle, heading to the far end of the lot for another pass-through. For all he knew, Sammie wasn't even here. And wouldn't that be something? He could spend all night driving around the parking lot, searching for her, while she was at home, eating dinner or watching television or reading or—
Or playing with their daughter.
He rubbed one fist against his chest, told himself to ignore the dull pain that settled there every time he thought of Clare. Fuck. If Mac and Daryl could see him now, they'd be laughing their fucking asses off. They already thought he was close to losing it, that he was dragging his feet and playing games instead of just jumping in and taking what he wanted. What the fuck did they know about it?
Not a damn thing.
And he was starting to think he didn't either.
He clenched his jaw, his back teeth grinding together again, and turned down the far aisle, the one closest to the center's upper-level plaza. There was only one row of cars here, all lined up on his left. What were the chances that Sammie would have lucked out and found a spot this close?
What were the chances of her even being here?
His gaze darted to the right, scanning the crowd of people coming and going. Couples. Families. Groups of teenagers. Laughing and talking, bundled against the cold evening air. Some of them moved toward the parking lot, while others made their way to the stores and restaurants on the upper level or headed toward the escalators and stairs leading to the lower level. A few people even sat on the benches scattered around the small plaza, taking a quick break or waiting—
Loving Hard: A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance (The Chesapeake Blades Book 2) Page 7