by Sun Chara
Michael dropped his hands and waggled his shoulders. “You are such a crass creature.” His face contorted, and he looked at Johnny like some rodent that’d crawled from the woodwork. He turned to Samantha and smiled. “I don’t know how sweet Sam ever got stuck with you.”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Johnny drilled her eye to eye, an air pocket jamming in his throat.
In that highly charged moment, they could’ve been alone in the room or anywhere on the planet.
“That won’t get dinner cooked, will it?” She averted her gaze, hurled the carrots in the pot and grabbed a tomato.
“See, you’ve gone and upset her,” Michael needled. “You are such a peasant.”
“Aww, you don’t like me,” Johnny goaded, but the other man’s words nicked.
“Loathe.” Michael glanced at his fingernails and buffed them against the lapel of his jacket. “Don’t worry, Samantha. I shan’t leave you alone with this ape for another minute.”
A string of choice words singed Johnny’s tongue, and he tightened his jaw, not wanting to replay the scene in their apartment of two days ago. But, the more he tried to shake the man, the more he stuck like crazy glue.
“I’m sure you’ll be a big help.” She gave Michael a saccharine smile and him a dour one.
It made Michael preen.
It made Johnny nearly puke.
A lonesome howl pierced the momentary lull in their verbal battle.
“Critters are hungry.” Johnny grabbed the dog chow he’d put in the corner after the morning feed and slammed it into Michael’s chest. From reflex, Michael flung his arms out and hugged the bag, noting the Canine Kennel Resort logo, CKR.
Johnny caught his unusual interest in the lettering and smirked, ignoring the check in his gut. “We’re building a reputable biz here, Michael.”
“Never happen.” Michael juggled the feedbag in his arms and staggered several steps forward.
“You could help make it happen, Michael.” Samantha shot a wary glance at Johnny. “Your business sense—”
Johnny guffawed.
“Mikey,” Samantha said, ignoring her husband’s uncouth behavior. “You’re so sweet, the dogs’ll love you.”
Like you, Samantha? The silent query knifed through Johnny, magnifying his doubts. He flexed his hand, then stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans.
“Hrumph.” Michael found his balance. “Only six, you say?”
“Six pack.” Johnny leaned against the window ledge, folded his arms across his chest and watched the by-play between his wife and this dizzler. Only thing, Samantha didn’t see him a jerk. She seemed to like him just fine and even complimented his business savvy. Huh! If she but knew the half of it: who really carried whom, and who was the brains behind his success.
Johnny hadn’t worked at the bank for three years without being in the loop about the Scotts. Especially daddy-o and son. Of course, he could beep not a word because Sam would accuse him of badmouthing their guest … er … help. So, he did the next best thing. He ground his teeth together, unable to stomach the idea.
“M-manageable, I’d say.” Michael peeked from behind the bag in his arms, still hesitating.
“Of course it is, Michael.” Samantha cast him her sweetest smile. “You’re so capable.”
Bitterness scoured Johnny’s tongue. He’d come into this with a huge handicap. Not only was he from the wrong side of the tracks, but Sam and this bimbo had a history. Mamma had relished turning the screw and reminding him that not only had they attended the same co-ed boarding school, but Michael had been Sam’s ballet partner. He chortled at the image of Michael Scott in that sissy outfit and then scowled at the thought of him holding Sam in a pas de deux. A rude noise sounded from his mouth.
Samantha and Michael shot him a puzzled glance. Johnny shook his head as if to say never mind, but an unbidden grin wavered on his mouth. A sliver of hope pestered his insides. Although Sam and he didn’t go as far back as she and Michael, dare he believe they went deeper, much deeper?
It must’ve been a twist of fate – or a divine appointment, as Sam often said – that had him bumping into her that blustery winter day nearly three and a half years ago.…
He’d been jogging in the rain across the Los Angeles City College campus to register for a finance class before the registrar’s office closed at four-thirty. Almost there, he skidded to a halt under the canopy above the doorway to avoid the impact, but it was too late.
