by Anne Conley
She stiffened in his arms and didn't turn.
Not having a clue what she was thinking, he went on, "But you wear it well, I must say. It accentuates the curve of your hips." His hands moved to her hips, as if to illustrate, his fingers almost spanning her slim waist, turning her body around to face him.
"Sam…" There was a warning in her voice.
He tipped her chin up with a finger, so he could look at her eyes. They looked weary and wary. As much as he wanted to, and he thought she did, too, he didn't kiss her. Instead, he whispered against her lips, "I missed you this week." Her eyes flickered as their breath mingled, and he was pretty sure that she reciprocated the feeling, but until she said something, he would abide by her wishes.
For now.
He fished around a drawer next to her and found a knife to help her cut the broccoli.
"I'll help you, kay?"
"Sure. Cut them small, I'm just blanching them, before I put them in the sauce. Don't want soggy veggies."
"Okay. I don't know what blanch means, but I can cut small."
"You don't cook much, do you?" She asked with a small laugh.
"I cook breakfast." His eyes shifted sideways and caught her blushing. "I didn't mean that like you're thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter. Sheesh." He was teasing her, and he loved the look of shock on her face, when she realized how transparent her thoughts were. He nudged her with his shoulder, and she gave up and laughed. Tossing her head back, he was overwhelmed by the memory of the dance-off last Saturday. Again. It lit a fire in his stomach, and he vowed to do whatever he could to make her do it more.
"You don't do that much, do you?"
She turned to look at him. "Do what?"
"Laugh like that."
She looked thoughtful. "No, I guess I don't. I tend to take things pretty seriously, I guess." She went back to chopping carrots.
"It's too short to take too seriously. You have to find the humor, or it'll get to you." He was thinking of Marisol, and his job.
"What's too short?"
"Life, of course. Life's too short."
She stopped chopping and turned to look at him. Her little bow mouth opened to say something, but she stopped herself again. He reached out to touch her mouth, willing it to talk, to tell him what she wanted to say. But she clamped it shut.
He decided to take the initiative. Maybe if he opened up, she would.
"I divorced Amanda's mom two years ago. She was into pills really bad. Marisol had been in a car accident, that's how we met, actually. And the doctor prescribed her pain pills for a neck injury. She got addicted and couldn't get off them. The next thing I knew, she was taking fifty to sixty hydrocodones or vicadin, or xanax, or whatever, a day. I left her, and tried to get custody of Amanda, but she moved in with her parents and got to keep her."
"You didn't call CPS? Surely with drug use in the mother, they would have let you have her then?"
This was harder than he'd thought it would be. He took a deep breath, thinking that if he told her about his demons, maybe she would tell him about hers. Then they could get on with this relationship.
"No. Foolishly, I thought that living with her parents would straighten Marisol out. And I didn't want 'Manda subjected to interviews and questions and the whole 'he said, she said bullshit that CPS likes to engage in. I didn't know what kinds of lies Marisol would tell about me, and there's always the chance that 'Manda would have ended up with foster parents…"
He ran a hand through his hair, surely making it stand straight up. "Anyways, it took a long time for 'Manda to get over the divorce and get used to visitations around my shifts at the firehouse in Jacksonville. Marisol couldn't keep up with her habit and got into a lot of financial trouble. She couldn't find a way out of it, and she killed herself."
Rachel was staring at him, tiny little mouth wide open in that precious little "o" that Sam had wanted to see, though not under these circumstances.
"Why would she kill herself over money?"
"Who really knows? The pills did something to her brain, made her feel completely hopeless about her life. She couldn't see a way out of her situation. She was a completely different woman from the one I had married. I didn't recognize her anymore. She seemed to be functioning, holding a job, but it wasn't a well-paying job, and she couldn't keep up with her bills and her addiction at the same time."
