by Ev Bishop
He held up a finger—not the finger, for the record, not like she’d given him before they’d met—to say he’d be just a second. Inside, he slipped on shoes, rolled his neck side to side and cracked his knuckles, then headed back to her.
“I’ll get your things,” he said.
“Just like that?”
“Yep.”
“Great. They’re on the porch waiting for you. I’ll go tell Jo the happy news that I’m slumming for a while.”
Despite himself, Charles laughed. Whatever you might think about Samantha Kendall, you couldn’t say she didn’t speak her mind.
Sam was nowhere to be seen when Charles returned to the cabin, backbreaking suitcases in tow. He hefted them to the room opposite his, then strode to the tiny bathroom, conscious they’d be sharing it. He wasn’t one to notice bathrooms except for when he was writing about them, but given her enthusiasm the other night, he couldn’t help but try to see it through her eyes. Was cozy actually cramped? And how about the small round window at the foot of the tub with a great view of the mountains? Would she think it was super cool like he did, or just weird? Oh well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. She’d have to deal—and that thought made him shake his head. If staying in this undeniably nice cabin was something to deal with, Samantha needed a reality check.
He peered around once more, then gathered his toiletries and stashed them in his room. He hadn’t shared a washroom with a woman since Maureen—and before that only with his roommates at school—but he knew the drill. Sam didn’t strike him as the low maintenance type. This way, she could take over the counter and drawers as needed.
He fetched his laptop and the box of pictures and clippings that inspired his muse, about to take it to the small desk in his bedroom. Working at a desk wasn’t his favorite thing—he preferred more casual seating—but at least he’d have privacy.
There was a soft knock even though he’d left the bedroom door wide open.
“You don’t have to knock,” he said.
She shrugged and stepped in. “Just feels a bit weird. I’m totally invading your space. I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shrug.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Moving my work stuff.”
She looked horrified. “You don’t have to do that on my account.”
“It’s no problem. And I don’t work well with other people around.”
“I won’t hang out here while you’re working, or I’ll be in my room—and I won’t stay long, I promise.”
Won’t stay long. She kept saying it, like he’d forget. He hoped she wouldn’t yammer on similarly in front of Aisha. It would be nice if Aisha didn’t feel she was just an item on an annoying list of to-dos.
“Let me show you around the place,” he said stiffly.
She didn’t remove her shoes, but followed him gamely enough.
“Kitchen, combined dining room, living room.” He moved down the five-foot hallway, pointing left then right. “Your bedroom, my bedroom.” He opened the cedar door at the end of the hall between the two bedrooms. “Shared bath.”
She stepped inside, pivoted in a half circle, taking in every detail, then moved to the tub and bent to peer out the oddly placed window. He thought he saw her smile, but when she straightened up her face was expressionless. He’d followed her in and was now extremely aware of how close they stood to each other—and how great she smelled.
The bathroom in Silver had tons of room; you could’ve set up a jazz quartet with a full brass ensemble to croon to you while you soaked in there. It hadn’t felt that weird to check it out with her—okay, maybe it did, just a little. Why was he so bloody conscious of her anyway? But this room? To describe the space as intimate would be an understatement.
She held his gaze and again, as was becoming all too common, he felt she saw everything inside him, including his humiliating against-his-will attraction to her, while he, also as usual, could read nothing in her eyes—which was unsettling because they were the exact same shade and shape as his daughter’s. They should have seemed familiar, yet they didn’t. Aisha, no matter how cool she tried to play things, was an open book, with every emotion and thought visible in her eyes to anyone who knew her even remotely. Sam’s eyes? Incredibly beautiful, yes—but also incredibly guarded.
Still waters run deep, the old expression, one of Maureen’s favorites, popped into his head and described Sam very well, he thought. He wondered if anyone really knew her.
She placed a hand lightly on his chest as if to casually push him out of her way—then dropped it almost immediately and stepped back, looking startled. His heart raced. “I should unpack. Thanks again for putting me up. Jo appreciates it—I mean, I appreciate it.”
