by Marie Harte
She smiled at him when he gave a small woof. So adorable. Her heart warmed. She’d been lonely and hadn’t realized. She’d missed living with someone else. Furry or not, Cookie was just what she’d been needing—someone who’d be loyal, affectionate, and love her no matter what. The perfect companion.
“So,” Sam said as he returned. He held his jacket in one hand and glanced down at her feet. “Want me to take my shoes off?”
“If you wouldn’t mind. It makes the carpet last longer.” Beige carpet—a nightmare to keep clean. “You can toss your jacket on the couch if you want.”
He did and set his shoes neatly beside it. It was odd to see Sam in socks. It should have made him more vulnerable. Yet he loomed as large without boots as he did with them. Nothing soft about the man. Until he crouched down by Cookie and sighed.
“You’re gonna be one big-ass dog.” He let the puppy paw him, accepting doggie kisses without complaint as he studied her home.
The living room consisted of her large, dark-blue sofa, a coffee table, standing lamp by the corner, and her bookcases. She didn’t have much, but what she did have worked for her. No high-quality TV or sound system, but it let her watch the few television shows she liked. She played music through a Bluetooth speaker and her phone. And at the flick of a switch, she had a fire going. No chopping or buying wood for her.
“How long have you lived here?” Sam straightened and walked around. She didn’t have many pictures—one of her family from years ago. Books littered the stacks, as well as a few knickknacks. An old eight-by-eight oil canvas, painted by her grandmother—an artist of some renown—took up her favorite spot on the mantel. A few pieces of pottery that had caught her eye joined some of her books. Nothing much of value to anyone but her.
“I moved in two years ago.”
He nodded, picked up the picture of her and her family. “These your parents? Your brother?”
“Yes. Although my brother has since married and had a little boy.” One she hadn’t seen since he’d been born. The thought still haunted her. If Cheryl hadn’t already been dead and gone, Ivy might have cursed the woman’s name.
Sam glanced at her and looked like he wanted to ask another question, but he put the picture down and looked at her books instead. “You read all these?”
“Yes. I love books.”
“Not me.”
“So sad.” She hadn’t figured he was a reader. Not because he worked in a garage, but because he seemed like he had little patience to sit still. The kettle whistled, and she took it off the stove.
“Yeah.” He turned and smirked at her. “Otherwise you and me could be having a terrific conversation about What to Do with a Bad Boy.” He nodded at her romance collection. “Sounds educational.”
She blushed. “Hey, I like to read about happy endings. Nothing wrong with that. God knows you don’t get them enough in real life.”
“You got me there.” He wiped a finger across her bookcase and held it up to her, dust free. “Damn, Ivy. Not another clean freak. Bad enough I live with Foley…when he’s there.”
“Rest easy. I only cleaned this past weekend because I was overdue. I’m orderly but dusty.”
“Huh. I’m told I’m disorderly on a regular basis.”
She swallowed a smile. “My excuse is that I’ve been so busy with clients lately I’ve gotten behind on some chores.” She poured the water and handed him the steeping tea bag and mug. “Careful, it’s hot.” Their fingers brushed before she pulled back.
Like before, the touch of him sent her pulse skyrocketing. Whoa. Talk about shocking chemistry between them. She didn’t know what to make of it because Sam seemed so different from her usual type.
He just looked at her as they sat down at her too-small table. “Not going to blow on it for me?”
That the word blow made her immediately think of something dirty caused her face to heat. She could only hope her cheeks didn’t show it. Ivy forced herself to stop thinking about sex and said, “I’ll leave that for Willie. She seemed much more maternal.”
He gave a rusty chuckle; she sensed he didn’t laugh much. “First time she invited me in, I think I stood staring at her art collection for like half an hour. Woman has a skewed sense of collectibles. Half of ’em are ceramic naked people having sex in weird positions.”
“I know.” Ivy laughed and saw his answering smile. That mouth is lethal. I wonder how he kisses. Quickly moving on, lest she try him on for size, she said, “And her pets. All names from Barbarella, that old sci-fi flick.”
He blinked. “You know it?”
“I’m kind of a sci-fi fan. I’ve seen a lot of old movies.”
“Yeah?” He perked up. “Me too.”
“Oh? Then you know about The Beastmaster.”
“More fantasy than sci-fi, but okay. Plus it had Tanya Roberts.”
“I see you’re a fan of boobs and skimpy clothing.”
“Um, yeah. I’m a guy.”
She fought a grin. “I remember Marc Singer and those cute little ferrets of his.”
“Marc Singer in a loincloth, you mean,” he said wryly. “I’m not the only fan of skimpy clothing. How about a real classic like They Live?”
“With Rowdy Roddy Piper? The wrestler? Been there, done that. Buckaroo Banzai? Now that’s a keeper.”
“Seriously? Stupid.” He snorted. “Escape from New York. Now that’s a movie.”
“Okay, I agree on that one.” How much fun that Sam liked her kind of films. “Snake Plissken—the ultimate antihero—a prisoner who saves the president in a futuristic world where the criminals are forced to live in a fenced-in New York.” She paused. “You know, I’m sensing a trend in your taste. You like violence.”
