by S. M. West
Lightly laughing, she subtly steps back. She won’t get away. I’m interested. I need more. I gently tug at her hand. Her eyes pop back to mine.
“Sam.” The way she says my name hints at so many plausible meanings, some potentially negative and some hopeful. With a small smile, I’m silent. I won’t provide a rebuttal until she objects.
“I live in Toronto. I leave on Monday morning,” she protests without giving me anything I can work with. Raising my eyebrows, I widen my smile. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what? Have dinner with me? What, you don’t eat? You have to eat.”
Rolling her eyes, she tugs at her hand again, successfully pulling free. I deliberately let her go, not wanting to freak her out. It’s plain to see she’s struggling with this.
“Very funny,” she drolly replies. “Besides, you never told me how old you are.”
“Go to dinner with me and I will.”
“Not fair.” She lightly taps my bicep. “A deal’s a deal. I went to lunch with you, now tell me.”
“How old do you think I am?” I’m enjoying this game.
“Come on, Sam. Just tell me.”
“How old do you think I am? I promise, once you tell me what you think, I’ll tell you my age.”
“Hmm.” She taps her forefinger on her lips, contemplating. I’m not buying it; she has definitely already speculated on my age, and it obviously bothers her. There is no way she hasn’t guessed. I don’t call her on it, though, as I’m enjoying her performance.
“Thirty.”
“Nope. I’m thirty-five. Now go to dinner with me.”
Olivia’s face is impassive. Tilting her head to the side, she silently examines me. I’m not wild about waiting for her response, but I like the attention of her beautiful eyes roaming my face.
“Okay,” she quietly says. “Tomorrow night, dinner. Goodbye, Sam.” She plants a quick, chaste kiss on my cheek before turning toward the elevators.
Olivia
The smooth mauve stick glides over my lips and I smack them together. Sin’s perched on the tub watching my every move. “You look great, Liv. So, you like this guy?”
My phone vibrates and lights up as I’m placing the lid on my lipstick—Pete, again. I hit the home button and huff. He’s being obnoxiously incessant. He even tried calling me when I was out with Sam yesterday.
Turning to face Sin, she’s got her ‘I’ve got your number’ look on her face and I wonder if she knows Pete’s hounding me. Resting my hip on the vanity, I answer her question. “Yes, he’s really charming and sweet, but this can’t go anywhere, so stop looking at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?” As I walk out the bathroom, she trails behind me with a teasing grin on her face. “Like I know you’re looking forward to this date?”
“It’s not a date. It’s just two friends going out to dinner. I’m not ready to start seeing anyone and I’ll never date a younger man,” I firmly state.
“Seriously?” Erin pipes up. “Are you still on that kick? Who cares how old the guy is? He’s obviously into you, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked you out—not once, but twice,” She’s holding up two fingers. “Just throw the guy a bone and bone him tonight.” Both Sin and Erin give in to fits of laughter.
My eyes widen at the same time there’s a knock at our suite door. Erin beams like she knows who it is, and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s Sam.
“Did you…? How’d you…?” I can’t form a coherent thought other than being shocked that Sam could be on the other side of the door. I was supposed to meet him in the lobby. I didn’t want him to know our room number.
Erin giggles and hustles to the door, swinging it open to reveal Samson Beaulieu in all his glory. He’s dressed casually in dark blue jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his deliciously taut forearms.
I’ve never been fascinated by forearms before, but when I saw Sam in his kitchen, the flex and definition of his arms had me weak in the knees. I could look at his arms in motion all day. Watching him chop, stir, taste—pure bliss.
The deep, warm baritone of his voice snaps me out of my reverie. “Good evening, ladies,” Sam warmly greets us. “Olivia, you’re stunning.”
Heat blooms within me, flushing my cheeks. “Thank you.” I’m wearing a light blue paisley halter maxi dress with brown gladiator sandals. The straps tie at my neck with an open back, and two thin strings tie midway across my bare back to keep the bodice from gaping and revealing too much.