She moved past him and the air between them seemed to carry the weight of her, pressing against him like a physical touch.
“It’s fine. You’re no bother,” Charlie said stiffly, much too late.
From her room he thought he heard her snicker, then whisper, “Gee, thanks.”
Chapter 9
Sam unpacked, as she always did regardless of how long she was staying, filling the dresser’s drawers with folded items, then arranging a few personal knickknacks, three framed photos, and her perfume collection on its smooth shiny surface. She took more time than needed to hang her clothes and carefully store her shoes and boots in the closet, hoping with every stretching minute that Charles would leave, but oh, no—he kept puttering around. First he made tea, or put the kettle on anyway because she heard the telltale shriek. Then she heard the rumble of the TV. Wasn’t he supposed to be visiting his kid? Then the hypocrisy hit her. Wasn’t she?
This was not going to work. It just wasn’t.
She slid her journal and pen into the corner-fitting desk’s drawer, and set up her laptop and external hard drive.
She could still hear him. What was he doing now? It sounded like he was exercising of all things. She sat on the edge of the bed, scrubbed her face with her fists, and wished her senses weren’t still tingling with memories of his scent. In the tiny washroom, standing so, so close, bodies nearly touching, it had been all she could do not to run her fingers through his hair. She’d almost given in—the urge to tuck it off his face so she could see his eyes practically overpowering. Thank God something deep inside overrode her insanity. Still, his face had told her all too well that he’d sensed the weird, needy vibe coming off her, too. He must think she was a freak! But she wasn’t usually like this. She wasn’t.
Finally, she came to her senses. If he wasn’t going to leave the cabin, she was—but first she was going to clear the air, set up some roommate details, and stop acting like an idiot.
He was exercising. Doing hammer curls, to be specific, with twenty-five pound weights. He stopped abruptly when she entered the room and his face turned bright red. He lowered the weights, then pushed them between the couch and the wall so they were hidden from sight.
She cocked her head and studied his biceps, then caught what she was doing. Her cheeks warmed as she realized she was literally about to lick her lips. What was she? A parody of desire and desperateness? Maybe her new life plan should include a little rest time in a sanitarium for a while. Still, he did have nice arms—
She nipped that thought in the bud. “I’ll call some hotels again and ask them to put me on a cancellation list, so I get a room as soon as one’s available.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
I do so, she thought.
“In the meantime, though . . . I’m heading to town to pick up some groceries, so I’m not imposing on Jo all the time. Is there anything you’d like?”
“You have to forgive me,” Charles said like she hadn’t spoken. “I’m not used to living with anyone except Aisha these days—and I’m not really fit for normal company, let alone beautiful company. It makes me act . . . awkwardly or something.”
Beautiful company? Sam was used to all sorts of flattery and come-ons and considere
d herself jaded and immune, but somehow Charlie’s simple, silly words flustered her. “Well, I am beautiful, so you should find me beautiful—but you don’t need to be awkward. We had a kid together. Can’t be more familiar than that, right?”
She meant the comment as a joke, an icebreaker to help find common ground. And they were both here for Aisha—but the minute the words escaped, a storm clouded Charlie’s face making it obvious she’d said the absolute wrong thing yet again.
“We don’t have anything together,” he said. “And I don’t need your help. Aisha and I are shopping this afternoon for some things she needs, too. I’ll grab what I want then.”
Sam lifted her chin. “Suit yourself. Sorry I asked.” Bastard. For every one step they took forward, they took three back. Whenever she started to think he might not be a complete ass, that maybe she hadn’t been a lunatic to choose him and Maureen for Aisha, he acted the way he was acting now, like an arrogant cold fish, and put her off completely—which was saying something because she could be a snobby, cold-fish bitch herself. And that reminded her. . . .
