NEXT TO ME (A Love Happens Novel Book 1)

by Watters, Jodi

  Ali scrambled to her feet. She wanted to say yes to all of that with every fiber of her being, but he was asking for a commitment and Ali couldn’t do that to him. Or herself. This was about geography, sexual compatibility and scare tactics. Not family dinners or gossip inducing visits to his workplace and definitely not romantic getaways to Tahoe. Or Italy, which was her preference over Greece. Hurting him was the last thing she’d intended to do. Mislead him, yes. Use him, yes. And while that made her feel like a despicable person, she had never planned for emotions to factor in this. After all, men had meaningless sex with women all the time, she was simply turning the tables.

  God, she didn’t want to cause this man pain.

  Brushing sand off the bottom of her shorts, she spoke firmly. “I can’t, Sam. I... I’m not looking for anything serious. I like things how they are now.”

  “I like things how they are now, too, Ali.” Sam stood, as well. “But, there’s something serious already happening here,” he motioned between them with the flick of his wrist, “you can’t deny it.”

  She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Yeah, you and me getting seriously busy. That’s all.”

  He frowned at her sarcasm and reached for her hands, clasping them in his own. “No, that’s not all and you know it. Let’s just see where this leads us, okay? Be open to it. We can take it as slow as you want, babe.”

  His expression was boyishly hopeful and she caved instantly, returning his warm embrace. Burying her face against his soft, flannel shirt, Ali inhaled his strength and optimism before pulling back, hoping the smile on her face didn’t look as sad as it felt. Sam accepted her silent agreement with the tip of his head and reached for their bucket of bottles, the glass rattling against the tin as they walked hand in hand toward his house.

  And now here she was, lying alongside him in an antique bed fit for a king, wondering when her choreographed plan had gone from sex in exchange for involuntary protection to the suddenly flourishing seed of love and commitment?

  When Ali had taken her eye off the ball.

  Danny had yet to be seen and she’d started to relax. It was a critical error in judgment. If anything, he was just biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce. She had to keep her guard up and not lose focus. The goal remained the same. Keep Sam close so that when Danny got closer, she had someone handy to scare him off for good. Her truth would be told and she and Sam would go their separate ways, but it was a worthwhile sacrifice.

  Burrowing deeper into him, she laid a gentle hand on his bare chest, the steady beat of his heart reassuring as she drifted into a fitful sleep. This was a temporary situation. She would get what she needed from Sam when the time came, and then she would move on. If removing Danny from her life permanently meant Sam would leave, too, then so be it. What she ultimately wanted was freedom and peace. And she wanted those things more than she wanted Sam Gleeson. Ali repeated the silent affirmation as if it were gospel, convincing in its resolute delivery.

  That was the problem with lies. They multiplied. Even the ones we told ourselves.

  ***

  The man was obsessed with The Weather Channel. That, and CNN. He would flip back and forth between the two in regular intervals, as if knowing the dew point in Chattanooga was important information. Smiling inwardly, Ali slowly came awake to the hushed sounds of the five-day forecast for the upper Midwest. There weren’t too many things in life better than waking up next to Sam in his big bed, his body giving off enough heat to keep her toasty warm in the cool air conditioning. A good thing since he seemed to consider clothing in the bedroom illegal contraband. She knew without looking at the clock that it was already mid-morning, her brain shutting down long enough to get a solid three hours of sleep in after laying awake until dawn.

  Listening to the remote click between news and weather, she grinned and slowly stretched, tangling her legs with his as she crawled over his body. Screw cartoons and Fruit Loops, this was how she wanted to spend every Saturday morning.

  “Mornin’,” Sam said, tipping his head to kiss the top of hers.

  “Mmm, good morning.” Placing her own kiss on the hot skin of his chest, she looked over her shoulder and saw what she expected. There was no hiding the laughter in her voice. “So, what’s happening today, weather wise?”

  “It’s only gonna be eight degrees for a high in Fargo.” His voice was rough with sleep and Ali felt her insides catch fire.

  “Sucks for Fargo.” Burying her face in the hollow of his throat, she inhaled deeply.

  “Tropical Storm Eric is forming in the Gulf of Mexico. Evacuations are imminent.”