“Surprised?”
“Ah, not exactly.”
He withdrew his tea bag, wrapped the string around the bag to push out the excess water, then expertly set it on a napkin near him. “I’m sorry about that, you know.”
“That you like violence?”
“That you had to see me hit Goodie. He’s a jackass and had it coming.” He sipped his tea, his gaze on her. “I’m used to guys thumping on each other. Sometimes I forget not everyone is.” He sighed. “We should have met for coffee or something. Anywhere but at Ray’s.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
He just looked at her.
“Okay, it was…” Choose a word not so insulting. “Crowded. And some of the people there seemed a little on the rough side, present company included.”
“Gee, thanks.” He glanced at Cookie pawing at his leg and sat the dog on his lap.
“But you were only trying to defend me.” I’m pretty sure.
“Goodie and Senior aren’t nice people.”
“What did you mean about them losing money on you? I didn’t understand that.”
“A week or so ago, I was fighting some guy, just for sport, and people were taking bets. Apparently Senior doesn’t like to lose.”
She frowned. “Fighting some guy? As in boxing or mixed martial arts?”
“Yeah, except we’re amateur. It helps me let off steam.”
“Oh.” She wondered what happened if he didn’t get to “let off steam.” “Is that legal?”
He smirked but said nothing.
She swallowed a retort and changed the subject. “So you’re a mechanic. Do you like what you do?”
“Yeah. I got a knack for it.” He sounded surprised by that fact. “What about you? Massage, huh?”
“Yes.” She waited for some crack about touching people or naked bodies.
He looked thoughtful. “I bet you’re good at it.”
“Really? Why is that?” She took a sip of her tea, leaving the bag in and foregoing sugar for once. She didn’t need a sugar rush on top of her hypervigilance around Sam.
He shrugged.
“You just seem like the helpful type.” He stroked Cookie, who looked like he’d entered doggie nirvana. “You’re taking in this guy.”
“Yes, but you rescued him. Seems to me you’re the helpful type too. And you’ve already been a lifesaver, taking him when I can’t.”
He drank his tea, saying nothing. They watched each other for a moment, as if trying to figure out what to say next. At least, that’s what Ivy wondered. She truly had no idea how Sam’s mind worked.
“So.” She licked her lips, startled when he followed the movement with a raptor’s attention. “You, ah, do you have a girlfriend?” Oh my God. Why would you ask that, you moron? Now he’s going to think you’re angling for the position. “I mean, you won’t be in trouble for being with me tonight, will you? I wouldn’t want to step on any toes, even though we’re just having an innocent cup of tea.” Stop talking, Ivy!
He frowned. “I was seeing this chick, but she left town a few months ago.” He shrugged. “It was nothing serious. What about you? You seeing somebody?”
“No.”
When she said nothing more, he prodded, “And?”
“Nosy, aren’t you?” she muttered, nonplussed when he shot her a grin. God, that smile. She squirmed in her seat, not sure why she continued to physically respond to Sam. She wished her body would turn off. She didn’t welcome the return of her sexuality. It was one thing to want companionship—in the form of a dog. Another thing entirely to desire a man again. And especially with a man who thought nothing of beating on another.
“Yeah, that’s me. Nosy Sam Hamilton.” He drank more tea. “Well? Why no man?”
She let out a breath. “Fine. You want to know why I’m single?”
“You’re not a lesbian.”
She’d opened her mouth to respond, then stopped at his words. “Huh?”
“You’re not gay. I can tell.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I’m just sayin’. You don’t give out gay vibes.”
“What’s wrong with gay people?” She readied to launch a diatribe against any homophobic slurs, but he took the sting out before she could get going.
“Not a thing. It’s just you don’t check out women the way you do men.”
She frowned. “I check out men?”
“Not like you’re interested or anything. But like, you put out signals you don’t want to be bothered. You don’t do that to women at all. It’s a straight thing.”
“Well, you’re not gay either.”
He raised a brow. “You sure?”
“Are you?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She let out a huff. “You’re kind of annoying.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Who?”
He didn’t grin, but she heard the laughter in his voice. “Everyone.”
“I can see why.” Yet she felt amused by him. Not scared anymore. Entertained, attracted, and, blast it all, excited. “I never really answered your question. So I’ll tell you.” This would put him off. Men hated angry, bitter women. And she needed for him to not like her so much, if he even liked her at all. She had a feeling he was still checking her out for Cookie’s sake, and likely because she was blond and female. Guys had a thing for blonds. Not because he had a thing for her in any way.
“Waiting.”
“I met a guy when I was going through massage school. He was a little older than me, not by much. Nice, handsome. He had plans. Was going to be a psychologist, so he said.” She felt the familiar anger return, could see Sam witnessing it as she spoke.
His eyes narrowed at her tone, but he said nothing.
“I loved him. So I put my own plans of college on hold. I finished school for massage therapy and got my certificate. I worked my butt off to pay the bills, rent, even any fun for the two of us, for the most part. Max worked hard, got good grades, and he waited tables to pay for a lot of his own expenses. So I helped, letting him do what he needed. He focused on school. It was all going to work out. I’d do the hard part first; then when he had a great job, he’d work so I could go back for classes.”
