by Justine Dell
“I’m not a child, dear. I may be old, but I am quite capable of understanding certain things. What’s wrong?”
Samantha eyed the items on the side table once more, fighting the impulse to organize them again. When she finally suppressed the urge, she told Gram about the missing money. “I’m sorry, Gram.”
Dorothy shook her head. “It’s okay, dear. I don’t think you understand.”
“What?”
Dorothy patted Samantha’s hand. “Like I said, I’m old—not stupid.” Samantha gaped at her grandmother. “I gave Cole the job at the shop to see if he could get his act together. I put him on my account to see if he would be responsible. It worked—but only partly.”
Samantha blinked. She eyed the items sitting on the table once more, wanting badly to shove them in a drawer so she didn’t have to worry about how neat they were. “I’m confused,” she admitted.
Gram laughed. It was light and airy. “He didn’t steal any money from me, dear. I gave him every cent.”
“You what?”
“He asked, and I gave it to him. Simple as that.”
Samantha rose from the chair and straightened the curtains before moving to the bottom of the bed and fixing the cover, making sure there were no wrinkles. “Why did you give him so much money?”
“I wanted him to straighten up. To take responsibility.”
“He didn’t,” Samantha ground out. “He took the money and probably used it to buy booze. He took a vacation, with your money. God only knows what else he did with it. Aren’t you angry?”
Gram smile never wavered. “No.”
Samantha stopped messing with all the little gadgets on the bed frame and sank down in a seat. “I don’t get it. He used you. He left your shop a mess. He—he—”
“He could’ve been doing worse things.”
Samantha slumped her shoulders. “You’re right. But I can’t help feeling disgusted with him. I mean, I know he’s been through a lot since the accident and all, but I’d hoped he’d overcome those things long ago.”
Gram took Samantha’s hand. “He still struggles with the loss of your parents. I think part of him wishes he would have died in the car accident with them instead of just losing his leg. It’s been hard for him. He’s tried to sober up. That’s what I wanted him to focus on. If he worried about how he was going to eat, where he was going to work, or live, it would’ve caused more stress—and more problems. I was only giving him the opportunity to help himself. So I gave him a job and responsibilities.”
“And for his gratitude, he took more than his fair share, Gram.”
Gram waved her hand. “In time, he’ll see, and he’ll come around.”
“I hope so, for your sake. But I think you might be in denial, and I’m afraid I’m not nearly as forgiving.”
“Faith, Samantha. You must learn to have faith in people, and in yourself. Trust should also be high on your list.”
“Well, I admit I’m a work in progress. And I don’t come with a guarantee. Most people throw me back nowadays.”
Gram giggled and held out her arms for a hug. Samantha hesitated before sinking into her grandmother’s warm embrace. “The people who throw you back aren’t the ones you want anyway.”
Samantha eased out of the light grip. “You’re the best, Gram. I’ve got some cleanup work to do on the shop, but I’ll be by again soon.”
“All right. Do me a favor, would you?”
“Anything.”
“Take care of yourself.”
Samantha kissed her grandmother’s forehead. Taking care of herself was something she’d given up on a long time ago, but was something she wouldn’t mind starting to do again. “I will.”
Chapter Eight
“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”
~Deepak Chopra
THE TOWN WAS BUSY, parking was a problem, and all Samantha wanted was to get to the antique shop and continue her cleaning spree. Now, more than ever, she wanted the place to shine like new when her grandmother walked through those doors again.
Before making it to the shop, Samantha made a spur-of-the-moment decision and stopped by the Queen Diner. She had an urge to talk to Candice.
“Morning, Samantha.” Candice shuffled the tray she was holding and reached out for an embrace. Samantha hesitated before surrendering to the friendly gesture. “Give me a sec to get rid of this load and we can sit and chat.” She nodded toward the bar. “Have a seat over there and I’ll be right with you.”
“All right.” Samantha took a seat.
The waitress behind the bar handed Samantha a menu. “Can I get you something?”
“Just coffee, thanks.”
“Coming up.”
With a hot cup of strong coffee, Samantha relaxed. It amazed her how the simplest of acts—like sitting in a diner sipping the best coffee she’d ever tasted, getting ready to talk to an old friend—could lighten her mood. It was strange; why hadn’t she ever felt like this in New York?
“Whew.” Candice strolled over and took the seat next to Samantha. “It’s been a busy morning. Sorry you had to wait.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
Candice eyed the empty space in front of her friend. “What? No breakfast?”
Samantha laughed—and it felt good. “Have you seen Cole around recently?”
Candice’s forehead crinkled. “Not for a few months, but Lance mentioned he saw him the other day. Why?”
“Do you know what he’s been up to?”
“Not really. Lance has dealt with him a lot more than I have.”
“Lance? Why?” Samantha clanked her cup on the table. Just hearing his name sent waves of irritation flowing over her skin. Candice nodded and gave Samantha another one of those irritating I-know-something-you-don’t-know smiles.
“I don’t think that’s my story to tell. You should ask him.”