  “Erica’s a bitch.” Working her way south, she traced the line of a rigid ab muscle. “I have never met an Erica I liked.”

  “Eric,” he corrected, his hand grazing high on the back of her bare thigh, inching inward.

  “Eric’s a bastard. I have never met an Eric I liked.” She laughed against his navel.

  His chest rumbled as he moved suddenly, flipping her onto her back and making Ali squeal with surprise. Coming down on top of her, his knee nudged her thighs apart. Way apart. She could feel his hardness against her and she reached between them, running her fingers along his stomach and down, the soft hair guiding her to her treasure.

  He looked her square in the face, serious as a heart attack. “Eric is my middle name.”

  “Really?” she said, stunned.

  He laughed out loud, swiftly hooking an elbow under her knee and opening her to his expert touch. “You think you’re real funny, huh? Well, you are. And cute, too. But you’re not the only one with a warped sense of humor in this relationship, you know.”

  Ali froze at his easy use of the word relationship, her smile dropping as she stared into his perceptive eyes.

  Reading her mind, his voice went cold. “Christ, Ali, don’t analyze it. It’s just a word.”

  A word. One that meant love and commitment. And honesty.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was just a word. And it made Sam wonder why it put the fear of God in her eyes and had her on the verge of bolting from his bed any second. There was so much about her that he didn’t know, that she wasn’t telling him. He’d held back the urge to press her for the details, fighting his natural tendency to get inside her head and see what made her tick. Instead, he’d followed her lead and taken things slow on that front, patiently asking questions here and there, like last night, hoping to get a kernel of something, anything, from her. He was treading carefully, working to build the trust that she must sorely need before opening up. Her reluctance to confide in him was a definite bruise to his ego, though, and while he didn’t necessarily care what she was hiding—as long as it wasn’t a criminal record or a husband—he just wanted her to give a little. And to be willing to see where their powerful chemistry took them.

  Sam couldn’t honestly say he was in love with Ali. After all, he had only known her for a dozen days or so. But he couldn’t honestly say he wasn’t, either. What he could admit to, was that when he was away from her, all he could think about was getting back to her. And when he was with her, he wanted to say and do anything that would keep that sweet, sexy smile on her face and chase the shadows from her eyes. The ones she did her best to hide. He hadn’t been kidding last night when he’d told Ali that Donna would love her. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d be preaching for him to put a ring on it before the end of dinner.

  I’d probably say no, anyway. That’s what Ali had said. Probably.

  Now there was a word he’d been analyzing and it had taken everything Sam had not to jump all over it, because in his world, probably was a response that left the door wide fucking open. But she was already spooked and that would have sent her running for sure.

  “Sam, please. I want you inside me.” Cupping his face, she whispered the sexy plea.

  Her lips were hot against his, her tongue licking against his bottom lip before trailing back to his earlobe, nipping softly and sending a jol
t of electricity straight to his cock. Pulling his mouth down to her’s, Sam allowed Ali to distract him with her lush body, letting her deflect any discussion of their relationship. And they damn well had one, no matter how much she denied it. Rising up to his knees, he stared down at her beautiful body, trailing his fingers through her wet heat and running his other hand along her smooth hip.

  “What happened here?” he asked, feeling the raised skin against his calloused fingertips.

  High on her hipbone, the scar was a long, clean arc and still slightly pink. He’d noticed it that very first night, the mark standing out on her otherwise perfect flesh.

  Ali reached down, wrapping her fist around him and slowly stroking, the firm pressure exactly how he liked it. “Mmm, just an accident. A long time ago.”

  It was another deflection. And it wasn’t the truth, either. He knew it was a recent cut, no more than a year old. He’d seen guys involved in hand to hand combat or drunken bar fights, himself included, some coming away with wounds from a blade. And the puckered line on Ali’s hip was from the clean slice of a very sharp knife. Not a stab, but a slice, which hurt far worse. And how the fuck he could even process that information was a miracle, considering all the blood from his body was rushing south to settle right where she was giving him the best damn hand job he’d ever had.

  “Ali, stop.” He stilled her hand with his. “Babe, tell me what happened. I know that’s not an old injury.”

