Love and Neckties (Rockland Falls Book 4)

by Lacey Black

  When the clock strikes eight thirty, I figure this Reiki quack isn’t coming. Maybe there was some sort of magical voodoo healing emergency? Flipping the lights off in the office, I step out, locking the door behind me, just as the front entrance opens. “It’s raining harder than a cow pissing on a flat rock.”

  I know that voice.

  And those crude words.

  Exhaling, I stick my keys in my suit pants pocket and turn to the doorway. “Freedom.”

  Chapter Two

  Freedom

  “Sammy!” I exclaim, shaking the rain from my drowned hair. It hangs heavy and limply around my face and the water flies freely around me. Samuel sighs dramatically, which, of course, is just the response I’m going for.

  “It’s Samuel,” he retorts rather heatedly, and I have to fight the smile.

  Reaching up, I wring my brown hair out, watching small droplets of water fall on the floor. My long, Bohemian skirt clings to my legs and my top hangs awkwardly around my shoulders. “Seriously, this rain is nuts.”

  “It was forecasted,” he replies, straightening his tie and avoiding eye contact. I’ve always felt like I made him nervous, which is why I go to such extended lengths to do just that. “I was just locking up,” he adds, finally turning those blue-green eyes my way. He watches me for a few seconds, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows. “You know, they make these great inventions called umbrellas.”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “Ehh, a little water isn’t going to hurt me.” I take in the darkened foyer and ask, “Were you leaving?”

  He sighs again. “Yes, Freedom, I was heading out for the evening. I have to return at seven.”

  “But didn’t Debbie tell you I was coming?”

  He crosses his arms and I try to ignore how his arms look with his suit stretched over his biceps. “She did, but I was under the impression you were arriving at the end of the visitation. That was more than thirty minutes ago.”

  “Where’s the fire? Or did you have plans this evening?” I ask, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

  Samuel clears his throat and straightens. “I could have had plans.”

  “Of course you could have. I hear the coin club meets on Tuesday nights at the library.” I give him the best, sweetest smile I possess, showing all of my teeth.

  Again, he straightens his necktie, almost like a nervous twitch. There’s something about his necktie that does weird things to my lady parts. I can almost picture Mr. Anal-Retentive wearing one of his fancy silk ties…and nothing else. “I’m not a part of the coin club, but I am starting to get hungry. Can we get the weird part of the evening over with, please?”

  I strut past him, my wet skirt cooling my overheated legs. He doesn’t make a sound as he follows me to the parlor, my bangle bracelets clanking together as we go. Samuel turns the light back on and my client for this evening comes into view. Technically, Debbie is the client—my client—but that’s beside the point.

  When she asked me at the end of our session on Sunday night to perform a Reiki treatment on her mother, I readily agreed. I didn’t realize her mother had passed until the end of the conversation, and there was no going back—especially when she agreed to pay me twice my fee to accommodate the odd circumstance.

  Have I ever performed on a dead woman? Umm, that’s be a big fat no, but the dollar signs kept flashing through my mind, and honestly, I couldn’t turn down the job. Being a Reiki practitioner doesn’t exactly pay all the bills. That’s why I work part time at my bestie’s lingerie shop in town, as well as work as a part-time massage therapist. That’s actually what I went to school for, but I’m always interested in trying new things, which is how I became a certified Reiki healer too.

  Samuel doesn’t say a word as I pull out my phone and find some meditation music, but I can feel his presence behind me. He stays back yet is close enough that goosebumps prickle my skin. Of course, it could be a result of being soaking wet too. Clearing my mind, I step up to the coffin, only slightly weirded out with what I’m about to do. I place my nondominant hand above her head and slowly start to scan down her body, keeping my hand four inches or so above her body.

  “What are you doing?” Samuel’s words startle me. They’re soft and full of skepticism.

  “I’m scanning her body to see if there is anywhere she needs additional healing,” I whisper, realizing this part of the process probably isn’t necessary, all things considered.