Hell would freeze over before Samantha did that. After making a fool of herself the night before, and with the way he’d treated her that morning, she was not about to track him down and ask him what he knew. There was no way she would act like she needed Lance. The last thing she needed was him.
“I can tell you that Cole started working at the shop more when Dorothy started getting sick.”
Samantha’s face twisted. How many times did she have to be reminded that she had left her grandmother to the vultures?
“Why do you want to know?” Candice asked.
“Just curious, I guess.” Samantha wasn’t about to share the story with anyone else. Being a failure for Gram was bad enough; sharing it with the world was entirely different. “I haven’t seen him since I’ve been back in town. I just want to talk to him about something.”
Candice’s eyebrow rose a fraction.
“Maybe I’ll see Cole around.” Samantha placed some cash on the counter and rose. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Oh, Samantha…”
“Hmm?”
Candice smiled at her mischievously. “Did Lance stop by the house last night?”
Samantha cursed silently and shuffled her feet. It all made sense now. Candice was sneaky. “Yes, he did.”
“And? Did you get everything worked out for Dorothy’s house?”
Hell, she didn’t know. She didn’t remember two licks from the night before. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Good. One more thing before you go. I know you have a lot going on, and I wanted you to know that if you need anyone to talk to—I’m here. And don’t let Lance get under your skin too much either. There are two sides to every story.”
What the hell? There was that name again. Thinking Candice needed medication, Samantha shook her head and walked out.
Once she got back to the shop, tension gripped Samantha’s body. Between her grandmother, Cole, and Lance, she had more than enough to occupy her mind. With all that stuff, her waiting novel was last on her list of to-dos. As she cleaned, she tried to drudge up the memories from the night before. She drew a blank, and
that irritated her to no end.
She didn’t like the look on Lance’s face when she awoke that morning. He had studied her, judging her reaction as he walked—half-naked, no less, and annoyingly handsome—into her room. She hoped he’d gotten an eyeful of her shock…and that he hadn’t seen her desire. And for some God-forsaken reason she didn’t like how upset he’d looked when he left.
As she pushed another antique couch into position, Samantha decided she didn’t care that she’d upset him. She’d spent enough time caring about him, and she wasn’t about to start that again. Besides, it was as obvious as the dirt on her clothes that he didn’t give a damn about her, then or now. The last thing she was going to do was care. As she wiped the trickle of sweat from the back of her neck, she resolved that no man, especially Lance, would interfere with her life. She could still try the high road with him, but she didn’t have to like him.
A loud thud on the table behind made her spin around. Lance stood just a few feet away with a playful lift of his brow. It made her see red.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “It’s incredibly rude to sneak up on people and scare them half to death.”
Lance snorted as he leaned back against the mahogany table, his dark, toned biceps flexing and stretching the short sleeves of his white T-shirt. “Well, seeing as how it’s also rude to yell obscenities, kick people, and be all-around sarcastic—I don’t think you have a lot of room to talk. People in glass houses, and all.”
“Now is not the time for one of your lectures.”
“Oh, forgive me.” He picked up the folder on the table and pushed it into Samantha’s hand. “I just came to give you these.”
“What’s this?”
“The estimates for your grandmother’s house.”
Estimates? “I’m confused.”
He shifted, his eyes glinting in amusement beneath the subdued lighting of the glass chandeliers. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Stop that.”
His lips lifted into a partial smile. “Stop what?”
“Mocking me.”
“Oh, is that what I was doing? I thought I was just asking a question.”
Samantha flipped through the rest of pages and placed the folder on the table. “Fine. I get it. That’s why you were at the house last night. I’m guessing at some point we discussed it, but I don’t really remember much.” She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably.
“I think we covered that this morning.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
“Listen, about that—”
Lance closed the distance between them and put his hand on the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair. The elastic that held her ponytail loosened. A small tingle sprung up at the base of her neck as his fingers lightly rubbed along her scalp. Samantha shivered.
“How is your head, by the way?”
“Um…fine…just fine.” Please stop touching me, please stop touching me. The band in her hair lost its grip and fell to the floor, and her hair fell in a mass of waves around her face. She looked up through her lashes as an emotion she hadn’t seen in twelve years flickered over Lance’s face. Longing. There was no mistaking that expression. Damn it, she had to be hallucinating.
Lance abruptly moved his hand and took two steps back. His lips were pressed in a hard line, and his eyes squinted questionably.
“Look over the estimates,” he said coolly. “How about I stop by tonight and go over them?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“I can refresh your memory about the specific changes we talked about.”
Oh, her memory was just fine. But they were the wrong memories. From that one touch, she was back in his pickup truck, the night sky sprinkling moonlight over their naked bodies. The light caresses of his hands over her skin. His hands were soft then, smooth and possessive as they claimed every inch of her body. The sparks had erupted deep within when he’d touched her, and when they finally…
“Sam?”
He could make her feel so good, and so used. She shook her head firmly, trying to block out the feelings that were flooding her brain, desperate not to think of him like that. Samantha hadn’t forgotten how heartless he had been; she didn’t need him working on Gram’s house, being that close.
“No,” she said. “I don’t need your estimates. I’ll find someone else to do the work.”
