Hooked

by Ev Bishop

  Jo stepped off the porch that was hidden behind a copse of young pine trees, her mutt Hoover on her heels. Sam looked him over carefully, then petted him. She liked dogs okay, just not the things Jo’s dog was famous for rolling in. “Sam, I wasn’t expecting you so soon—but it’s so good to see you. I can’t wait to show you around—”

  “Sam, as in Samantha Kendall, my daughter’s biological mother?”

  Sam winced and nodded.

  Jo moved quickly and stood beside her. “I was so hoping Aisha would meet Sam first, but, well, she’s not here at the moment and we are. Sam, this is Charles, Aisha’s dad—Charlie, this is Sam.”

  “Aisha didn’t say you’d be here.” Charles said the word “you’d” like it was an insult and ignored Sam’s outstretched hand. She dropped it quickly. What the heck was his problem?

  Jo veered the conversation to more comfortable terrain—and Sam would’ve blessed her for it, except that she couldn’t believe Jo hadn’t given her a heads up and told her he was going to be there in the first place. “I’m sure there will be a lot of catching up to do, but you’ve both had long drives and like I said, I really think Aisha should get to meet Sam before, well, just before. . . . Charlie, you already have keys to your place.”

  Charlie grunted affirmation like a cave man. Sam managed not to roll her eyes. And he wasn’t as good-looking as she’d initially thought—okay, no, he was, but he seemed like an ass and it was ruining his looks for her. What kind of deadbeat was he, and how had she so badly misjudged the profile letter the adoption agency had supplied all those years ago and thought he was good dad material?

  Jo pulled an ornate key off a large ring and handed it to Sam. “We’ve put you in Silver. Breakfasts are, of course, included up at the main house every morning—and each cabin has a small kitchenette, but you probably haven’t shopped yet, so if you want to join me and Callum for dinner tonight at our house, you’re more than welcome.”

  “Will my daughter be there?”

  Will my daughter be there? Sam mimicked Charlie’s sour voice in her head, but listened for Jo’s response with as much interest as he did.

  “Yes.” Jo grinned and tucked an errant blond curl out of her face. “She eats with us pretty regularly, and she’s an amazing help around here, though I swear I try to get her to take it easy.”

  Charlie’s face softened and he shook his head. “Aisha’s never been one to do anything half way. If you got her to slow down and rest, eight months pregnant or not, well . . . I’d wonder what you’d done to her.”

  Jo laughed and Sam inched away, trying to be subtle. What was she doing here? She didn’t belong. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

  “She’s a great kid. You and Mo did a wonderful job raising her.”

  Sam almost snorted. If Jo was trying to reassure her or something, it wasn’t working. This man and his deceased wife—sad story, but so what, who didn’t have a sad story?—had failed Aisha. Sure, maybe it wasn’t their fault. Death happened, whatever—but it wasn’t Sam’s plan. Her daughter was supposed to have everything she didn’t have growing up, most importantly: two parents who loved each other and loved their child, who nurtured her and provided stability, raising her in one place, allowing friendships that endured, followed by educational opportunity—and instead she was knocked up at seventeen, living with an aunt and uncle she barely knew, in hole-the-ground Greenridge of all places. Her sacrifice had proven pointless. She could’ve raised a teenager that got knocked up in her senior year all by herself.

  The similarities between Sam’s own long ago situation and her offspring’s were crushing and though she wasn’t usually someone ever at a loss for words, she had none now. None at all.

  The gravel crunched beneath her feet as she inched away, and she could just imagine the damage the sharp stones were doing to the stems of her Italian leather heels. Both Jo and the idiot shot her concerned looks.

  “I’d love to join you, if you really don’t mind.” Charlie said, but his eyes were still on Sam.

  “Great. We’re eating at seven. Sam?”

  Sam shook her head. “I’ll give it a pass. Thanks though. I’ll see you for breakfast and make plans to speak with Aisha then. Please don’t mention I’m here yet.”

  Jo’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Well, do you want . . . after dinner, can I come by your cabin to visit?”

  “No, no, you’re obviously busy. Are the other cabins full?”

