by Justine Dell
But her therapist had told her to mend old bridges, give people a first chance and a second. Come to think of it, her therapist had a lot of stuff she wanted Samantha to do.
“Yes, I do have something to add,” Samantha said. “How much is this going to cost? It’s a lot of work.”
“I’ll work up the bid and bring it by the store. Don’t worry, though—it will be less than you expect.” He was doing it again, giving her that brooding stare that made her insides churn.
It was less than one step. One step and she could ask for what she wanted. What her body needed. Feeling confident, she took that step and put her hand in his.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He tilted his head as an unreadable emotion flashed in his eyes. The gray darkened as his hand gripped hers. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She took a deep breath and inhaled his scent. Yes—she was feeling better by the second. So what if her head was spinning, if the floor moved around her, if her vision wasn’t quite steady.
She touched her lips to his. It sent a shock through her body that tipped the room upside down. His lips were soft, smooth, and to Samantha’s surprise, eager. She enticed him further, parting her lips and leaning into him. When his arms wrapped around her, his lips parted and invited her in. She moaned.
His body tightened, and he jerked her away. “Have you been drinking?”
Staring at her, he kept her at arms’ length. The air whooshed out of her lungs as the memory of being discarded and unwanted slammed into her.
She twisted out of his grip. “I’m sorry, is that your business?”
“Well, no—but that explains why you’re being so hospitable all of a sudden.”
Her head was pounding again. She turned away from him and tried to make it to the chair in the living room, but the room was doing more than spinning now; it was upside down and inside out. Humiliation flared again, and she suddenly felt the need to toss up the contents of her stomach.
She turned to face him, torment cracking her voice. “You kissed me back.”
He didn’t say anything. Not. One. Word. His expression told her he didn’t care. Well, she couldn’t really tell through her clouded vision. She should’ve known better. Being rejected once meant being rejected again. God, she was stupid. So much for the high road.
She pointed to the door. “Get out!”
When he didn’t move, she rushed over to him. That was her first mistake. Her second was trying to push his steel-hard frame to the door. Shaky and off-balance, she didn’t make any progress. She pushed and shoved, but he didn’t move.
“Stop,” he said. “Please.”
Dejected and mad as hell, she rammed her whole body against him like a linebacker. It felt like a lightning bolt had struck her brain, and she keeled over in pain, holding a hand to the back of her head. “Damn it!”
Lance quickly knelt by her side. “What’s wrong?”
Another stabbing pain kept her from looking at him. “Nothing. Just get out.”
“For one second, stop being such an ass. I want to help you. What’s wrong?”
She snorted, but agony turned it into a strained whimper. “Like you care.”
He pulled her up, his hands clasped tightly around both her wrists as he held her to his body. His face was hard, his voice firm. “You’re a fool. You wouldn’t know what I care about.”
She stared into the eyes of a man she’d once known and maybe even loved. A man she had so desperately wanted, and had gotten, only to have her heart ripped from her chest. His dark stare told her she knew nothing of this man now. “Let go of me.”
He released her. She took a few shaky steps to the right and collapsed to the floor.
“Jesus.” Lance knelt next to her again. When she looked at him this time she didn’t see aggravation. She saw concern.
“I’m fine. Stop fussing.”
He hauled her up, and she leaned against him. “You can’t even stand for two seconds. Besides the fact that you’ve been drinking, is something else wrong?”
“A marching band is performing a grand finale in my head. It hurts like hell.” Her legs wobbled beneath her. She stole another glance at his face—his expression had hardened.
“Did you hurt your head today, too?”
“Yes. Stitches…something about a concussion…”
His grip around her waist tightened. “Why didn’t you say something? Someone should have been here to keep an eye on you. And the last thing you needed to do was drink.”
“Don’t use that dad-tone with me, Lance. I can take care of myself.” Her legs buckled, and she slipped from his grasp. In the blink of an eye, he’d scooped her up in his arms and headed for the staircase. Her head tilted backward, powerless to hold its own weight. Everything was heavy: her eyes, her limbs. Her body was warm tucked in next to him.
Half out of it, she insisted, “Put me down. I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
Blankets surrounded her as Lance laid her on the bed. The lost contact made her shiver. Lance’s movements were uneasy as he rummaged around the room.
“What did the doctor tell you about your concussion?” he asked.
The room was getting darker, the night closing in around her. “I dunno…something about every hour.”
“Get some rest. I’ll be right here.”
She couldn’t register what he was saying. Maybe he was talking to himself. Something about Candice and Jax, but it was all jumbled together. She couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, and sleep consumed her as she wondered just how much of a fool she really was.
Lance enjoyed watching her sleep, tucked beneath her flowered comforter like a child—she sure had acted like one, and it both irritated and strangely aroused him. That was the last thing he needed. After all, she’d made her intentions crystal clear when she ran away from Vermont.
