by Ev Bishop
Charlie shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Maureen, yes—but it was a long while ago now. It’s probably why I haven’t written anything new in years.”
Sam looked down and Charlie could’ve kicked himself. Instead, to his shock, he reached out and touched her cheek. “I could show you.”
Her gaze slid up to meet his again, and the corners of her mouth lifted. “Oh, really? And just what do you mean by that?”
“Well, the book’s in early days. . . . You don’t have to worry about being completely ravished or anything.”
“I don’t have to worry about—” Sam echoed, then broke out laughing. The sound faded and was replaced by a contemplative look and a raised brow. “Okay, writer man. Put your moves where your words are.” She giggled again.
Charlie’s eyes held hers until she quieted and bit her lip, returning his study. He took her hand and smoothed a slow, constant circle over the base of her palm with his thumb.
“Here’s the thing, Sam,” he said in a low voice, quoting Gil, but using her name instead of Simone’s. “I know you find me attractive—and you can keep fighting it. Or you can give into it and have some fun.”
Sam hesitated and her eyes narrowed—but then she spoke, her voice wobbling with a small tremor of fury tinged with unmistakable desire. “Of all the arrogant, presumptuous, idiotic—”
Charlie was a little taken aback. She was really good at this already.
He increased the pressure of his touch on her hand. “So say it then. Say you don’t want me.”
“I. Don’t. Want. You.”
Charlie snugged his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Then this won’t have any effect.” He bent his head to her neck, kissed just below her ear, midway down her throat, just above her clavicle. . . .
“None whatsoever,” she said, but her back arched slightly, belying her words.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then you’re an idiot.”
“And what if I do this?” Charlie kissed along her collarbone, then flicked the mesmerizing hollow of her throat lightly with his tongue.
Sam went rigid against him. “Holy shit, Charlie. I—”
“I thought you didn’t want me,” he growled.
“I don’t. I can’t. . . .”
“Don’t or can’t or won’t?” he whispered.
“This is a very bad idea.”
“Or a really, really good one.”
“No—”
He leaned back and licked his lips, then smiled at how her gaze followed the movement. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?” Her voice was breathy and rough. Charlie swallowed hard and traced his finger from her mouth, along the line of her jaw, then down the curve of her body until he reached her hip. “You give me five minutes of freedom and don’t make a noise of passion or response, and I’ll take your word at face value and back off.”
“And . . . if I do make a noise?”
“Well, then all deals are off.”
She stepped back and planted her feet, almost in a fighting stance. “You flatter yourself—and your abilities.”
Charlie wanted to laugh out loud. She’d ad-libbed, changing the line Simone had used, and it was a good change, one he’d steal with her permission. He laced his hands behind her head, but stayed his full arms’ length away from her.
“Aren’t you going to start a timer or something?” she demanded in an irritated tone.
He shook his head and gave her a slow, cocky smile. “I won’t need a timer. I’ll have you purring in a hot minute.”
Sam almost cracked a grin, then managed to shove it away. Something tugged deep and low in Charlie’s gut, and he hoped like hell he could pull this off. It wasn’t like any other time. He’d have to put the brakes on; the thought was nipped off by Sam’s saucy look.
He started slowly, kneading the back of her head—and smiled as she put a foot forward and settled her weight. It was a tell whether she knew it or not, a way of trying to avoid her body’s desire to loll against his in a natural response to pleasure. He moved lower, working his hands through the tension in the muscles at the base of her neck and between her shoulder blades.
“You’re so tight,” he whispered, then realizing what it sounded like he could be saying, he played the line harder. “You should let me loosen you up.”
Sam snorted. “We’ve already established you want me, tight or not,” she whispered back, still sounding all too cool for Charlie’s liking.
He slid his hands down her sides, found the waistband of her jeans and slipped his hands up the back of her soft knit shirt, exposing an inch or two of skin.
She shivered—and a fraction of a second later said, “Brr. Cold.”
“Good cover,” Charlie said, then tugged her against him and tilted her chin up to face him. She stared at him defiantly.
“That’s right. Keep your eyes open. I want to watch you respond to me.” It was probably harder for him than her to maintain control as he closed the distance between their faces, touched his lips to hers, then opened her mouth with his tongue—but somehow he managed.
Her mouth tasted like the cinnamon candy she’d been sucking earlier and was everything he’d imagined and more. He was losing himself in their kiss. . . .
Head in the game, man, head in the game, he lectured. He felt her start to kiss back and pulled away slightly, spread his legs, and pulled her closer still.
“Oh my—” she breathed against his mouth.
“What was that?” he prompted.
She stubbornly bit her lip, said nothing.
“That’s right,” he affirmed. “The longer you can manage to stay quiet, the more we can play.”
She glared. He smiled. And moved his hands from where they’d rested under the lower edge of her shirt up the silky expanse of her back. He was hard as a rock and shifted a bit, letting her get the full effect—
Her mouth fell open under his this time, with no pressure from his tongue and he held her head while he kissed her, then moved back to her neck and traveled down it.
“Just admit you want me as much as I want you,” he said against her skin.