He frowned. “Why the change of heart all of a sudden? You were ready to accept my help last night.” He regained the two steps he’d put between them and pressed her against the couch. “As a matter of fact,” he whispered dangerously close to her face, “you offered me something more. Much more. If it weren’t for your condition and the fact that I’m a gentleman, I’m might have even taken you up on it.”
God, had she actually offered to sleep with him? Embarrassment hit her full force, and she suppressed the urge to duck under the nearest table and hide her flushing face. She must have been toasted to make an offer like that. Losing her virginity to him, only to be pushed aside the next day like moldy bread, was traumatic enough. No way in hell would she ever let herself get wrapped up in anything like that again. No more alcohol for her. Ever.
“Get out. I don’t need your help.” The memories of the night they’d shared and what he had done to her were too much. She didn’t even want to look at him. “I don’t need anything you have to offer.”
“You’re the one who offered, Sam. Don’t forget that.”
She tossed the folder at him. He caught it against his chest. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten anything. Like what a bastard you are. Trust me, had I been sober, I would have kicked you in the balls and sent you home screaming rather than sleep with you. Getting you into bed is the last thing on my mind.”
She turned to walk away but he caught her wrist.
“Jesus. Every time we talk, you verbally slap me. What in the hell did I ever do to you?”
She whirled around, eyes wide, heart racing. “What did you do?” She snorted and jerked her arm out of his grip. “You’ve got the nerve to ask what you did? Are you fucking serious?”
“Damn right I’m serious. I’ve been yelled at, kicked, and practically spat on every time I see you. Through that, I’ve done nothing but try and help you. I’ve heard New Yorkers have attitude problems, but I had no idea you would come back such a pain in the ass.”
She smacked him across the face. For only a second he looked stunned, before his face was wiped clean of any emotion. She took a step back, hands over her open mouth. What had she just done?
“Do you feel better now?” he asked.
She shook her head, tears pricking the back of her eyes. “Oh my God. I’m…I’m sorry…I—”
She couldn’t believe she’d resorted to physical violence. The one thing she knew never to do. No matter what he had done to her in the past, hitting him—or anyone—wasn’t the answer. She’d just failed the most important lesson Dr. Wade had ever taught her. Never use violence against another person to solve your problems. It leads only to pity and loss. A blanket of shame covered her from head to toe, making the urge to fall to the floor and cry even worse. She was a failure. At failure at life. At keeping her rage in check. At everything.
“Why don’t you just tell me why I make you so angry?”
She couldn’t muster a response.
“Sam?”
“Please, go away. I want to be alone.”
“Fine, I’ll go, but I expect an answer to my question. I’ll be over tonight around six.”
“Don’t bother. I won’t be home.”
“You’ll be home, Sam, and I’ll be there.”
No, she wouldn’t—she’d be buried in the backyard because her guilt was going to kill her first.
Chapter Nine
“Lay a firm foundation
with the bricks that others throw at you.”
~David Brinkley
“WHAT’S WITH THAT LOOK on your face?” Candice asked as she wiped
down the counter.
Lance shrugged and took a seat. “What look?”
“The one that says there’s something going on in that hard head of yours.”
“There’s always something going on up here, sis,” he said, tapping his temple. “That’s nothing new.”
Candice laughed. “Well, I won’t argue with that. But this look,” she said, patting his cheek, “has discontent written all over it.”
He flinched at the sting of pain from Samantha’s smack. “I just left the antique shop. Sam’s not very happy with me.” He didn’t blame her; he shouldn’t have called her an ass. But he didn’t understand why she hated him so much. Then she’d given him an innocent—almost longing—look when he had touched her head. His mind flashed back to the one time she had been beneath him, giving him the same look. Remembering the feel of her supple skin sent electricity to every nerve.
Candice cocked her hip and pursed her lips. “Couldn’t keep that temper of yours under control, huh?”
He shifted uncomfortably. His jeans were constricting him. “It wasn’t my temper.”
Candice’s brow shot up in an inquisitive stare. “Oh no…you didn’t press her, did you?”
“I did—at the same time I was saying some not-so-nice things.” He didn’t need to explain further. Candice knew what had happened between him and Sam all those years ago.
“Why?”
He didn’t know why, exactly. His fingers rubbed roughly over his face. One thing he did know was that he was tired of her constant bad attitude toward him. The more she spit derisive remarks in his direction, the more he wanted to silence her with his lips, comfort her with his touch, thrust into her and have her screaming and aching beneath him. Hell.
“Because I couldn’t help myself. I’ve done my best to help her so far, and I think I’ve been pretty nice considering our past. But she’s not going to get over whatever made her an ice princess unless she faces it.”
“What if it’s just you?”
Lance narrowed his gaze. “It’s not just me. Look how she treated you when she came back to town.”
Plus, he’d never done anything to deserve her contemptuous behavior. All he’d done was give her one night of passion—of love—and she’d fled town, without saying two words to him. She had demons, he understood that, but they didn’t come from him. At one time, he had some of his own demons, and if it hadn’t been for Sam’s grandmother and his own sister, he never would have gotten through it.
