“Whoa,” he says, like I’m a horse and not his girlfriend he’d been dragging down the street. In the rain.
Thrilled and excited and grateful.
“We’re here,” he continues and pulls me into a narrow brick building.
I smell it first, the scents of yeast and baking bread and chocolate, but it’s not until we’re inside and it’s safe for me to raise my head without the risk of drowning that I see we are, indeed, in a bakery.
It’s housed in an old building, the vibe distinctly rustic with scarred, slanted wood floors brick walls and visible ductwork under the high ceiling. There’s a glass case at the front of the building, another to the right, both topped with large glass jars filled with at least a dozen varieties of biscotti.
I look over the choices in the front case. What will it be? Biscotti, for sure, as that seems to be their specialty. What else? Apricot-filled croissant? Chocolate-covered macaroon? Cannoli? Decisions, decisions.
“This is great,” I tell Sam, squeezing his hand, as I try to narrow my choices. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“What? Oh. No, this isn’t your surprise.”
“It isn’t?”
Before he can respond, two women come in, one older with graying hair, the other younger and resembling the first one so much I guess they’re mother and daughter. They smile at us as they walk past to an older bald man wearing a white apron.
“No,” Sam says. “I mean, yeah, it is, but it’s not.”
“Sorry. Still not getting it. Maybe if you use small, simple words and speak slowly?”
He grins. Rolls his eyes at me playfully. “The bakery isn’t the surprise, it’s where the surprise is taking place.” He pauses for dramatic effect and sweeps his arms out in a ta da! gesture. “We’re taking a bread making class!”
Adrenaline rushes through me, hard and fast, a burst of joy I can’t contain. I grab his arm. Shake it. “What?”
His smile widens. “Surprise.”
I let go and press my palms against my cheeks. “Sam, I…”
But I can’t speak. Can’t get the questions out.
How did he find out about this?
Why did he go to so much trouble for me?
“Do you like it?” he asks, unnerved by my silence. Worried by my lack of response. He tugs on his ear. “I missed your birthday and I wanted to--”
Launching myself at him, I cut him off, my momentum knocking him back two steps. I’m kissing him before he can regain his balance and we stumble, but he braces us, holds us both steady and wraps his arms around me and kisses me back.
Thrilled and excited and grateful.
I am all that and much, much more.
39
I’m downright giddy when Sam parks in front of my house. It’s just past three a.m. but I’m not the least bit tired. I’m all fluttery and there’s a pleasant warmth in my chest, a tumbling sensation in my stomach and an overall sense of joy threatening to burst from my fingertips.
I don’t want this day to end.
I don’t want to let Sam go.
“Do you want to come in for a little bit?” I ask, my voice unintentionally husky.
He glances at my trailer. Hesitates. The porch light is on, but the windows are dark. “I don’t want to wake up your sisters.”
“Devyn’s working. And Taylor’s been sleeping through the night more often, and once Zoe’s out, she’s dead to the world. We’ll just have to be quiet.”
“You sure?”
I nod and bite my lower lip while Sam takes in what I’m saying, trying to decipher the meaning of my invitation.
Trying to decide for the both of us.
Go. Or stay.
“Yeah.” He shrugs, as if he’s all calm and casual about spending a bit of time with his girlfriend in her bedroom late at night. But when he unbuckles his seatbelt, he fumbles and has to try again. “Sure. I can come in.”
Inside, Sam takes off his sneakers, leaves them on the mat in the hall as I lock the door. Eggie pads over to greet us and we give him a quick pet, then I take Sam’s hand and silently lead him down the hall, past Zoe’s open bedroom door to my room. Leaving him by the door, I turn on the lamp next to my bed.
I put my purse and phone on the nightstand then gesture to the dresser near the window. “You can put that there,” I whisper of the bags he carried in.
One holds a dozen biscotti, the other the loaf of rustic Italian bread I’d made in class. We’d dug into Sam’s loaf while it was still warm, eating half of it as we walked around the Strip, but I wanted to save mine.
Wanted to savor it.
While he sets the bags on the dresser, I open the window, let in the damp breeze. It doesn’t do much to cool off the sticky interior of the room, but it does bring in the scent of rain, which is nice. I turn on the fan in the corner then go to the door, shut it…
And lock it.
Sam, his back to me, goes still and turns, ever so slowly to look at that locked door, then at my face. Raises his eyebrows, a silent question. This isn’t the first time we’ve been alone in my room with the door locked. But he senses my intentions, realizes this time is going to be different.
Our gazes lock. Hold. He’s waiting for me to make the first move. To decide what tonight is going to be. Nerves dance in my stomach, constrict my chest. Nerves, but not doubt. I’m sure this is right.
Possibly the rightest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I step forward, holding out my hand. It trembles.
I don’t do it enough, reach out for him. Touch him first. Not nearly enough. But he doesn’t hold it against me. Just closes the distance and links his fingers with mine.
Palm to palm, we walk to the bed and I turn us so the backs of his knees are against the mattress. Letting go of his hand, I nudge his chest and he sits, feet planted wide, legs apart.