She paused, trying to let the rage go. After all this time, she still wanted to belt the guy.
“What happened?” Sam asked, his voice low.
Ivy forced herself to calm down, to be glad she no longer had to deal with that scum-sucking, two-timing liar. “After graduation, he spent a year trying to get work, but he needed a graduate degree for the kind of job he wanted. I started losing patience with him. I was working my butt off while he took his time finding a job that would fit him. It never seemed to bother him that I’d come home exhausted every day.” Would a part-time job at a pizza place have been so bad while he looked for his “ideal” job?
“What a prick.”
She gave him a grim smile. “Then law school happened. Max decided he wanted to become a lawyer and because getting a lower-paying job or going back for graduate school wasn’t something I could afford, he found a richer, prettier blond and dumped me.”
“Sounds like he was an asshole.”
“You got that right.” She blew out a breath, feeling better having shared her sob story. Normally, knowing she hadn’t been good enough for Max was enough to turn her off to ever even liking a man again. But as she waited for Sam to say something else, she was struck by the color of his eyes.
“I’ve never gone through that kind of crap with a woman. Good thing. Because I don’t like violence around women, kids, or pets, and I’d be tempted to beat her ass if she ever did me wrong like that douche did you.”
Not a pretty boy or a scholar. A wild, fierce, predatory male sat across from her, sipping tea, agreeing with her wholeheartedly. The reassurance that she wasn’t crazy for being angry felt good.
“I should let it go now, though, huh?” She sighed. “It’s been two years since that jerk has been gone. I don’t miss him at all. But I still get so darn mad.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“Do tell.”
“You need to let loose.”
“What?” Was this where he tried to get her in bed?
“Stand up.”
“Um, okay.” She slowly stood. He stood as well and set Cookie gently down on the floor. The puppy didn’t do much more than blink once, then close his eyes and go back to sleep.
Sam stepped around him and drew her with him away from the dog.
She was ready to send him packing. Loosen up? Heck, she’d feel looser slamming the door behind his lecherous—
“Hit me. And swear a little.”
Not what she’d been expecting. “Excuse me?” She looked up, and up, at him. She stood five six in stocking feet. He had to be nearly a foot taller. Not six six, but close to it. “How tall are you?”
“Six four. Now focus.” He held up a hand. “Punch me. Right here.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
He ignored her. “When you do it, call me a motherfucker.”
“Sam.” She flushed. “Language.”
He smirked. “I know. Come on. No one but me and you to hear it. Cookie’s down. You can whisper it if you want. I won’t tell.”
She made a fist, and he shook his head. “No, not like that. You’ll hurt your thumb. Wrap your thumb around your second and third knuckle. Then keep your wrist aligned. You bend it when you punch, you’ll hurt it. Do it like this.” He punched in front of him, slowly, showing her how to do it. “Again.”
“Why am I doing this?”
“Trust me. I know all about keeping anger bottled up inside. When I fight, when I let it out physically, I feel better.” He nodded. “All those pricks who stick it to you, who get away with shit, all the assholes out there, they get theirs when you hit back. Except you don’t have to actually hurt anyone to feel better.”
She thoug
ht about Goodie. “You do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m fucked up. You’re not. This will help. Trust me.”
Why she should trust him, she had no idea. He put a hand around hers, helping her make a proper fist, and the assurance in his gaze was her undoing. She settled into the boxer stance he showed her, then gave a few air punches.
“Good, Ivy. Now hit my hand. You won’t hurt me.”
“You sure?” She felt strong, capable, and realized he might be onto something with that whole let-your-fist-fly-to-feel-good routine. “I don’t want to do any damage.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m sure, Mike Tyson. Come on.”
She concentrated, then hit his hand.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?” He snorted. “Willie hits harder than that.”
“Hey.” She straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Not nice.”
He let out a loud breath. “That’s the point. Use your anger, Ivy. Swear at me. Hit my hand. No, swear at Max. Hit him right in the mouth. Go on. You know you want to. Visualize, damn it.”
She figured she might as well, if only to get Sam to stop with all the violence. As she settled into a boxing stance again, she did as he said. She remembered Max, his blond on the side, all the work she’d done for him, all the love squandered on someone who’d never cared the way she had.
Fury festered, and she launched her fist and swore. “Asshole.”
“That’s it. Again. You can do better. And a little louder than a whisper.”
Another punch. This one stung her knuckles. “Dickhead.”
“He chose another woman over you. After all you did for him. All the work, the love, the—”
She didn’t have to try hard this time. “Motherfucker.” Then she shook her fist. “That stung.”
“No shit.” He was clenching his fist and opening and closing it.
“Sam?” She hurried to take his hand in hers. His palm was red from where she’d hit him. “God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
He didn’t say anything, and she rubbed his hand, trying to bring more blood flow to the area. She smoothed out the sting, working on the palmar fascia, automatically going into therapist mode. Yet as she rubbed, she was too aware of the toughness of his skin.