“But I don’t.”
He let go of her suddenly and she sagged against him. He steadied her and pulled her to himself again, hard. “Well, I want you,” he said, kissing her shoulder. “You make me crazy—and all I want is a chance to make you as crazy as you make me. I want your breasts in my mouth—”
Sam shuddered. He massaged her silky lower back in widening circles, then eased his hands down to her buttocks. He pressed his lips to hers once more, then whispered against her mouth, “and I want to make you scream my name.” As he spoke, he cupped her ass and squeezed.
“Ohh—” The guttural sound came from deep in Sam’s throat, a heat-filled groan of desire intertwined with surprise. Charlie had to pull in a long breath to steady himself against his own response to the noise.
He forced himself to pull back, but kept his hands lightly on Sam’s forearms. “I win,” he purred—then hoped his voice was steady as he narrated in a formal tone, “But Gil’s gloating was cut short. A door slammed open and sharp, staccato footsteps approached. An angry, all too familiar voice shrilled, ‘Are you kidding me?’—Insert chapter break.”
Sam stepped back too, her breathing ragged. “To heck with Simone. You’ll have everyone screaming.”
Charlie shrugged and couldn’t quite hold back his satisfied smile.
Her eyes locked with his and her chin lifted. Finally she spoke again, shaking her head a little. “Well, well, well, Writer-guy. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“What can I say? I’m studious and read a lot.”
“Read, my ass. You didn’t learn that in a book.”
Charlie grinned. Of course he had. Where else would he have learned anything? “Well, you know, a gentleman never tells.”
“I’m no longer convinced you are a gentleman.�
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“Oh, touché—that really hurts.”
Sam smirked. “But seriously, will the scene end like that?”
“End with Simone grunting with wanton desire against her will? Absolutely.”
Sam smacked him. “No, will they get interrupted or will they continue on, you know, to the end.”
“Unbearably disappointed, were you?”
“No, yeah—shut up.” Sam returned his grin. “I just want to know.”
Charlie hesitated. The last time he’d tried to explain his take on sexuality, she hadn’t been impressed. He didn’t want to offend her again. But he couldn’t pretend he was legitimately like Gil, either—or not on all counts anyway.
“Yeah, that’s where the scene will end. I’m a takes-sex-seriously guy and most of my characters are too. There’s lots of fun and games, but they don’t hook up until they know there’s something real between them.”
Sam chewed the edge of one knuckle, something Charlie had never seen her do, then noticed what she was doing and moved her hand to rest on her hip. “So you’re a hardcore happily ever guy, hey?”
“I used to be anyway.” A touch of melancholy threatened his newfound cheer, but he maintained eye contact with Sam. “And I’m starting to hope I will be again one day.”
Sam looked away. “Well, I’m more of an H.F.N.—or better yet, an S.B.S.G.B.” “Happily for now, I get, but what’s the other one?”
A sardonic smile twisted Sam’s mouth. “Stop before shit gets bad.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you’re probably the smarter of us.”
A flash of what looked like disappointment darkened Sam’s eyes, but before he could ask her why, she laughed and he figured he was imagining things.
“We should eat. I’m starved,” she announced. “Give me ten minutes.”
Good to her word, a steamy aroma that Charlie couldn’t quite place soon filled the small cabin.
“Come and get it,” Sam called.
He obediently—and very happily—settled at the table. Sam produced a plate of sliced cheddar, a dish of saltines, a sandwich baggie of carrot and celery sticks, and two bowls of—
“Canned vegetable soup?” Charlie asked.
“In all its glory. R—reduced sodium too, in case you care.”
Charlie started laughing.
“What?” Sam asked in a mildly affronted tone. “Carbs, protein, veggies . . . It’s not great, but it’s not the worst.”
Charlie laughed harder.
“I told you I don’t cook.”
He couldn’t stop laughing.
“I don’t get it. What’s so funny?” But Sam’s voice held a trace of giggles too.
“I . . . I just . . . ” Charlie wheezed. “Never in a million years took you as a canned soup girl. I always thought you were joking.”
“Shows what you know. Whenever, if ever, I turn on the stove, canned soup’s involved.”
“I would have predicted, I don’t know, roasted squash, goat cheese and arugula pizza, or bruschetta and—”
“Pizza crust and crispy bread? Too many carbs, no thanks. And as for those other things . . . I like food well enough, but I’m not having a bloody affair with it like Jo is. Who has the time? Enjoy the crackers and say thanks for dinner.”
“Thank you for dinner,” Charlie said softly. “It’s perfect.”
Sam made a face and crunched a piece of celery, loudly.
“I’m serious. I love it.”
“You’re easy to please.”
“No, I’m not.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence and Charlie really did feel it was one of the best meals he’d enjoyed in a long time. Sam had shared her real self with him, not a meant-to-impress version.
“I had a really nice time today,” Sam said eventually. “And I don’t just mean the, uh, playacting.”
Immediately all Charlie could think of was how Sam felt in his arms, how her mouth . . . and it wasn’t helpful. “I enjoyed myself too.”
“Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“The pleasure really is mine.”