  Jo nodded and her happiness was so evident that Sam almost misted up. What was wrong with her? She crossed her arms and discreetly pinched the inside of her bicep until the overwrought emotional nonsense passed. “Well, I’m staying till I can’t bear it another day, so don’t sweat about making time for me. We’ll have plenty of chances to chat—now do you have someone who carries a person’s bags, or do I have to do it myself?”

  “Er, normally, guests carry their own gear, but I can help.”

  “No, you’re cooking dinner. I’ll do it.” Charlie strode toward the SUV.

  Sam practically sprinted to catch up—quite a feat in her heels on the blasted gravel. “Not necessary. I was just asking.”

  “It’s no problem, and, well”—Charlie’s gaze dropped to her feet—“you’re not exactly dressed practically for carrying anything very heavy.”

  If the condescending jerk thought Sam would apologize for not dressing like some mountain person, he had another thing coming. She waited until his eyes finally lifted to meet hers again—and observed his irises were a dark chocolate brown, something she usually found quite attractive. “Fine,” she said coolly. “I have two suitcases and a carry on.” She clicked the trunk release on her key fob. The Mercedes beeped once and its back door lifted slightly.

  Without looking back or making any false noises of appreciation—meddler!—she strode toward the cabin identified as “Silver” by a small sign similar to the one that marked Charlie’s “Rainbow.” It too featured a bay window on one side and a covered deck off the front door. Very cute.

  She turned to check her concierge’s—ha ha—progress with her bags, and was surprised to find him so close behind her that she almost smacked into his chest. She moved right and paused, momentarily sidetracked by the view, despite herself: a lush forest with soft, pine-needled paths winding this way and that. And the best part? Rainbow cabin, where Charles was booked, was nowhere in sight, due to a trio of massive cedar trees—at least she thought they were cedar; they smelled good anyway.

  She shivered a little. On one hand, it was super cool how instantly private and secluded the cabin was after such a short walk. On the other, it was kind of creepy. She might as well be alone in the woods with this cretin—if you could fairly call someone a cretin just for volunteering to carry your bags for you, unasked. She unlocked the door without speaking, flicked on a light switch, and stepped into the main room.

  “Wow, nice digs,” Charlie said, following her in and setting her suitcases down.

  “Nice” was an understatement. All natural wood and stone and glass, with a ceiling that was pretty much all sky light, every surface and item in the place was a treat for the senses, calling to be touched or rested upon. A buttery leather loveseat beckoned, and Sam smiled when she saw the array of chocolate Jo had set out on the nearby coffee table.

  “That table is killer,” Charlie said, slipping out of his shoes and padding over to it for a closer look.

  Killer? What was he? Twelve? Sam thought. But it was amazing, he was right about that. Constructed from the inverted root ball of some ancient tree, the thing was a work of art.

  “Is Rainbow like this?” Sam asked, a thread of worry weaving through her. If this was the standard of all the cabins, how deeply in debt had Jo and Callum jumped?

  Charlie shook his head. “Not even close—comfortable enough, but rustic. Definitely rustic.” He looked down at his shoeless feet and froze. “Uh, I’m sorry—kind of weird of me to mak
e myself at home in your place.”

  Sam waved the words away. “No apology needed. Let’s check out the shower together.”

  He turned an adorable shade of bright red, which, to her shock, triggered a flood of heat to her face too. “I just meant . . .’cause I bet it’ll be fancy too.”

  And it was. It really was. So fancy, in fact, it would rival any deluxe spa. Floor to ceiling windows showcased a stunning view of a rushing creek against a backdrop of evergreens and birch that would bud soon but for now were just pretty silver arms stretching into the sky.

  The view would’ve more than made up for even the simplest of utilities—a sole washbasin would’ve sufficed. But no, the room boasted a Japanese soaker tub, an infrared sauna, and a glass-encased two-person massaging shower. The vanity was a swath of ebony wood that seemed to magically support itself along one wall, with a heavy ceramic bowl and a simple swan-necked faucet for a sink.

  Sam stroked the counter with appreciation and turned to Charlie. “Can you believe this place? It’s crazy!”