We leave my friends with the promise of meeting up with them after dinner at some bar on Crescent Street. After all, it is our last night in Montreal, and Erin insists we go out with a bang—more accurately, she’ll pick up some guy and get banged.
Sam hails a cab and takes me to a quaint restaurant that’s known as a landmark in the city. He says it’s a must when in Montreal, and he’s right. The food is great and doesn’t disappoint with a menu loaded with French bistro classics.
“So, I wanted to ask last night…how long have you been divorced?”
I nervously laugh at his personal question, yet it never crosses my mind to avoid answering. He shared yesterday, and I have no reservations sharing my past.
“Eight months. Before that, we were separated for about the same length of time.”
“Wow, you were married for a long time.”
“Yes.”
“And do you mind me asking why you got divorced?”
“Something tells me you’d still ask even if I did, but I don’t mind,” I tease. It’s a long and twisted story, and some people don’t get it—even some of my closest friends, like Erin.
“It sounds like such a cliché. We met in my last year of university. He’s a good guy and for the most part, it was a good marriage, but our relationship got to a point where we wanted different things. He couldn’t give me what I wanted, and I was very much alone. I felt isolated, and that only intensified as my kids became more independent. He was wrapped up in his work, all the time. He’s a successful investment banker working for one of the big banks. He’s good at what he does, is driven by it, and I, ah…I felt neglected. When I tried to… God, I sound like a whiny woman,” I groan.
“No, not at all,” he strongly reassures. “Olivia, not at all.” Reaching, he takes my hand. “Don’t censor this. I want to hear it all, from the heart. I’m not judging you.”
Looking deeply into his eyes, they are filled with genuine warmth. “I don’t want to put this all on him. I told him for years what I needed, how I felt we’d veered off in two different directions, then it took something so silly to change everything. We were supposed to go away for a weekend, just the two of us, to New York City. It was a chance to be alone, and I was also going for an interior design conference. I was itching to get back to work and was starting to dip my toe into that world again. At the last minute, Pete canceled, using work as his excuse…again. I went alone, and that trip was my wake-up call. We were no longer partners. We were amicable, more like friends living together. Even at that, there were times when we felt like acquaintances.”
Pete’s lack of support and indifference about me wanting to go back to work, about pursuing my dream, really cut deep. While I’d made the choice to be a stay-at-home mom, he didn’t acknowledge what I had put on hold, and now that I wanted a chance at that, he didn’t care. He didn’t stop me, but he also didn’t talk about it or show any interest.
I knew if I started my own business, it would be in addition to all that I already did. My life would be like I was a single working mom, so I thought why not make that a reality rather than continue the building resentment, hurt, and disappointment by staying with him.
Sam’s face is attentive, his eyebrows arched inquisitively. He opens his mouth, then closes it, a question on the tip of his tongue.
“You can ask. I did. I asked the same question too.”
He hesitantly smiles. “Was he cheating?”
“No, he wasn’t. I so
metimes wonder if it would have been easier if he were. The twisted part is, I think I could have understood that better. There would have been something, someone to blame for the end of our marriage…someone other than ourselves.”
I tried for years to get through to Pete, and that thought only saddens me. A marriage takes work, the love and passion at the beginning of any relationship changes and simmers, but our relationship got to the point where I was the only one trying, or at least that’s how it felt. Pete didn’t react or want to discuss any of it. Even when I threatened to leave, the first three or four times, it was an idle threat. The thought of walking away from my marriage was scary and heartbreaking. I don’t know what I could have done differently. It wasn’t a decision made overnight; I spent more than five years trying to reconnect with him countless times, shamelessly trying to rekindle our relationship, have time together outside of being parents, but all of it went nowhere.
“I understand,” he says solemnly.