He’d been shocked and confused when she kissed him, but his own hunger had overcome his reservations. He’d enjoyed the feel of her lips on his, but then he’d tasted it. Alcohol. It was still bitter on his tongue. He couldn’t believe she’d tried to drown her physical pain with it; she knew that wasn’t the answer. She’d dealt with Cole before, and she knew about Lance’s relationship with his alcoholic stepfather.
He wondered if she was trying to drown out more than pain. She was stressed, but he’d thought she was smarter than that.
He shifted in a chair that wasn’t quite big enough for his frame. He contemplated going to the couch, but he needed to be near Samantha, to watch her and wake her when needed. His eyes darted to the empty space next to her in bed. Nope. Not happening. There was also that twitch in his gut that urged him to get closer to Samantha for other reasons. But that, too, was a bad idea.
The chair creaked as he tried to get comfortable. He leaned his head back and watched her, wishing he knew why she harbored so much anger toward him—and everything and everyone else as well. For a moment earlier, when he’d asked her about her attitude toward him, he thought she was going to give him an answer. Her expression had briefly given him that impression before it iced over and she changed the subject. She might hate him for reasons unknown to him, but it was important they work it out, and work together. Dorothy’s recovery depended on it.
Chapter Seven
“By changing nothing, nothing changes.”
~Tony Robbins
SAMANTHA AWOKE TO THE FAMILIAR SHRILL of her Blackberry. She clamped her eyes shut a second later; it was too bright, and a headache pulsed behind her eyes. Her throat was dry and scratchy. She went to sit up and couldn’t. Her body weighed a thousand pounds.
Opening up one eye just a smidge, she looked around. She was in her bed. How had she ended up there? She closed her eye and laid her head back on the pillow, her mind rewinding to the night before. Always a lightweight, she’d had too much to drink.
The phone continued to ring. Samantha wanted to hop out of bed and answer it, but she wou
ldn’t be hopping anywhere for a long time. A dull ache radiated from the back of her hand, tense and tight with pain. Her entire body wasn’t cooperating and all she wanted to do was answer the damn phone.
“That thing has been ringing all morning,” Lance’s familiar, deep voice said.
Samantha lurched up, oblivious to the spikes of pain through her head. She watched in horror as he strode out of her bathroom in nothing but well-fitting blue jeans. He rubbed a towel over his head, and the morning sun made the traces of water on his chest glisten. Samantha peeled back the blanket she was clinging to. She was wearing nothing but a thin cotton nightgown.
Oh my God. What on earth had she done?
He stopped next to the bed, his irreverent eyes showing a hint of amusement at her gaping. “Morning, sunshine. Can you please answer your phone?” He tossed the Blackberry next to her.
She couldn’t pick it up even if she wanted to; her body was rigid and her stomach churned. Oh, hell—she really didn’t want to vomit. She doubted she could make it the bathroom.
Closing her eyes, she collected every thought from the night before, and came up with nothing that involved Lance. “What are you doing here?”
The bed dipped as he sat. She flinched and pulled the covers tightly around her body.
“What do you think?”
Humiliation stole her words. Running from him and hiding in the closet wasn’t an option, either. “Please tell me I didn’t do something I’ll regret.”
His brows furrowed. “So spending the night with me is something you’d automatically regret?”
She had regretted it before; she’d regret it again. “Yes.”
He rose and hovered over her. “Well, then it looks like you don’t have anything to worry about. I was a perfect gentleman.”
Relief washed through her. “So then should I be grateful that you didn’t take advantage of me?”
His eyes got as big as saucers. “Is that what you think?”
“What I think has never mattered. What happened to my clothes, and why did you use my shower?”
“God, you’re infuriating. What do you want, a play-by-play?” He was mocking her, and was less than pleased at her reaction. “Let’s see…you got drunk, hit on me, and collapsed on the floor. I carried you up here, put you to bed, got you comfortable, and then sat in that,” he said as he pointed to the chair in the corner, “all night to keep an eye on you and your concussion.”
Samantha loosened the grip on the blanket. He had done all that for her? Why? “Well, I guess I should say thank you then.”
He snorted. “You think?”
“Listen, Lance, when a woman wakes up half-naked, not remembering how she got there in the first place, and having no recollection of the night before, surely you think she deserves to be a little upset?”
He spun away from her, yanked his shirt off the chair, and put it on. “Yeah, I guess,” he grumbled as he walked toward the door. “Now that you’re okay, I’ll get out of your way. Have a good day, Sam.”
The door clicked shut behind him. Samantha’s puzzlement didn’t fade—it escalated. Had he actually cared about her? Cared for her? She doubted it. He probably felt bad for partly causing her concussion anyway.
Her phone went off again. She looked down, saw it was her book agent, and cursed. She definitely needed a hot shower and coffee before dealing with him.
Freshly showered and filled to the brim with caffeine, Samantha felt about as ready as she would ever feel to tackle her day. Positioning herself comfortably on the couch, her partially finished manuscript on her lap, she picked up the phone and dialed her agent.
“Samantha?” Matt said when he picked up. He didn’t sound happy. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been busy. Vacation, remember?”