  Charlie met her eyes again, opened his mouth—then shut it without saying anything. Weirdo. She shrugged, a little disappointed that he didn’t seem as impressed as she was, but then why would he be? He was a stranger and had no idea how much joy bringing this all together would have brought Jo—and Sam was no dummy. Jo had created this space with her, Sam, in mind. “Silver” indeed. She’d better be charging her a pretty penny for it, no discount.

  She left the bathroom and strode back to the entranceway. “Thank you for carrying my bags in. I’m sorry I was rude,” she said at the exact same time Charles said, “I’m sorry if I was pushy.”

  They both broke off speaking.

  Sam surprised herself by smiling. Maybe she and this awkward man had something in common, after all—besides Aisha, that is.

  Just as the tiny positive thought sparked, however, the dunce squashed it. “So when are you leaving? If you change your mind about needing to see Aisha, I’d be happy to give her a message from you.”

  Sam opened the door with too much force and practically shoved Charles onto the porch. She didn’t “need” to see Aisha. Aisha wanted to see her, and if Charlie thought easing his own discomfort at having the birth mom around was more important than what his young, pregnant daughter needed, well—he could stuff himself. It only made her more determined to see what help she could be to Aisha, then to get the hell out of dodge.

  Chapter 4

  Charles pushed his chair back from the table and stretched his legs out. He hadn’t eaten like that in . . . well, he had no idea how long. He took in the happy faces around him.

  Aisha was, cliché or not, glowing. Her baby bump was like a basketball shoved up her sweatshirt. She didn’t look pregnant. She looked like a kid playing a joke.

  Jo was great, and though it hurt a bit, he totally understood why his baby girl felt connected to her aunt. They were practically clones, appearance-wise—and from the laughter and smiles of the other two guests from Sockeye cabin, Jo made everyone at the table, not just him, feel like she’d always known them.

  Callum, Jo’s husband, looked more like some business tycoon than the mastermind behind the mind-blowing dessert they’d just enjoyed, some multilayered chocolate, caramel and cream thing that defied description—exactly as Aisha had promised it would, “even for a word nerd like him.”

  But sharp, miss-nothing gaze aside, Callum seemed friendly and laid back. He followed Jo’s every movement with appreciative eyes, obviously a man still smitten.

  When Callum got up to help Jo clear the table and bring coffee to him and the other guests, Charlie’s heart panged. Even after three years, the loss of all the little things he’d always taken for granted were what ached the most. Who’d ever know that things like not having someone to clear the table with, or to rock-paper-scissor battle about taking out the trash, would throb like an infected sliver, long after your spouse was gone? People recognized the bigger elements of grief and tried to prepare you—as if anything could—but it was the tiny details that sliced like knives, causing small emotional bleeds when he least expected it. He welcomed the pain of remembering, though, because sometimes he worried the sharpness of missing Maureen was fading, that he was forgetting, and that would be worse.

  “I swear you guys are trying to kill me, but thank you,” Charlie said as Callum set down a small pitcher of warmed cream for the coffee.

  Callum slapped Charlie’s back. “That’s what I always say to Jo—but die happy, right?”

  The table laughed and a lump formed at the back of Charlie’s throat, choking him. How he prayed his love for Mo had been as obvious to her as Callum’s must be to Jo. Aisha reached for his hand beneath the table and squeezed it hard. He looked over at his daughter, but she didn’t turn toward him.

  “And as I always say,” Jo quipped, “no dying, happy, sad or otherwise, till the dishes are done.”

  Everyone laughed again and Charlie returned Aisha’s hand-squeeze and wished he could offer her even a smidgeon of what she’d found in this loud, all-welcoming place. He hadn’t even spent the night at River’s Sigh and he was already hooked.

  His thoughts flitted to Sam, alone in her cabin. Why hadn’t she joined them for dinner? In some ways it made sense. She probably wanted her and Aisha’s first introduction to be more private, less casual . . . but then again, who, with insider access to all this, wouldn’t want to take part?

  Aisha interrupted his contemplation. “Friday and Saturday nights anyone who wants to can come for dinner, overnight guests or people from town, you name it—and the price for what you get is so cheap.”