She widened her eyes in overt, obviously faked concern. “Oh, shoot. You were planning to take Aisha shopping today? That’s funny, we just arranged a girls’ afternoon, and she mentioned a few things she wanted a woman’s advice on that I said I’d buy for her. We’re getting together when she’s done work.”
Charles stuttered. “What? How? No, I’m meeting her after work—at four.”
Sam held her hands out, palms up, and shrugged lightly. There had been a conversation sort of like that, after all. Maybe she’d left out a detail or two, like how Aisha had responded to her offer with a stiff, “Thank you, but I work till three-thirty, then I’m hanging out with my dad,” and they’d set aside time for the following day instead—but close enough.
Charles looked like someone had punched him in the face, and Sam would’ve felt bad except she’d learned long ago that it was always better to be the puncher than the one who got punched. He’d find out she had lied soon enough, but it wouldn’t matter. Hopefully by then she’d have a new place to stay. And if she didn’t, well, it would have to be good-bye River’s Sigh. Aisha would just have to be content with a coffee and a so long, see ya, been nice to meet ya.
Chapter 10
Charles crossed the gravel in long strides, barely noticing the deep chill, his anger keeping him warm. How could Aisha do that to him? It wasn’t like her to randomly ditch someone or break her word—but then again, she’d never had her birth mom in the picture before. And she was about to become a mom herself, something she fully admitted terrified her. His pace slowed. His fury waned. After all, it wasn’t Aisha he was angry at. It was the situation. The boy that had been man enough to impregnate his daughter, but wouldn’t man up and be a father. The extended family that seemed able to offer Aisha everything he and she both longed for, that he couldn’t provide. Sam who flirted and snarked practically simultaneously, apparently with absolutely no awareness of the effect she had on him—and the power she had to hurt his daughter. Their daughter, the “kid they had together.” And what the hell was that crack supposed to mean anyway? Was she already reneging on her plans to move on and leave them be?
He opened the door to the lodge’s communal dining/meeting room too hard. It slammed against the wall.
Aisha glanced over, then suddenly pressed her hand against her ample side.
“Are you all right?” he asked panicked, all thoughts of Samantha Kendall momentarily forgotten, just as Aisha said at the same time, “Dad, what the hell?”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t know it would fly back into the wall like that.”
“I’m fine,” she replied.
But he didn’t like the flush in her cheeks or the dampness of the curls that had escaped her messy bun and framed her face. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“And you look like you’re going to freeze to death. I thought we were going up town. Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
“You’re not wearing a coat either.”
“Dad!” Her tone was both exasperated and amused. “I weigh ten tons. I feel like I’ll never be remotely cool, in any sense of the word, ever again.”
He laughed and then her full statement hit him. “Wait, we—as in you and I—are still going up town when you get off today?”
One of Aisha’s dramatically arched brows that she was so proud of—and so careful to maintain—rose. “Are you on crack? We just made the plan last night.”
“Yeah, but—” It was on the tip of his tongue to say Sam had told him there’d been a change. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true? Was it an honest mistake? If so, should he postpone with Aisha? A memory of Sam’s raised chin just before her wide-eyed “sadness” about the misunderstanding and implied cancellation flashed into his head.
A small grunt of realization escaped him. What a—
Before he finished that thought his own words came back to him. He had been kind of a jerk to her simple question about whether he wanted her to pick something up for him. Still, lying about who had plans with Aisha? What was she, twelve?
Aisha’s voice broke through the whirl of contradictory thoughts scudding through his head. “What is up with you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just thought I’d gotten my wires crossed or something. Sorry.”
“Whatever.” Aisha flapped her hand dismissively, but her expression said she wasn’t convinced he was “fine” in the slightest. “I’ve just gotta pee, again, and we can go.”
“Sure, babe. Sounds good.”
She disappeared and he paced the room, then positioned himself near one of the windows. Every view from anywhere in the whole frigging River’s Sigh enterprise was postcard worthy. It was totally depressing.