Always taking up so much room.
He watches me, patient and sweet, letting me take the lead. Giving me the choice, as he always does, of what we’ll do, how far we’ll go.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly, “for today.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches and he shifts, letting his hands dangle between his knees. “Hadley…” He clears his throat. “You don’t…you don’t owe me…”
It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in.
I smile. “I’m not sure what you think is about to happen, but I can assure you it’s not in trade for a few loaves of bread and dinner.”
He colors slightly and rubs a hand over his mouth. Drops it and gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Guess I was having delusions of grandeur.”
I step between his legs. Lay my hands on his shoulders. “You’re not deluded. But you are confused about the reasoning behind it. Let me see if I can clear things up.” I kiss his left cheek. “That’s for taking me all the way to Pittsburgh for a bread-making class.” I kiss his right cheek. “That’s for buying me biscotti.”
“Twelve different kind of biscotti,” he murmurs. “I’m not saying that deserves a real kiss, on the mouth, but…”
I straighten. “I can go with a solid handshake instead.”
“No, no.” He settles his hands on my waist, tugging me even closer, as if afraid I’m going to step back. “This is good. Please continue.”
“Who said I was going to continue?”
“Well, I did take you on the Incline…”
“Hmm. True. But it was raining.”
“It was still pretty cool.”
The Incline is a railway-type car that goes up Mount Washington and the view of Pittsburgh at night, all lit up, was very, very cool.
I kiss his forehead. “That’s for taking me on the Incline.” Then I kiss the bridge of his nose. “That’s for dinner at Primanti’s.” When I lean back, his eyes are half-closed and I brush my lips across his smiling mouth.
“What was that one for?” he asks.
“That was for me.” I trail my fingers from his temple to the sharp line of his ja
w. “And so is this.”
I kiss him again, a long, lingering kiss that goes on and on. His fingers twitch, tighten on my waist then relax, his thumbs rubbing circles across my hip bones. He gives me control, let’s me set the pace, so I take my time.
I want to remember every moment of it. The scent of the rain, the heat in the room. The soft whir of the fan and the way its breeze tickles the backs of my legs. Flutters the hem of my dress. The feel of Sam, so broad and solid and warm. The contradictions of him: silky hair and roughly stubbled jaw. Smooth skin over hard muscles. Strong arms and gentle hands.
And in this moment, all mine.
Our kiss heats but stays unrushed, our lips clinging, our tongues touching. He slides his hands up my back, then down…up and down, up and down…dragging the silky material of my dress across my skin. I touch him everywhere I can—his arms and shoulders, his neck and face, his hair. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
Breaking the kiss, I take his hands and pull him to his feet. Grab the bottom of his shirt and shove it up. Under my palms, the muscles of his stomach clench. Tremble.
My touch makes beautiful, golden boy Sam Constable tremble.
It’s amazing. Wonderful.
And so empowering I forget my intention of taking his shirt off and trail my fingers across the ridges above his belly button. Luckily, Sam’s still with the program and tugs his shirt off himself. He tosses it aside, mussing his hair.
It’s that slight imperfection, that and the way he’s breathing, so heavily, as if he’s having a hard time catching his breath, that makes the moment even better.
Gives me the courage to stand there, in that fan-made breeze, in the glow of the lamp and, lifting the hair out of the way, turn and offer Sam my back.
And the zipper that runs down the length of my dress.
He draws a sharp intake of air then steps closer. His exhale is a rush of breath against the nape of my neck. He tugs the zipper down and the sound echoes in the room, rings inside my head.
Warns me that after this, there’s no going back.
It’s not a mistake. It can’t be. Each and every step Sam and I have taken over the years, our friendship and him leaving, the mistakes and choices we both made, have led us to this exact moment.
It’s not a mistake because Sam already has my heart. He took it. Without thought. Without even having to work for it.
But now, this…this is me giving it to him.
And I’ll never get it back.
My breath catches and the sense of rightness that’d filled me moments before dissolves into nerves and fear. Sam finishes unzipping my dress and steps back. I hold the front against my chest and slowly kick off my sandals, head down, hair shielding my face.
“Hadley,” Sam says, my name a dark, husky caress, “we don’t have to do this.”
I shut my eyes.
Sam Constable, reading my thoughts again. Knowing me better than I know myself.
Isn’t that part of what scares me so much?
Yes, taking such a huge step should make me nervous. But I’m not afraid of what’s going to happen between us tonight.
I’m afraid of how much it’s going to hurt if all my wishing and hoping for a future with him doesn’t come true.
If he walks away from me for good.
But he hasn’t left. He’s here. He’s with me.
Right here, right now, he’s mine.
Which is why I face him and tell him the truth. “I want to.”
“Are you sure?” he asks gently as I clutch my dress, holding it against me like a shield. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I can wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
I’m waiting for you. Like always.
It’s what he said to me that night last summer on my porch. “Why?”
“Why what?”
My fingers tighten on the material of my dress. You can have any girl you want. Why do you wait for me? Why do you want me?
“Why me?”