He got quiet, deep in his own thoughts of Marisol. He had married a vibrant, care-free woman, and divorced an addict who had drained his bank account for pills. By the time she killed herself, she had cleaned out her parents' savings, and then re-financed their house, and spent all of the money on pills, leaving them in a pit of debt that they blamed on him for not being able to help their daughter any more than they could.
"I'm sorry, Sam. How awful for you and Amanda. I knew her mother had died, but I had no idea." She set the knife down and hugged him. He let her, smelling the top of her head, inhaling the sweetness of her. He enjoyed the comfort she gave him. He hadn't known comfort like it since his mother had died.
"I showed you my demons. You show me yours." He said it suggestively, trying to make light of the situation, as if he hadn't just told her that his first wife had killed herself because life had been too overwhelming, and he hadn't been able to stop her.
She stiffened in his arms, and he regretted it immediately. She looked into his eyes, and looked for a minute like she would tell him. But then her eyes shut down again, and she mumbled, "I'm sorry, Sam." She looked down at her feet.
He backed off, sniffing. "Okay." Trying to cover the awkwardness, he grabbed his knife again and began chopping furiously. "No big deal. Tell me when you're ready." It hurt that she didn't feel like she could confide in him, and he wondered what it was that would build walls like the ones she had erected around herself.
She touched his forearm, sending a warm tingle up his arm that he tried to ignore. "Sam."
"No. It's okay. I get it. You need more time. I won't pressure you…" He looked at her, trying to convey his meaning through his eyes. "Yet."
She dropped her head, to continue chopping. Sam saw her face had paled considerably, and she was upset. He couldn't tell if she was upset about what he had just told her, or whatever it was she wasn't telling him. He wondered what could be so bad, that Rachel felt like she couldn't tell him, especially after what he'd just said to her.
"Damn." He looked over and saw that Rachel had cut her finger, and it was gushing blood. Immediately, his instincts took over, and he reached for her, but she shrunk from him.
"Let me see, Rachel."
"No. Don't. I can handle this." She wrapped a dish towel around her finger and swept the vegetables she'd been cutting in a trash can, before putting the board and knife in the sink. He was still trying to grab her hand.
"I said, don't touch me, Sam. I mean it!" She was getting agitated, so he let her be. She held her hand up, above her heart, which was what he would have done.
"Just, finish chopping, I'll be right back. Please."
He turned and did what she asked, confused. It was just a cut, what was the big deal? He had his paramedic license, he could stitch her up if she needed. Putting the knife down, he walked down the hallway to the bathroom door, which was closed.
Knocking, he said helpfully, "Do you need stitches? I can run across the street and get my kit."
"No. Thanks, Sam. It looks worse than it is. I'll be out in a minute." Her voice, muffled from behind the door, still sounded hysterical to Sam.
He shrugged and went back to finish cutting up the vegetables. When she returned, she was wearing a latex glove over the hand she'd cut, and he could see that she'd wrapped up the cut excessively. He chuckled under his breath, trying to make light of the situation without hurting her feelings.
"Scared of a little blood?" He asked her.
"Yeah." She sounded relieved, which pleased him. It was certainly better than hysteria.
Immediately, she put the cutting board
and knife in the dishwasher, then finished dinner.
"Girls! Wash up for supper!" She called down the hallway. Sam had seated himself at the kitchen table and watched her work. Her movements were efficient, yet she obviously tried to do as much as she could without using her left hand. He figured it must hurt. She probably needed stitches and didn't like needles or something.
Dinner passed quickly and easily, the girls chattering unceasingly, about anything and everything. Sam ignored the fact that Amanda picked every single sliver of carrot out of her dish before eating the rest. He noticed that Sophia ate every bite, and he commented on it.
"Sophie, you're such a good eater. I wish my Punkin would eat all of her vegetables like you do." This earned him a glare from his daughter, either for pointing out her inadequacies, or for the childish moniker in front of her friend.
Sophia grinned up at him, and then turned to her mother. "Can we eat cheesecake now, Mom?"
"Sure. Let me get it out of the fridge."