  Samuel snorts a laugh. “Unless she’s going to get up and walk out of here, I don’t think any additional healing will help,” he mumbles.

  Usually, my client would be lying on my massage table, but there really isn’t any other option here, so I take position at the head of the coffin, sliding over the pillar holding a massive flower arrangement as I go.

  “Let me,” he says, carefully shifting the flowers until they’re out of my way and I can stand at her head.

  I place my hand over her head, grimacing slightly at the thought of touching her. No, this is not my first deceased individual I’ve touched, but it is the first one I’ll be touching for a prolonged amount of time. Ignoring the shiver that slides down my spine, I position my hand above the third eye in her forehead.

  For the next thirty minutes, I proceed to conduct Reiki over Debbie’s dead mother. Samuel remains quiet and out of the way while I work, though I can feel his presence in the room. When the session is complete, I feel confident Debbie’s mother is spiritually ready for her afterlife. “All finished,” I state, moving away from the coffin, turning off the meditation music playing from my cell phone.

  Samuel stares at me as I approach. “That was…the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever witnessed.”

  I gape at him, trying to give my best shocked expression, when all I really want to do is laugh. Samuel is the last person on earth I’d expect to trust and believe in the healing powers of Reiki. He’s more of a hold it in your hand or witness it with your own eyes to believe it man. “I can’t believe you said that, Sammy. After witnessing her relaxation and ultimate spiritual healing in the flesh, you still doubt the power.”

  The tips of his ears turn red. “It’s Samuel, and I’m pretty sure she’s already as relaxed as she can get.”

  It’s pretty much my goal in life to argue and make him as uncomfortable as humanly possible, which is why I follow up with, “I think you could benefit from a few Reiki treatments.” I step closer, invading his personal space. His Adam’s apple bobs again, letting me know I’m affecting him. “Oh, what I would do to get ahold of your…chakra.” Yes, I intentionally make it sound dirty just to watch him blush.

  He does.

  “You keep your paws away from my…chakra.”

  I step back and turn around, grabbing my purse that I discarded on the floor. “One of these days, Sammy, I’m going to get ahold of your…chakra, and make you feel so good, you’ll never want me to stop having my hands on your…chakra.” Grinning inwardly to myself, I turn back around to face him. His eyes, however, are cast downward.

  Where my ass was.

  Knowing he was just busted ogling my behind, he quickly makes his way to the flower arrangement we had moved and rights it. It actually takes him several minutes as he steps back and inspects the angles of the flowers multiple times to ensure it’s displayed properly, which I find comical, considering tomorrow he’s moving them all to the church for the funeral service. “You know, no one is going to see that bad boy, right? Live on the edge. Let it be out of place for the night.”

  He glances over his shoulder, giving me his best “zip it, Freedom” look before turning back around and adjusting the display once more. This time, he crouches down, looking at it from the floor angle. Why? No freaking clue.

  My eyes automatically start to scan his physique. Samuel isn’t as muscular as his younger brother, Jensen, who works outside all day, every day, but you can still tell he works out. His arms hold just enough definition to them without screaming gym rat, and his
ass is firm, framed in a pair of expensive trousers. Once, I even caught sight of him shirtless. His nephew, Max, finally talked him into playing in the sprinkler at one of their summer gatherings. He strolled out of the house as uncomfortable as could be, wearing a pair of his brother’s swim trunks hanging dangerously low on his narrow hips. I did things to myself later that night when I was alone a lady never speaks of in public.

  Since I’m no lady, you should know I got myself off twice with images of a wet Samuel standing in the middle of the yard, pretending to have fun with his nephew in the sprinkler. Oh, I think he had fun, in the only way he knows how. Even though he stood paralyzed while Max ran repeatedly through the water, he enjoyed watching his nephew play.

  As I finish my perusal of his body, that’s when I notice something…off. This man wears suits for a living and is always so well put together. I’m even willing to place a bet on the fact his underwear probably matches his tie. No, wait. I take that back. Samuel is definitely a tighty-whities guy. His dress shoes probably cost more than my entire outfit, and I know for a fact he gets monthly manicures because my bestie told me. That’s why when my eyes reach his feet, I know something is much out of character for Mr. Samuel Grayson.