Seeking shelter from the Santa Ana windstorm, she’d run smack into him, the parcels in her arms flying every which way.
“Oops, sorry,” she said.
“Ah, sorry,” he said.
For a moment of profound silence, they gazed at each other.
She smiled, and her cheek dimpled.
He grinned, and his heart lurched.
To ease the awkward moment, he bent to retrieve the packages, and she did the same, her head bumping his.
She giggled.
He chuckled.
Hearing the door open and shut behind him, Johnny glanced over his shoulder through the glass doors to the clock in the office. He came to his senses. He had three minutes. In record time, he’d swept up her shopping bags and shoved them in her arms.
“Thank you,” she said, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
A curt nod, and he slid through the panels just as the doorman jiggled his keys in readiness to lock up.
Twenty minutes later, the doorman let him out. He pulled the collar of his overcoat up, rounded the corner on his way to the bus stop and skidded to a halt.
She stood sheltering against the wall of the building, her light jacket flapping in the wind. Shivering like a lost puppy, she juggled the sodden parcels in her arms and glanced about.
“You look stranded.” He flicked damp hair off his forehead and walked nearer.
“Loo-ooks like it.” Her teeth chattered. “M-my limo is late.”
He cocked an eyebrow. Limo indeed. If he’d heard one tale, he’d heard them all. “I see. Well, good lu …” He turned to go, but something about her forlorn appearance made him blurt, “I’m catching the bus to North Hollywood. You … uh … wanna come aboard?”
A nervous giggle. “No, thank …” She squinted through the screen of rain, then down at her squelching sandals. “Yes, that would be nice. I’ll call from the depot for a ride.” She ventured from her spot. “I don’t know what happened … the chauffeur was to pick me up at four, right after my guest lecture in Fashion 101. My mother must be using the limo and late get …” She allowed her words to trail off.
Sure sweetheart, he thought, but said nothing. Instead, he scooped up her shopping bags with one hand, draped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her into the shelter of his coat, and made a dash for it.
A moment later, the bus pulled up, wheels sloshing on the pavement and spraying muddied water in their direction. He swerved in front of her and got the brunt of the splatter.
“Oh, my, thank you!”
He grinned and shook his head, droplets spraying her. She laughed, and his gut hitched.
All too soon, the bus ride ended. She waved good-bye and hurried to the telephone booth in the station. He walked away, but a satisfied smile settled on his mouth. Samantha Carroll had agreed to have coffee with him on that Saturday, which was two days away.
Whistling a jaunty Irish tune, he trudged up the hill to his small pad and paused on the rise. He squinted through the fine drizzle and caught sight of her standing inside the phone booth. Soon, a cab drove up, but no limo. The auto moved, and she was gone.
He climbed the front steps to his building, thinking she’d just splurged half a day’s wage on the cab fare. He shrugged. If she wanted to play princess, he’d go along, but the joke had turned on him …
“I’ll be right back Samantha.” Michael’s ingratiating words to his wife jolted him from his reverie.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“I’ll have the stew ready to go o
n when you get back.” Samantha curved her lips in a soft smile.
Johnny narrowed his gaze and wanted to spit.
“Get some firewood on your way back, Mikey,” he ground out instead. He rolled his eyes and caught her disapproving glance. “We’ll need it for the night.”
Michael tossed his head at an obtuse angle and edged his way to the door, a worried wrinkle on his forehead. He looked like he was venturing into the lion’s den rather than the dog pen.
When the door shut behind him, Johnny burst out laughing, and then gulped down the sound, thinking perhaps the joke was still on him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sobered. He was behaving like a teenager. Is this what love did to a grown man?
He glanced at Samantha from beneath his lids. A hint of a smile still on her lips, she hummed while peeling the potatoes.
Johnny punched his fist in his hand. Humming. Can that beat all? She was actually pleased with that nerd.
What do you see in him, Sam? Money, looks, what? He scratched his head and bolted upright away from the wall. There was a slim chance this fiasco might turn in his favor. Sam would see Michael for what he was, a shallow fluff ball, and turn to her husband. And elephants fly, Belen. A laugh ripped through him, but amusement didn’t touch his heart. More likely, he’d lose his cool and blow it all.