“Yeah, a vacation where you’ll be finishing up your manuscript, right?”
“Is that what you’re calling about? I didn’t need a reminder.”
“I didn’t think you did, but the publisher moved up the date.”
A long silence followed. Her agent had promised her two more months, and lord knew she needed it after coming to Burlington to take care of her grandmother.
Samantha gulped hard, not really wanting to ask the next question. “What’s the new date?”
Another long silence. That couldn’t be good.
“Three weeks from yesterday.”
“Three weeks?” Samantha sprang up from the chair. The papers in her lap fluttered in a heap to the floor. “Are you crazy?”
“Calm down—”
“No! You calm down.” She paced the room. “I thought we went over this. You know I need the extra time. I can’t finish this in three weeks.”
He grumbled incoherently before saying, “I know what I said…but things change. I’m sorry to do this to you, but the publisher is demanding the initial deadline be met. I can’t change that.”
“What a fine agent you are.” She winced at her harsh words. “Jesus, I seriously need a delete button for the words that come out of my mouth. Don’t listen to me.”
“Samantha, I know you have a lot going on right now. I’ve been very lenient with you up until this point.” That much was true, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. “I’ve done everything I can from my end, and now it’s time for you to do the same.”
Her shoulders sagged in defeat. If she didn’t make this deadline, her career was good as over. She’d already strung out too many projects, and her agent and publisher were at the end of their ropes, much like she was at the end of hers. She should be thankful, but instead she felt alone and helpless to stop what had been coming for a long time.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you, Matt. I’ll do my best,” she said quietly, not wanting to hint at her own misery.
“Okay, I’ll check back with you in a week.”
“All right. Thank you for calling.”
Samantha hung up and fell to the floor. It would be over in a matter of weeks. The career she’d worked so hard for would be in shambles if she didn’t get her act together. And how was she supposed to do that? Her current situation didn’t allow much inspiration for writing, and without squashing some of the torment going on within her soul, she wouldn’t be able to focus, let alone put a coherent sentence down on paper.
Her phone rang again, and she let out a sigh of relief when she saw Jenny’s number flash across the screen.
“Hey, Jenny,” Samantha answered softly.
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“Everything.” Didn’t that one simple word just say it all?
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t really have the time right now.” An idea struck her. “Hey, what are you doing this weekend?”
“Oh, nothing really. Why?”
“Why don’t you come up to Burlington?” Seeing Jenny would make a world of difference. It would also be a good time for Samantha to thank her for all those times she’d helped her. Maybe it would help her crack her hard shell and open up to the people around her now—the people who wanted to help her.
“Really?” Jenny sounded shocked.
Samantha almost laughed. “Yes. You could meet Gram, and I could show you around. I could use some good company after the last few days.”
“All right, I’ll be there.”
“Great, I’ll send the directions to your phone. See you then.”
“Okay.”
“And, Jenny,” Samantha said before hanging up, “thanks. For everything.”
“Hey, Gram.” Samantha entered her grandmother’s room and kissed her cheek softly before sitting in the chair next to her bed.
Gram studied her carefully. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Oh…I’m fine. I’m sorry I had to run out on you last night. I needed some rest.”
“I hope you got what you needed.”
Even though Samantha couldn’t r
eally remember the night before, she was pretty certain she didn’t get anything she needed. “I’m good as new. How about you? Did your therapy session go well this morning?”
“Yes, the doctor said I was making progress. He said if I keep progressing this well, I’d get to go home sooner than we thought.”
“That’s wonderful.” She took Gram’s hand.
“I want to be back in my own home, with my own things.”
“I know.” Samantha’s tried to keep the sadness from her voice she stroked the paper-thin skin.
“I’ve been thinking about working at the shop again. I miss it,” Gram said.
Samantha’s heart sank. Gram wouldn’t be up for hard work at the antique shop for a while, and even if she could go into work, she would need help. Good, dependable help who wouldn’t steal from her.
Samantha gave her grandmother a tight smile. “I know you do. Hopefully we’ll get you moving around and back to your normal routine.” It wasn’t so much a lie as it was trying to make sure Gram worried about her recovery more than her responsibilities.
“I think Cole has done a good job at the shop,” Gram said, “but I’m sure he’d rather be doing other things. I should be there.”
Samantha clenched her teeth. She had yet to get the bottom of that whole Cole mess, but she was looking forward to it. With her free hand, she started to organize the items on the side table by size. Big things in back, small things in front.
“Dear?” Gram said when Samantha didn’t reply. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, and I agree. Getting Cole away from the shop is probably best.”
Dorothy’s eyes flashed concern. “Why?”
“Because he hasn’t been a good employee. I can’t wait until I see him so I can tell him were to shove it.” Samantha snapped her mouth shut.
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
Samantha moved the items on the table again. Big things on the left, small things on the right. Not yet satisfied, she stacked everything by size but it still wasn’t perfect. “Let’s not talk about that now.”