  Her blue eyes went from aroused to guarded and she huffed out an irritated breath, but before she could reply, the sound of his cell phone interrupted them. The heavy beat of Five Finger Death Punch, Grady’s ringtone, echoed through the bedroom. Sam ignored it.

  Gently pushing the stray strands of blonde hair away from her face, he leaned down and kissed her lips softly, the touch meant to soothe. “You can trust me, babe. I won’t ever hurt you.” He inhaled her choked sigh and murmured reassurances, coaxing a response from her.

  “Sam.” Her voice was watery, her eyes tightly closed. “I don’t—”

  Metal music blared through the quiet room again, halting her words.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, as he glanced annoyingly at the offensive device on the nightstand until it stopped ringing, then touched a fingertip to her plump bottom lip. “Tell me, Ali-cat.”

  She stared at something over his shoulder, her voice small. “I want to. But I don’t know where to start. Where to even begin.”

  Finally, a breakthrough. Smiling his encouragement, he stroked her hair. “Whatever it is, we can handle it. Just say it.”

  But seconds after the phone stopped ringing, it started right back up again.

  “Fuck!” He reared back and grabbed it. “Goddamn it, Grady, this better be fucking good!”

  Ali immediately sat up on the other side of the bed, holding the white sheet against her nakedness while she stared out at the panoramic view of the Pacific. Her shoulders were slumped and he cursed again.

  Grady’s serious voice got his attention. “It’s fucking bad, man. That’s what it is.”

  Which meant only one thing. “Christ, what did he do now?”

  “Well, let me bullet point it for you. Dwayne got one of his side piece’s knocked up, told her to pound salt, she went to the media, Carla saw the headline on her coffee run this morning, and I just spent the last hour trying to keep her from cutting his dick off while Dwayne laughed and lied through his fucking teeth the entire time,” he sighed, sounding exhausted. “Oh, and when I called Ray, he told me to, and I’m quoting here, tell Sammy to take care of it. I need you over here pronto, man. If not sooner.”

  Shit. He knew he should’ve ignored it. Eventually, Grady would have called Ash.

  “Just what the hell does Ray want me to take care of? I want to choke that fucking liar out myself. I’m done with him and his heaping fucking mountain of bullshit and lies. I’ll be there in thirty.” Sam was already halfway to the master bathroom, his mind reeling with options on how to handle Dwayne’s latest fuck up, before he stopped and backtracked to where Ali sat, unmoving.

  Leaning over, he put his hands on her narrow shoulders. “I gotta run and take care of this, babe. I’m sorry. We’ll talk tonight, okay?” He kissed her forehead quickly and headed for the shower.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Sam.” Her soft voice trailed after him.

  “What?” He reached in and turned the faucet to cold, his adrenaline surging at the thought of breaking Dwayne’s nose in an hour, watching him bleed all over his ugly black and white marble foyer. “Come talk to me while I shower.”

  His head was already under the spray when he saw her, wrapped entirely in a bed sheet, sit on the edge of the whirlpool tub across from his steam shower. Biting her fingernail, she watched him silently as he took the fastest damn shower of his life. Dripping water on the travertine floor, he was toweling off when she spoke again.

  “I can’t see you anymore, Sam. This thing has run its course, I think.”

  The words penetrated his whirling thoughts and he stopped long enough to stare at her in astonishment.

  “What? Are you fucking kidding me, Ali? You’re breaking up with me? Right now, while I’m in the middle of this huge shitstorm?” His voice was loud as he dropped the towel and walked into the closet, now more pissed at her than Dwayne. Why was she doing this? And why right this goddamn moment?

  She followed him, leaning against the doorway. “Breaking up with you? What, are we in high school? Should I give you back your letter jacket?”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, he rifled through the drawer of his built-in dresser. “Is this about last night? Or is it about the questions you refuse to answer? Because this tight-lipped thing of yours is really starting to piss me off.”

  The look on her face said he’d scored a direct hit. “It’s not like we’re dating, Sam.”

  Yanking on a pair of charcoal suit pants, he grabbed a shirt and shrugged into it, shocked at her comment. “You don’t think we’re dating? So, what is it we’re doing, then? Are we just fucking? Is that how you see this, Ali?” She stood there, staring at his fingers as he quickly buttoned the white, pinstripe dress shirt, her silence sending his temper over the edge.