He smiles, that lopsided grin that’s been making me melt since I was ten, its effect no less melty now in the heat of my room with him shirtless and mussed.
“That’s easy,” he says. “I love you.”
For Sam, it really is that easy.
I love you.
So easy for him to give me those words. A casual love you when we end a phone call. A smiling, confident declaration when I’ve made him laugh or reach for his hand. A whispered confession when we’re alone.
I love you.
Three simple words.
I love you.
For me, there’s nothing easy about saying them.
Nothing simple in giving them.
No matter how much I want to.
I loosen the hold on my dress, peeling one finger at a time away from the fabric. There’s something about the stillness of the night, the quiet of my house, the thick, hot air and soft hum of the fan that seems to cocoon us here, in this moment. It’s a spell I’m careful not to break even as I let go.
I let go of the dress and it slides down my body. Sam’s throat works as he swallows but he keeps his eyes on mine. His breathing becomes ragged.
And I let go of my fear. Of my doubts.
I let go of them, but I hold on to what’s in front of me.
“I don’t want to wait,” I whisper as I step over the material pooled at my feet. I lay my hand on his chest, feel the steady beat of his heart under my fingers. “I want to be with you, Sam.”
It’s all I can give him. A little bit of the truth that’s in my heart, that’s always been there between us. In me.
I love you.
I can’t say the words.
So I take his hand, lead him to my bed.
And I show him.
40
“Cannonball!” Charlie screams right before he lands in the pool with a splash so huge it reaches the lounge chairs.
The lounge chairs where Whitney, Sam and I are happily minding our own business, me flipping through Bon Appetit magazine’s latest issue, Whitney scrolling through Instagram and Sam sleeping.
Sam doesn’t move, but Whitney and I jump and shriek like we’ve just been pelted with hot lava. It’s all for show. Charlie’s been in rare form this afternoon, showing off for his buddy Evan—a short, skinny kid with a fauxhawk—and basically being as obnoxious as possible.
Preteen boys. So excitable.
But it’s fine. Both Whitney and I caught on pretty quickly that our plans for a leisurely Saturday afternoon at Sam’s pool were going to be anything but when we arrived to find Charlie and Evan already in the water.
No biggie. We’ve just been entertaining ourselves by egging them on, pretending they’re getting to us.
At the end of the diving board, Evan doubles over in laughter as Charlie comes up for air grinning. He shakes his wet hair out of his eyes and gives Evan a completely unsubtle head jerk in our direction. Grinning maniacally, Evan straightens then bends his knees, bounces on the board and launches himself into the air, then curls his knees and holds them against his chest.
“Woo hoo!” he cries.
Another splash—though not nearly as big as Charlie’s—another round of us screeching and them yukking it up like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
Pretty much been our life for the past hour.
“Knock it off,” Sam warns his brother. He’s lying on his stomach on my other side, arms folded beneath his head, facing me, eyes closed, tone more dreamy than threatening.
“Our hero,” I whisper to Whitney with an eye roll and we both crack up.
“What’s that?” he murmurs.
“Nothing.” I pat his shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”
Keeping his eyes closed, he slides one hand free, reaches over and settles it on my hip, his long, warm fingers pressing against my bare belly. “Not…sleepy…”
And he’s out again.
Well, we did have a late night and he woke up at six thirty so he could get home
to eat and change before going to basketball practice.
Also so he could leave before Devyn got back from work.
Not that she would’ve said anything about Sam staying the night.
But I didn’t want to take that chance.
So, yeah, he went home and I went back to sleep. For all of half an hour before Taylor came into my room.
I yawn. Wish I could curl up next to him, but it would be rude to do so with Whitney here, not to mention someone needs to stay awake and make sure Charlie and Evan are safe.
Plus, I’m worried Sam’s mom will come out and find us together, snuggled up on a lounge chair in our swimsuits.
I’ve always been intimidated by her, but when Sam and I became an official couple, the healthy respect I had for her morphed into out-and-out fear.
She can be one scary lady.
Charlie and Evan get out of the pool and run around to the gate—despite being told numerous times today not to run near the pool. They jostle and shove each other as they race to the basketball court.
Ah. A reprieve.
I flip the page in my magazine.
“Do you know him?” Whitney asks, holding her phone so I can see the Instagram account she’s showing me.
“Michael Snyder? Yeah. I know him.”
I don’t bother telling her—again—that if it’s someone within five years of our age, I probably know them.
Small towns.
“Why?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He sent me a DM.”
I sit up. “What’d he say?”
“Hey.”
“Huh. I thought he’d be more articulate. He’s a musician. Writes his own music and everything.”
She smiles, intrigued.
Musicians have that effect.
“But you don’t want to go there,” I tell her.
Her smile fades. “I don’t? He’s pretty cute.”
I glance at Sam. Still sleeping. I lean over and whisper, “Michael’s very cute.” He’s got that whole wannabe-rock-star vibe, is blond, tattooed and has a killer smile. “And he’s a great musician. There are rumors he’s had interest from recording companies.”
The Art of Holding On Page 27