Sam put her spoon down. “So are we going to be all stilted and awkward from here on out?”
“No . . . no. It’s just weird, you know?”
“Yes, I do.”
The rest of their meal rapidly disappeared. “I really like you, Charlie.”
“And I like you.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yes—”
She held up her hand to stop whatever he was about to say. “And I’m flattered that you like me. Not a lot of men do.”
“There’s no way that’s true.”
Sam shrugged. “Okay, fine, but there are very few men—very few people, actually—that I like.”
That Charlie did believe, but only because she made her walls so high. If she let her guard down for an instant . . .
As they ate, just like whenever they were together it seemed, they chatted easily and non-stop, even covering weird things like where they’d gone to school and what they’d wanted to be when they grew up.
“Astronaut,” Charlie said. “But the closest I got was a character who dated someone who worked at NASA.”
Sam laughed wryly. “An actress—and in some ways that’s exactly what I became.” Her mouth clamped shut then, like she was slightly shocked, maybe annoyed, by the admission.
Charlie nodded. He didn’t have to ask what she meant by that. He knew. Just like she knew she’d taken down part of her carefully constructed wall.
A moment later, she yawned and stretched. “Man, I’m beat.”
“I’ll do the dishes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I won’t be able to sleep for a while anyway.”
“Well, I’m never going to do dishes voluntarily, so I accept your offer.” She rolled her napkin and touched it lightly to his shoulder like she was knighting him.
“Do you want a glass of wine or anything before you go off to bed?”
Sam rolled her neck, and then looked at him from under heavy lids. “More than anything but I’m passing. Thanks.”
She stood up, but instead of moving down the hallway, she paused beside him. “I just want one last kiss,” she said softly. “You and me though, not Gil and Simone.”
He was touched and didn’t bother to mention that he was Gil and Simone and pretty much all and every one of his characters, no matter how villainous, sweet, sane or screwed up.
She bent down and her warm, soft lips settled on his mouth, and her tongue gently teased his—and then she stopped and straightened. “And just so you know,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Your hero who’s lost his wife and his way, who wants a wild affair but realizes it’s just not him. . . .”
Charlie’s heart pounded. What she must think of him, a sad, pitiful—
Sam continued softly. “He’s worried Simone thinks he’s pathetic, but she doesn’t. Not at all. She’s scared of him. Someone that principled and hopeful is hard to measure up around.”
Her green eyes weren’t just hard to read now; they were impossible. She pressed her hand to his cheek for just a second. It was cool and smooth against his flesh that suddenly felt like it might spontaneously combust.
“Good night, Charlie. Sleep well.”
“Good night,” he managed to choke out. The kiss, so sweet, was seared into his mind along with her words. He couldn’t explain exactly how he knew, but he did. Samantha Kendall, the furthest thing from the arch nemesis he’d imagined, the biological mother of his child, his granddaughter’s grandma, and more and more, someone he couldn’t bear not having in his life, had just said good-bye.
Her next words confirmed it. “You referred to the fun and games in your stories earlier—and that’s what we’ve been doing, playing games. I initiate, you back off—you initiate, I back off, etc., etc. And it’s been fun, but it won’t stay that way. You know we can’t kee
p it up.”
He shrugged, feeling about twelve-years-old: angry and rebellious about what she was saying, but pretty sure she was right.
“I don’t know if I want to be part of Aisha and Mo’s life—or if I even can be really—but I definitely don’t want to have an affair with you that ends badly, or risks burning any bridges that may or may not exist between us. I’m sorry I toyed with you.”
Toyed with him. Was that all their chats and contact had been to her, really? Didn’t even a small bit of their fledgling relationship feel like something that needed more exploration? “Why would it have to end badly? Why couldn’t it work? It could work.”
Sam shook her head. “You don’t really mean that. I’m just the first person to stir your interest since you’ve started to emerge from the darkest parts of your grief. You’ll come to your senses. We’re not a good match.”
“Stop telling me what I supposedly ‘know’ and what I ‘really’ mean.”
“Oh, Charlie, let’s be real. You’re a food and family kind of person. You eat up small town life. I’ve overheard you talking to Jo and listened while you visit Aisha. You adore everything I hate. Making soup is extravagant cooking on my part; half the time I prefer to drink my dinner. I like to go out, spend wildly, take vacations on a whim. I don’t want to be tied down by family or relationships or commitments.”
Charlie studied Sam’s smooth, pretty face. Then he nodded very slowly. “Well, if you’re sure of that, I guess you’re right. But I have to ask . . . if all that’s true, why are you here with me and Aisha and Mo now? Why do you keep saying you’re taking off, then changing your mind? And even before we were in the picture, why were you in Greenridge for almost a year with Jo? There was nothing about the handling of your uncle’s estate that couldn’t have been done from a distance. And you never go out. You’re as much as a homebody as me. You’re not the only one who listens, who watches.”
Sam started to reply, but Charlie interrupted. “Just think about it. Maybe I’m out to lunch, or maybe you’re more like me than you want to admit. Ready for a change and to let something—someone—new into your life after too many years of shutting doors to keep pain at bay.”