“It wasn’t a decision made lightly, and I tried many times and in many ways. Some are too embarrassing to ever think about, let alone share,” I jest, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to know,” he says soberly. I raise my eyebrow, quizzical. His eyes smolder, pinning me. “Olivia, I don’t want to think about you with him, or with any other man.”
I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. My stomach dips and a kaleidoscope of butterflies take off in my belly. “Oh,” I say stupidly.
Sam’s attentiveness is in such contrast to my recent years with Pete. I recall telling Pete how I was feeling and him being completely unresponsive. It was like I was talking to a wall. I don’t say this to be malicious, but while he wasn’t physically or verbally abusing me, it truly hurt, and it tore me up inside.
His silence and indifference took its toll on me in so many ways. I realize now I was depressed for a while and I gained weight. I stopped caring and withdrew. As much as I love my kids, there was a point where I could only do the bare minimum. I was just keeping my head above water and I hated it. I hated that I put so much into a relationship where I felt alone. I internalized a lot of negative crap. It was eating me up from the inside out.
The New York trip woke me up. Meeting and talking to people energized me, got me excited about something, and I wanted to, needed to get back into the design business. Ending my marriage was the hardest decision I ever had to make.
“Thanks for sharing,” Sam says, bringing me out of my dark, sad thoughts. “I can only imagine what it must feel like. It sounds like you did the right thing.”
“I know I did. It wasn’t easy and there’s still some pain from it, especially with Paige, but I truly believe in the long run, we’ll be good.”
When we arrive at the bar after nine, the place is packed. It’s dimly lit with chic furniture and music in the background. With his height, Sam’s able to spot Tamsin and Erin easily. He effortlessly guides me through the crowd, holding my hand as we’re jostled and bumped along the way.
As we approach the table, my friends are with four young men and one woman. Most call out greetings, even those that don’t know us. I share a look with Tamsin and her expression is amused as well as fatigued; I assume the latter is due to Erin. She made no secret of her plans for the night: to find a man and hook up. She’s majorly flirting with her target, and the chase is over; she’s moving in to conquer.
Erin readily introduces us to the men around the table, all of whom are cute and under thirty, if I had to guess. Sin is situated beside what appears to be a couple and she’s deep in conversation with them.
One drink in—champagne for me and Stella for Sam—and a high-pitched squeal interrupts our conversation.
“Sam! It’s so lovely to see you.”
A blonde, five-foot-nothing waif drapes her petite frame over him, practically climbing into his lap. Sam’s stunned as she leans in, plastering her chest against his and wrapping her hands around his neck.
She kisses him on the cheek, not once, not twice, but three times. It’s a French thing, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Sam’s surprised and uncomfortable but he hides it well and recovers quickly, giving her a warm smile.
“Yasmine, it’s lovely to see you. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful now that you’re here,” she exclaims, her words thick with her French accent.
I strain to hear her over the loud music and chatter; it doesn’t help that her back is turned to me. She slips into French and I’m only able to understand about half of what she’s saying. My high school French helps, though not nearly enough.
Sam looks to me apologetically. I swallow the lump in my throat and my irrational wish for him to get rid of her. As he nudges her out of his arms, she barely moves an inch, then he motions to me. Peering over her shoulder, she looks at me as he introduces us.
“Yasmine Thibault, this is Olivia Cassidy. Yasmine’s father is a friend.”
The blonde leech with her plastic smile and blank eyes coos, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Before I can respond, she swivels back to Sam. Her thin, stringy hair whips past my shoulder and I want nothing more than to yank on it. Shit, where did that come from? I’m a grown woman and this gnat brings out the teenage mean girl in me.
“I almost forgot to tell you, Papa is here. He’s leaving shortly. He’d love to talk to you before he goes,” Yasmine says.
“Olivia, excuse me,” he says, his expression contrite. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
As he stands, his hand clasps my knee, gently squeezing, calming me. Yasmine watches, her eyes narrowing at our contact.