“What’s funny, Belen?”
“The hired help.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to his side, her head tilting back to look at him. “Who you kidding? He’ll be falling flat on his fanny before you peel that spud.” Her eyes darkened with uncertainty. Johnny wanted to find another message in her gaze. For him alone.
The moment she lowered her lashes, concealing her feelings, he dipped his head. A fleeting brush of his mouth upon hers, a gentle touch that demanded more, and he deepened the kiss. Just as quickly, he lifted his head, his breath fanning her mouth. “Don’t you think?”
She shoved him back. “No.”
He stumbled over the crate and grabbed onto the table to keep from falling flat on his face. So much for Michael being the klutz.
Ten minutes later, a shell-shocked Michael covered in mud and reeking of dog stumbled into the kitchen
“Point.” Johnny winked at Samantha.
She ignored him and turned to Michael. “Anything wrong?”
“I’d like to wash, and, uh … where do I sleep?”
“In the shed,” Johnny bit out. “With the dogs.”
Michael’s face turned ashen.
“Johnny.” Samantha grilled him with a stern look. “Bathroom’s down the hall from the bedroom.”
Johnny wondered what kind of sleeping arrangements she’d come up with. Gall rose in his throat, and he shoved it down. Air like the hissing of a flat tire seethed from his between his teeth.
Samantha curved a shapely brow.
Pulling his mouth into a stiff smile, Johnny shrugged like he hadn’t a care in the world. But what got his pumps fueled was that bank boy had scored one thing right. Vegas drew most of the work force, thus depleting the local resource. Vacationers and retirees were left, and most passed through on tour buses, definitely not interested in scooping dog poop.
To recoup the losses, Willie and his sidekick had stacked up, and to get back into Sam’s good graces, he was forced to accept the dolt’s presence here for a time. A very brief time if he had anything to do with it, and of course he intended to have everything to do with it.
Johnny flexed his fingers, and then folded them into a fist. He didn’t like him being anywhere near his home, his wife, him. He detested it. The man would be more a hindrance than help. But he consoled himself with the thought that it might be a good thing for Samantha to witness the man’s ineptitude at domestic and business matters.
Until the holiday rush in glitz city was over, workers here would be nil. For the time being, he couldn’t be choosey. However, he’d keep Scott in sight, especially when he was anywhere near Samantha. Any tomfoolery and he’d toss him out on his backside, the six pack chasing him outta town.
“If you need anything else, Michael,” Samantha said, “just call.”
A bowlegged Michael shuffled from the room, the heavy-duty odor wafting behind him.
Johnny chuckled, but it lacked humor. Deflated, like he felt. He’d just played his long shot with that kiss and lost.
“Tell golden boy that I want my dinner in thirty minutes.”
She glared at him. “I bet Michael’ll deliver gourmet fare, something you’re not accustomed to.”
A hit, that.
He shuttered his gaze, concealing the sting of her words he was sure glinted in his pupils. If she’d called him a peon, she couldn’t have done it better. “Us peasants, Sam, have been known to taste of the good life now and then.”
“Johnny, I didn’t mean—”
“Enough said. Thirty minutes, or he’ll be up at four thirty.”
“Stop acting like a caveman.”
“From peasant to caveman?” He brushed his knuckles across his jaw. “I don’t know if that’s a notch up or a peg down in your estimation.”
“Oh, you’re one aggravating Irishman.”
“Is that good?” he asked with a straight face.
She ignored him, and vented her ire by banging the cupboards open and shut.
“Looking for something?”
“Salt.”
“To pour on my wounds?”
She swept up the towel from the counter and hurled it at him.
He ducked, and it flew over his head, landing in the trashcan.
At least he’d gotten a reaction. Whistling, he backtracked from the kitchen and turned, nearly catapulting into Michael patting his hair in place and smelling like a cologne factory.