  “Is it?” he yelled in angry disbelief, and she jumped at his shouted demand. Sam felt a twinge of regret, until she looked him in the eye and nodded her head in agreement.

  Jesus fucking God, he did not need this right now. He already had an epic mess on his hands with Dwayne. And Ray, his egotistical agent and the one paid to take care of these bullshit problems to begin with, was conveniently absent. Grabbing his wallet and phone off the nightstand, he stopped long enough to take a deep breath, trying to control his temper, both at Dwayne and Ali. She really thought this was only about sex. If Sam wasn’t so pissed off, he might laugh about it. This relationship—or whatever the hell label Ali wanted to put on it—was as far from being only about sex as Sam had ever had. There were plenty of women in his past that he’d screwed without a single intention of pursuing anything beyond the bedroom. Never even considered them friends. More like acquaintances with occasional benefits. He hadn’t given a good goddamn how their day was, or where they were going in life, or what their hopes and dreams were. There were no promises, no commitment and definitely no confusion regarding the word relationship.

  But with Ali, it was different. Had been from the first time he’d seen her sitting alone on the beach in the dark. Maybe it was his desire to find something more, something real, for the first time in his life. Or maybe it was just fucking payback, because he’d been thinking about proposing to her less than twelve hours ago, for fuck’s sake, and now he was getting the royal brush off while she was still wrapped in his goddamn bed sheet. There was no doubt they had great sex, and yeah, most of their time was spent doing just that, but the bond went deeper. Sam could feel it in his bones. Something was going on in that pretty head of hers and it wasn’t good. It wasn’t right, either, but thanks to a colossal shithead named
Dwayne, he had no time to get to the bottom of it.

  “I can’t do this right now, Ali, but this damn sure isn’t over. We are not over. And we’re gonna talk tonight and get this shit straightened out, okay?” It was an order, not a question.

  Putting a confident hand on the back of her head, he leaned down as he pulled her close, sealing his lips over hers for a long, deep kiss, trying his best to make an emotional connection.

  To remind her that this was not all about sex. That it was really close to love.

  ***

  “How the hell did you get dragged into this, Foster?” Sam pulled off his sunglasses as Grady followed him through the front door of Dwayne’s pretentious mansion. “There was no assignment last night or this morning.”

  Having made it to the affluent coastal suburb of Del Mar in record time, Sam walked right into the large house, not bothering to knock or school his piss-poor mood. Wearing a scowl that sent smart people in the opposite direction, he jogged up the winding staircase in search of the screeching female voice that could be heard all the way out on the circular brick driveway. Grady was only a step behind.

  “Well, I was on the receiving end of some pretty amazing morning se— stuff,” he corrected, grinning when Sam glanced at him, “when my phone rang. Now, unlike you, I’m dedicated to my job, so I actually answered it. It was Carla, calmly advising me that if it was my duty to keep Dwayne in one piece then I better get my ass over here because she was about to separate him from his favorite body part. I’m editing this, because she used some seriously filthy profanity.” His brows raised with his usual humor. “Stuff I’ve never even heard before.”

  Hell hath no fury, Sam thought as he walked down the wide hall toward the master bedroom, passing an open bedroom door where he spotted two small children huddled together inside, their eyes wide and teary. The two girls were close in age, probably only a year apart, and he pegged them at four or five-years-old, maybe six. And the look on their faces told him this was not the first argument they’d overheard. Sam’s mind flashed back three decades to a similar situation, in a suburban upper class home that looked idyllic from the outside, with his mother sobbing and slurring her words as his dad, ever the commanding officer, lectured her on how to make a decent meatloaf. The sight of her familiar crystal tumbler, filled with ice and what his six-year-old mind thought was water, flying through the air to shatter against the wall just above his father’s head triggered an all out throw-down of epic proportions. He could remember Donna grabbing his hand and pulling him inside her tiny bedroom closet, clicking on her pink flashlight so he wouldn’t be scared of the dark. “Let’s sing, Sammy,” she’d said, swinging his arms back and forth, her God awful voice belting out their mother’s favorite song from start to finish. Donna’s butchered version of Dancing Queen, repeated many times over, did little to drown out the shouts of yet another fight.