“Papa just adores Sam, as do I,” she gushes once he’s gone. I sit stonily, preparing for the barb or two I’d bet my life are about to come. I know her kind. “And how do you know Sam? Were you his babysitter or something?”
One for the blonde bimbo.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Then who are you?” she rudely asks, like she has a right to question me.
Instead of telling her where to go, I remind myself that I don’t know who she is and I don’t care.
“Sam and I are friends.” I say it as much for her benefit as for mine.
“Papa and I are huge fans of Sam. You know, on Friday night, it was my birthday, and do you know what he did for me?” Her eyes sparkle as she barely pauses. “He’s so sweet, that man. We were at Beaulieu’s and he made a dinner especially for me, in celebration of my birthday. He doesn’t do that for just anyone.”
Her words hang in the air between us like an archer’s arrow mid-flight, aimed directly for my heart. She needs to work on her subtlety—her tactics are as blatant as thunder in a rain storm. I smile, though it’s tight and short-lived.
If there was any doubt about me disliking this woman, it’s gone now. Her relationship with Sam is ambiguous, deliberately so, thanks to her. I don’t like her and these games that she so desperately wants to play. This girl is not down with that.
Sam and I are friends. Just friends. She doesn’t need to know any more than that, and who he dates or makes dinner for is none of my business.
Tamsin rescues me by bringing me into a conversation with the young couple around childrearing. At some point, Yasmine leaves. Good riddance.
Olivia
An hour later, Sam’s still not back. Every once in a while, one of my friends gives me a knowing, sympathetic glance. Shrugging off the silly feeling of rejection, I try to enjoy myself. It’s my weekend. I’m not going to spend it wondering where my new friend Sam is, because that’s just it—we’re just friends. We had dinner. It was only dinner.
Like he can read my thoughts, my ‘just dinner’ friend comes into view over the shoulder of Jean François, the twenty-something accountant who is desperately trying and miserably failing to pick me up. Sam practically prowls toward me with his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, and lips mashed in a thin line.
“What are you drinking? Le
t me buy you a drink,” Jean François slurs inches from my face, and I blink as a whiff of rye stings my eyes.
His self-important smile and cocky stance permeate the confined space between us. He’s annoying. Like Sam did earlier in the evening, the man’s leaning in, close to my ear, so he can be heard. His hand is on the back of my chair, and it’s not lost on me or on Sam that his thumb is grazing my exposed shoulder blade.
“Olivia.” My name is harsh on Sam’s lips.
My spine straightens in alarm and Jean François swivels to meet Sam’s dark eyes, also alarmed, trying to steady himself, in case he needs to prepare for an altercation.
Sam ignores him, eyes pinned on me, softening as he nears. When he weaves his hand into my hair at the nape of my neck, I relax, his gesture securing and reassuring. My body tingles on contact. My heart rate spikes and warmth blooms in my chest.
“I’m so sorry. Daniel Thibault is a potential investor and I needed to speak with him. Then as soon as he left, his daughter, Yasmine, fainted.” I fight to not roll my eyes. Of course she did. “She has no one to take her home.”
I cut him off, seeing exactly where this is going. “It’s fine. Take her home. Dinner was lovely. Thanks, Sam.” I’m polite but dismissive.
He rears back slightly, obviously surprised, then he’s inches from my face. “Come with me. We’ll drop Yasmine off and then I’ll take you back to the hotel.”
As much as I’d like to spend more time with him, it would only prolong the inevitable goodbye. Like ripping the band aid off, I prefer to end this now and get the sting over with.
“Sam, I’d rather not.” Also, while I don’t say it, I don’t like the woman and have no desire to spend another minute with her. “Tonight’s our last night and I promised to spend it with my girls.” Facing him, he comes closer, wedging himself in between Jean François and me, forcing the younger man to step back. “I enjoyed our meals and getting to know you. If I come back to Montreal any time soon, I’ll let you know,” I softly say.