  I bust out laughing, which causes him to look over his shoulder from his crouched position. “Oh my God, Sammy, I knew you loved my gift!” I exclaim, my eyes riveted to the completely inappropriate trouser socks I found online for Samuel’s birthday this past summer.

  Realization sets in, causing him to stand and spin around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scoffs, embarrassment marring his handsome features.

  Of course, I can’t let this go, which is why I fling myself onto the floor at his feet, pull up his pant legs to get a good look at what he’s wearing, not even caring my long, flowy skirt is bunched up around my thighs. “Let me see!” I hang on for dear life to his legs as he tries to shake me off like a dog trying to hump his leg.

  “Get off me,” he grumbles, trying to buck me from his body, but I’m part spider monkey and there’s no way I’m letting go of his legs without seeing the goods he’s trying to hide first.

  Suddenly, though, he stops moving. I stop moving. I look up and realize our position would definitely border on scandalous if the right individual were to pop their head in this room. My face is there—right there—and he knows exactly how close I am to his pool stick because it starts to grow inches from my face.

  “You’re wearing my socks.” The words come out raspy and needy as my eyes connect with his.

  He swallows hard but maintains eye contact. “It was laundry day and I didn’t have a chance to stop by the dry cleaners to pick up my clothes.”

  “You dry clean your socks?” I ask, glancing back down at the multiple sex positions socks he’s wearing beneath his fancy suit. Yes, you heard me right. Sex position socks. I thought they were hilarious when I found them online, knowing he’d hate everything about them. So I bought them for his birthday.

  “Doesn’t everyone dry clean their socks?” he asks, incredulously.

  I shrug. “I don’t wear socks,” glancing down at my well-worn brown sandals with my painted toes on full display. He does the same, his eyes lingering a few extra seconds on my hot pink toes. Looking from his face to his socks, I can’t help but smile wide and say, “You love me.”

  Now he rolls his eyes dramatically. “I do not love you,” he jeers as he reaches down and helps me stand, brushing off his pant legs as if I left some sort of hippie-inspired, tree-hugging dust behind.

  “You’re wearing my sex socks. That means you love me.”

  “Christ, Freedom, why must you be difficult about everything?” he asks almost absently, rubbing his right temple with his thumb.

  “Just admit it and I’ll leave you alone,” I tell him, grabbing my purse I again dropped on the floor.

  “I will do no such thing.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me. “Are you finally done with your weird voodoo shit so I can go home? It’s been a long day.”

  Knowing that he’ll hate it, and I’ll love it, I reach up and lightly pat his cheek, much like a pacifying grandmother would a young grandchild. “Of course, little Sammy. It’s after nine o’clock, way after beddy-bye.”

  Silently, we walk toward the front door. I step aside while he locks it, triple checking it latched, and together, we turn and head toward the back of the parking lot. “Why did you park back there? The lot was empty when you arrived,” he asks.

  “I wanted to prolong our time together as much as possible,” I tell him sweetly as I walk beside him. I can smell his familiar cologne. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure it’s expensive. Something else that reminds me of our differences. I’m more of a cheap body spray kinda girl; anything that’s light, breezy, and reminds me of the outdoors.

  Samuel walks me to my car. He’s a stickler for the “rules.” He was raised a gentleman by his mom, but more than that, he’s just a good guy. Even if he’s as anal as they come, and while his siblings tease him about his strange “qualities,” I find them endearing. Most guys would just let the door hit you in the ass, but not Samuel. He always does the right thing, including walking me to my car, even when I could drive him to drink most days.

  “Thanks, Sammy,” I say sweetly, opening my car door.

  He sighs loudly. “Don’t you lock your car? That’s not safe.”