As full as he was of the fantastic meal, he always had room for cheesecake. "I may have to start trying harder with your mother Sophie. I could get used to this." Giggles in surround sound and a glare from the fridge area. He amended his statement. "Maybe not. Might be a little too much estrogen for my tastes."
The cheesecake was excellent, and when he'd cleaned his plate, all but licking the luscious cream off it, he said, "That was amazing Rachel. I've never had better."
She glowed under his praise, and he treasured the fact that he was the one who put that look of pride on her face. "I mean it, too."
"Thanks. It's my Meemaw's recipe." The unspoken words were there, and he read them in her eyes. He wouldn't go there. Was she trying to remind him of the ring, or was it unintentional? His daughter had not stolen her grandmother's ring. He tried to flash her a dangerous look, daring her to accuse Amanda in front of him, but she didn't see it. As soon as she'd said the words and given him the look, her eyes fell to her lap, and didn't rise.
"Let us help you with the dishes, before we go home."
"You don't have to. I've got this." She had risen and was gathering the plates, one hand still wrapped in the latex glove. Apparently, she'd forgotten to take it off.
"I don't mind." And he didn't. He realized that aside from the comment about her meemaw, the entire evening had been amazing, and he wasn't ready for it to be over.
Her gaze on him was firm. "Neither do I. Y'all were a guest for dinner, guests don't do dishes."
"But I invited myself. That doesn't count." Turning to the girls, he said, "Y'all go play, while we clean up, okay?" Amanda and Sophia scampered to Sophia's room amid squeals and shrieks, and Rachel shook her head at them.
Her eyes darted around the kitchen, finally resting on him. "Fine. You rinse, and I'll put them in the dishwasher." Sighing, she turned to take her position.
Feeling triumphant, he brought the rest of the dishes to the sink and began scraping and rinsing. As he handed each dish to her, he purposefully brushed her hand, trying to extend physical contact. Not the one that still wore the glove, although he did think it was weird she still had it on. When they were finished, she wiped down the counters, then pulled out a package of antibacterial wipes and began wiping down everything in the kitchen.
"Neat-freak, huh?" He teased, trying to rekindle whatever they'd had the last time he'd been over.
"Yup. Keeps us healthy. Sophie has never missed a day of school for being sick. I'm proud of that."
"You should be. That's quite a feat." Getting ready to make his move, he changed the subject. "Thanks for dinner. It was delicious." He purposefully drew out the word delicious, so he could see the flush steal up her chest and across her cheeks. It worked, so he advanced.
He wrapped his arms around her and tasted those lips again. The lips he'd been imagining all evening. Hell, all week. He hadn't been able to get the kiss last weekend out of his mind, and he had to know it wasn't a fluke.
It wasn't.
As he pulled her closer, she opened up to him, her mouth, her arms, all of her. He could taste her desire on her tongue, and he pulled her closer. When she whimpered, he did a mental fist pump before devouring her.
She tasted so good. He couldn't get enough. He pressed her softness closer to his body, feeling her breasts press against his chest, and wishing like hell the girls weren't in the house. He could take her right here, on the counter top, the kitchen table, and the floor.
He'd made moves on women before. Lots of women, especially before Marisol, and a few after her. But there was something about Rachel that made Sam try his hardest with her. He didn't want to fail with this one. He knew that something about Rachel made her different. She was special, and he didn't think he'd get any do-overs if he screwed something up.
His mouth took her, making promises with its licks, nibbles, and sucks. His tongue thrusted, imitating what his body wanted to do to hers. He pressed her against his raging hard on and felt her tremble against him. She moaned, and the sensation of it against his mouth sent up a guttural growl from somewhere deep within him. She was warm and moist, and he couldn't help but imagine other warm, moist parts and the heaven they could send him to.
He pulled away, roughly, knowing that if he didn't stop soon, he wouldn't be able to. "Jesus, Rachel." His breathing was ragged, and his voice was hoarse with desire. A desire he honestly hadn't felt for any other woman. Leaning his forehead on hers, he saw she was flushed, and her lips were swollen. Sexy.