A door clicked open behind him and he turned, expecting to see Aisha—but his gaze rested on Sam instead.
She flinched a little, then something in her face hardened and she glided toward him in that walk of hers that he—much to his despair—appreciated all too much.
“Charles,” she said formally.
“Samantha,” he said, matching her tone, but speaking softly. He wanted to call her on her juvenile lie, but also didn’t want to tip his hand and show he was onto her. What game would she play next?
Her mouth—some shade of deep plum today—tightened for a second, then her milk-white teeth worried the corner of her plump bottom lip. Something in his loins went a little crazy. And why did she have to wear that subtle perfume all the time? It was indecent.
She sighed, smiled a tad ruefully and wrinkled her nose—and when she spoke again, he knew he looked shocked. Whatever he’d been expecting her to say it wasn’t what came next. “So, yeah . . . about the whole Aisha afternoon thing. As you’ve probably already deduced, I lied. I did ask her if we could meet today, maybe go shopping. . . . I thought it might be less uncomfortable then staring at each other for an hour in a restaurant or something. Less pressure, you know?”
Charlie found he couldn’t speak. He nodded.
“But she told me flat out it wouldn’t work. That she was meeting you. So yeah,” she repeated. “I’m sorry.”
He studied her face, unsure of what exactly he was looking for in her perfectly made-up features and glass-smooth expression. “I’m glad you told me. I was going to read her the riot act for standing me up without any notice.”
Sam returned his look, and to him it seemed like all they’d done since they’d met was try to stare each other down. Then her mouth, that delicious mouth, quirked and smile lines crinkled by her eyes. He liked the tiny wrinkles a lot, how they softened her face, gave her away just a little. He wanted to reach out and trace them with one finger. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“You already knew, didn’t you?” she asked.
Truth or lie. “Yeah,” he admitted.
“Before or after you read her the ‘riot act’?”
“Before.”
The fledg
ling smile faded and she nodded. “So now she knows I’m a big liar.” It wasn’t a question.
He wanted to nod. It would serve her right—and it was what she deserved . . . or maybe not. What a person “deserved” was a dangerous thing to start tossing judgment around about.
“Are you—a liar, I mean?” he asked instead, surprising himself—and her too, from the startled expression that flitted across her face. She recovered quickly, was carefully blank and smooth again.
“Sometimes.”
Footsteps and the jingle of Aisha’s handbag kept him from replying. “I’m ready,” Aisha’s voice piped from the hall, quickly followed by her reappearance in the room and a much quieter, “Oh . . . hi. Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, but I was just leaving. Have fun.” Samantha gave Charles a little wave. “I’ll see you later.”
Aisha nodded, but her gaze swung from Sam to Charlie and she shot him a look that he couldn’t read—a perfect fit with the recurring theme of his life these days: Charles Bailey is completely unable to make sense of or understand his life or the people in it.
As he followed his rotund daughter out to the car, his mind rested on Samantha again. What kind of a liar admits she’s a liar? A pathological one or a “liar” that really isn’t a liar at all? In any case, the woman was obviously messed up—maybe even as messed up as he was—but somehow they had to come to an understanding, so Aisha would be protected from potential hurt as much as possible. And he, as much as he dreaded it, better work on getting a life of his own again so he’d stop having this raging interest in the entirely inappropriate, all-wrong-for-him Samantha. After all, the only possible reason for him to have these spasms of attraction for her—someone who was his opposite in every way that mattered—was because he’d been in such a deep sleep of grief and now, whether he was ready or not, his body and brain were waking up and getting ideas. He needed to kindle new relationships and rebuild friendships. Not romantic ones, of course. He’d had one love, his true love, and he’d settle for nothing less—now where had he heard that or thought that before? It sounded familiar. No matter. Usually he had amazing self-control and discipline. He would conscientiously meet other adults, have adult conversations, make some friends. . . . He’d be able to live perfectly fine if those small comforts even partially compensated for the hole Maureen had left in him.