“I’d lighten up on that stuff if I were you.” He waved his hand to and fro beneath his nose. No sir-ee. He wasn’t about to throw in the towel yet and concede to poster boy here. But the thorn raked his insides.
Michael slid past him into the kitchen, and Johnny ambled to the living room. Once there, he slouched on the rocking chair and stared into the flames devouring the logs in the grate. His mind drifted to the kitchen, and he wondered what was cooking between Michael and his wife. His glance strayed in that direction, but tempted as he was to barge in he resisted. Psychology. But he did prick up his ears.
Whispered words sailed out to him, but he couldn’t decipher them.
Aggravating.
The banging of the pot then silence.
Infuriating.
A giggle, a squeal and a tinkle of laughter.
Annihilating.
Get a grip, Belen. He’d be a basket case if he let his mind wander along that twisted path. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Where had he and Samantha gone wrong?
Chapter Nineteen
Minutes slogged by.
Johnny tightened his hands over the arms of the rocker, imagining someone’s neck. When his stomach growled, he paced the time on his Swiss wristwatch. Two minutes … one … and counting.…
“Dinner is served.” Michael stepped in the living room doorway and clicked his heels, a towel over his forearm.
“‘Bout time,” Johnny grumbled and pried his fingers loose from his chokehold on the chair.
A moment later, he stomped into the kitchen and skidded to a halt.
The table looked ready for a dining extravaganza rivaling the finest restaurant. Two red towels covered the scratched surface, and white napkins with plastic cutlery marked each of three place settings. The two mugs and an empty jar became drinking vessels. Flanked by salt and pepper shakers, a candle on the jar’s lid flared at center table. A paint can and the two apple crates morphed into chairs.
“Not bad,” Johnny said. “However, it’s dinner for two.”
Samantha slid him a dour look.
“The hired help doesn’t dine with the family.”
“You are a snob, Johnny Belen,” she snapped.
Was there something wrong with wanting to spend some quiet
time with his wife?
“Michael eats with us or you eat alone.” She gave her ultimatum, stamping her foot in frustration.
Johnny shrugged his shoulders and straddled one of the boxes. He’d tried. Then, he pounded his fists on the table. “Where’s my dinner?”
“Good heavens, I’ve created a monster,” she murmured, blinking rapidly. “Michael, honey, would you get this uncouth man his food?”
“Certainly, Samantha dear.”
Johnny narrowed his eyes at them both, doubting he could keep said food down. Just too sugary all of a sudden. Too sickening sweet.
After about twenty minutes of enduring the syrupy looks and giggly conversation between Sam and her ‘butler’, he’d had enough. Nursing his grilled emotions and shredded ego, he stalked out to keep company with the dogs, the welcoming woofs a direct contrast to Sam’s cold shoulder and icy blue glare. Brr! There was definitely a blizzard from the North Pole on the rise.
************
Samantha stood at the window, squeezing the towel in her hands, and gazed at her husband trudging to the kennels. Apparently he didn’t mind venturing out on this cold wet night, with shoulders slouched and head bent against the onslaught of windswept rain. It seemed he preferred to face the elements rather than her, to spend time with the dogs rather than with his wife.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand. Twisting away from the window, she folded the towel and set it on the counter. Johnny was a hard taskmaster. Often, he was harder on himself than others. Would she ever understand this man she married? She hiccupped. Thought she married. Would she ever know the real Johnny Belen?
A burst of a breath, and she pulled her sleeves up and plunged elbow-deep in the soapsuds filling the sink. No dishwasher appliance on the premises yet.
Since it was Michael’s first day on the job, she’d given him a break from washing the dishes. He’d looked ready to drop on his feet, so she’d handed him a couple of blankets, suggesting he get some sleep.
After she placed the last dish on the draining board to dry, she tidied the table and returned the food items to the refrigerator. She stifled a yawn, turned off the light switch and paused, her fingers stilling upon her mouth. Even the memory of Johnny brushing her mouth with his when Michael had been out in the kennels made her pulse leap and heat radiate inside her, jumbling her emotions.