Sam took a step back, and adjusted the tightness in his pants, before clearing his throat and calling his daughter. Even so, his voice was not his own.
"'Manda! Time to go home!" Moans came from the princess palace immediately before the girls came running, faces crestfallen. "Y'all can play again tomorrow. We've got to go home, now. I'm sorry, Punkin." He ruffled her hair, and she looked somewhat appeased.
He flashed Rachel one last devastating grin, before he left. Later that night, he texted her.
The cheesecake was delicious, but it's got nothing on you.
Chapter 9
From Remainingrachel.com:
Coming to terms with my HIV status has been nearly a lifelong process. I found out I was HIV positive at the same time I found out I was pregnant. My doctor suggested that I start treatment immediately to protect my daughter from becoming infected, and I've been on various treatments for it ever since.
Treatment for HIV or AIDS isn't easy, but has gotten much better over the years. It is a commitment--you have to remember to always take your pills on time, every day--and the side effects can be rough sometimes. A good diet and regular exercise can really help your overall health and build immunity, as well as help with side effects. Finding the right treatment therapy is vital, so it is important to find a health care provider that you can really talk to.
Other issues that I face with my lifestyle include depression. I suffered a bit from depression as an adolescent, but my parents were not the type to rush me to a psychiatrist for medication. I lived through endless amounts of prayer before I finally figured out how to hide some things from my parents and just pretend to be happy.
Now, the depression is a little worse, as my problems are grown-up sized, but I have a life to lead and no time to wallow in self-pity. I have difficulty finding time to take care of myself and getting help for my depression. So I continue my farce, hiding the symptoms from my daughter, when the nasty depression monster strikes.
One issue that I have a hard time dealing with is rejection. My family rejected me when I was diagnosed, and because of that, I don't open up to many people. I have one girlfriend who knows and my online community. Other than that, it's a closely guarded secret. There is a man who I may get close enough to join the ranks of "need to know." I'll keep you guys posted on how that one goes. Until then, in the immortal words of Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused, "Just keep on living."
The following week, Rachel didn't see much of Sam, although they did text re
gularly. The fire station was keeping him busy. It had been a dry winter, and now that the weather was warming up, people were outside more, burning trash, and Sam had been on a lot of calls. The outlying areas had volunteer fire departments, but Serendipity's fire station got called in more often than not to help.
He'd been so busy, she was surprised to see him show up at her doorstep one morning, after she'd returned from dropping Sophia off at school. He looked hot as usual wearing his faded jeans, worn boots, and a flannel shirt, open over a Henley.
"Hey. How are you?" As always, she was stunned by the sheer enormity of the man and how impervious to it he seemed. He filled her doorway, replete with rock hard muscles, and a knowing grin. She gulped.
He swooped down for a kiss. It was just a brush of lip against lip, but it still sent a jolt of electricity through her body. "Sam…"
"What? Just saying hello." He gave her an innocent look that she knew better than to believe.
"Please don't."
"Don't what, Rachel? We're good together. You have to feel that."
"I do, but I can't."
"Whatever," he said dismissively. "Do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Bring Sophie by Saturday night, and let Brenda watch her. I've got a thing I've got to do with the fire department. It's a fundraiser. And I need a date. Please say yes, the only other women in town that I know are Brenda and Mrs. Brigsby. Brenda doesn't need to be getting any ideas, and Mrs. Brisby is…well, I'm not asking her. Besides, I think she might be married."
Rachel laughed. He looked embarrassed about Mrs. Brigsby, whoever she was. And she could only imagine what Brenda had probably tried on Sam. She'd known Brenda for a couple of years, and the woman had been looking for love everywhere, and everybody was a potential husband. She reeked of desperation.
"Are you talking about the annual Fireman's Ball?" If so, she already knew the answer. He'd have to be on his own for this one. There was no way.
"Yeah."