  I glance around the interior of my ten-year-old Honda, packed with my portable massage table, a bag of my oils and lotions, and a few other necessities I picked up from Harper’s shop earlier today. Plus, there’s a few empty water bottles, some wheat cracker wrappers, and even a few takeout veggie burger bags on the passenger floorboard. “You think someone’s going to steal my baby?” I ask, batting the roof of my car.

  “Steal it? No, I’m afraid someone will get lost inside there,” he grumbles, glancing at the piles of stuff in the back.

  “I’ll have you know that’s all stuff for work,” I tell him, placing my hands on my hips and glaring at him.

  One eyebrow arches skyward. “If you get in an accident, your cause of death will be blunt force trauma from all the crap in your car hitting you.”

  I almost crack a smile as my foot hits one of the puddles in the lot from tonight’s downpour. “That’s descriptive.”

  “Clean out your car, Freedom. And when was the last time you had the oil changed?” he asks, almost absently.

  “I changed it two weeks ago.”

  Now both eyebrows are raised. “You changed it?”

  My mouth drops open. “Of course I changed it. Who else would do it?”

  “A shop?”

  I roll my eyes and slip into the driver’s seat, my knee hitting an angel charm that dangles from my ignition switch. “I don’t need to pay someone to change my oil, Sammy. I am more than capable,” I answer, shoving my key into the ignition and turning it over.

  Only the car doesn’t start. It makes a sad, crying noise. I try a few more times, silently willing the car to fire to life, but the Gods of Car Care ignore my pleas.

  Samuel sighs again. He does that a lot around me. I sort of turned it into a game years ago. You know, trying to see how many times I can get him to sigh in resignation or annoyance. I lost count years ago on how often he does it, but I believe that means I win the game regularly.

  “Come on, Freedom. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “But what about my car?” I ask, slipping out of the seat and pulling the hood lever. “Let me just check under the hood.”

  A big fat raindrop falls on my forehead, followed quickly by a few more. “You can check it out tomorrow,” he says, just as the skies let loose another downpour. “Lock your doors!” he hollers, taking off his suit jacket and holding it up over my head.

  I reach inside the vehicle for my keys and bag, slam the door, push the lock button and make a mad dash for the passenger side of Samuel’s car. He tries to hold up his jacket, but with the amo
unt of rain falling from the angry sky, it’s no use. We’re both soaked in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s getting drenched as he holds the door open for me, trying to shield me from the rain with his jacket and body. Inside the car, I shake like a dog. There’s no use trying to preserve his expensive leather seats at this point. I’m soaked. He’s soaked. There’s water everywhere.

  The driver’s door opens and he jumps inside, tossing his jacket onto the back seat. Samuel grumbles under his breath, something about dry cleaning and car details, but I don’t really pay much attention. Instead, my eyes are locked on his shirt. Specifically, the way his crisp white dress shirt molds wetly to his torso. I can see his undershirt beneath it, but it does nothing to prevent the material from casting to his upper body.

  My mouth waters and I glance away.

  He fires his much newer car to life and cranks up the warm air. “Let’s get you home,” he says, his voice sounding…deeper.

  I can only nod as images of his arms parade through my mind like the opening scene of a porno.

  When he doesn’t pull out of the parking spot, I finally glance his way. His eyes are locked on me, on my…chest. Glancing down, that’s when I realize I’m soaked clean through, my blue tank top no longer flowy and light. Instead, it clings seductively to my body, giving him a clear view of my nipples. My very hard nipples.

  I look up, watching his throat work hard to swallow. He turns away from me, throws the car in reverse, and drives out of the lot. I take in his defined arms, his wet hair, and the hint of his sex position socks peeking out of his trousers. Even soaked, he looks hot. He shouldn’t look hot, but he does.

  He always looks hot.

  Dammit.

  Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll be diddling myself later tonight to images of Samuel Grayson.

  Chapter Three

  Samuel

  Classical music softly plays in the sterile, cold room, as I prepare to embalm Mrs. Portman. Embalming is an art that requires a strong stomach, patience, empathy, and a special license. Mine hangs prominently on the wall by the door.