  “Even if it was a hundred bucks a head, it’d be worth it.” His response seemed to make her happy. She beamed, then hopped up effortlessly, like she wasn’t carrying an extra forty pounds smack dab in her middle. “I’ll clean up, Jo.”

  “No, no—you’ve done enough. Rest and visit your dad.”

  “I insist.”

  Charlie stood up. “I’ll be her lackey. She can point to things and tell me what to do. It’ll be a win-win. I’ll get to visit her and she’ll avoid taking it easy at all costs.”

  The Sockeye guests said happy-sounding goodnights, Jo acquiesced to Aisha and Charlie’s demand to let them help, and Callum tugged Jo away.

  Clean up went quick and fast, showing Aisha really was a regular feature at the main house for meals. All too soon, she’d pecked his cheek, wished him goodnight and headed off to bed herself.

  Charlie left the cozy warmth of the main house for the cool, wet darkness of the outdoors, torn between gratitude and sorrow. It was wonderful to see Aisha thriving and more at peace than she’d been in months, maybe even in years, since Mo died. But it was brutal too. He would lose her to her new biological family. How could he not?

  It wasn’t late, maybe ten or so, and he knew he should get some words in because that was the new plan: new words every day, regardless of how late it got, before he let himself hit the sack. Despite all that fresh resolve, however, he found himself turning the opposite way of Rainbow, planning to walk a bit, check out the other cabins, and stir up his creative juices. Or that was the excuse for tonight’s procrastination anyway.

  He’d forgotten that Sam’s cabin was the first one he’d come to. Instantly he was irritated. There was just something about her that set him off, put him on edge. She was so . . .

  Hot.

  The word jumped into his brain and made him slam his fist against his palm in denial. She was not hot—and if she was, it was irrelevant. She was Aisha’s birth mother, a critical part of the huge extended family trying, however unintentionally, to steal his family.

  And besides, she wasn’t his type. She was the opposite of low key, down-to-earth, practical Mo in every way.

  Plus he hadn’t looked at another woman in over twenty years; he wasn’t starting now. Still—it would be nice if he could manage not to be a douche canoe every time he saw her. He slapped a hand to his foreh
ead. Douche canoe? That was as bad as when he’d said “nice digs” and “killer” earlier. Just because his kid talked in some strange cross of 50s gangster and modern-hipster-weirdo, didn’t mean he should.

  A small light inside Silver cabin flickered and Charlie realized it was a candle. Sam was in there all alone, probably hungry having eaten nothing but sweets for dinner, and he’d usurped her place at her sister’s table.

  Then again, being alone in that space, maybe taking a soak in that bathroom, chocolate and wine close at hand, might not be torture after all.

  A hunger that had nothing to do with a desire for food rumbled through him—so strong, so unfamiliar and so unexpected he almost tripped. And that would be perfect, right? To fall down, make a racket, then have to explain why he was standing outside her door in the middle of the night, staring at her darkened windows, fantasizing about her lounging around in that steamy tub—okay, so he wouldn’t actually have to mention that last part, but that was what he was doing, wasn’t it?

  He’d been standing so close to her earlier that he’d been able to smell her, all expensive perfume and product, yes, but earthy and sensual ones, like he’d imagine a hippy-turned-yuppie might wear. And those high heels. Weren’t rounded toe, thick-rubbered shoes the feminine footwear of choice in these here parts? She was in the middle of the bush in northern British Columbia, for crying out loud, yet she was dressed like the heroines from his books. And not only had he noticed her—the first female to register with him in forever—but his body liked noticing her.

  His blood thundered in his ears as, incredibly unhelpfully, a vision of her in those stupid shoes slid into his mind. He remembered how she’d caressed the bathroom’s luxurious counter with such obvious pleasure, then imagined her bending to turn on the hot water to fill the tub. The room was misty when she motioned him closer. “Will you?” she purred—

  Except wait, it wasn’t a purr. It was a cold, absolutely real, not-a-chance-in-hell-it-was-only-his-imagination voice. And it was right behind him. “Will you, please,” the voice repeated, “tell me what the hell you’re doing?”