“I know.”
They stay closely curled for several minutes before it started to get weird. He patted her hand and said, “Thanks.”
“You’re my brother, Ry. Still an annoying piss-ant crybaby but that’s what makes you cute.”
“Fuck off.” He gave her a brotherly shove as he laughed and put some space between them.
She chuckled, swatted him a few times, and then all of a sudden got real serious. “Hey. I almost forgot. What the hell is with that Tara chick? Mom says she’s got some stalkerish vibe going on where you’re concerned.”
Crossing his heart, he drawled, “My fingerprints are nowhere near that situation and trust me, Ali, if she ends up on Maury, the reveal will not involve me.”
“Thank god ‘cause, seriously, Hannah was having a bit of a freak-out. Especially after you all but peed a line around Sam to mark your territory.”
“Yeah, I know. About the line peeing thing. All good, though, ‘cause she gave Samantha an enthusiastic endorsement.”
“She wants grandbabies.” Ali snickered.
The soundtrack in his head provided the fail music from The Price is Right. His mom might end up getting the surprise of her life. Him too.
As if on cue, a barrage of laughter came from the rear of the cabin where a rather raucous card game seemed to be concluding.
“And on that wake-up call of an observation, I’m going to go cause some mayhem. Aunt Mel and that hula girl t-shirt with the clamshell bra is just begging for a ribbing. I can’t believe Uncle Burt let her wear it.”
Ali burst out laughing. “Let her?” She gave him a good-natured back slap when they both stood up, and he let her go first. “Boy, Sam has her work cut out with you. Neanderthal much?”
She wasn’t wrong. He knew less than nothing about women beyond the bedroom. Time for him to get a grip if he hoped to make a future with Samantha.
Three Weeks in Hell, starring Samantha Evers.
She crossed out the end and heavily underlined the word hell. Pushing the pad of paper aside, Sam let out a growl, a groan, and a sigh all mashed up into one ugly sound.
“I’m so screwed,” she mumbled out loud.
Afflicted with a roaring need for mindless activity, she got up from her tiny kitchen table, grabbed a wad of paper towels and a container of spray, and concentrated on wiping down the already immaculately clean counters.
Keeping busy was her best bet right now because too much time for thinking only made her crazier.
At first, she threw herself into her job as a way of dealing with the messiness of her emotions. And it worked. . .for exactly four days. On the fifth day, after wrapping up another week of work, she stopped at HR to pick up her paycheck and was given a typed note on formal letterhead informing her that the company was going in a new direction and her services would no longer be required. The paycheck she got included a generous severance payment, and that was it. No, thank you. No in-person exit interview. Nothing.
It was hard to be shocked because she’d seen it coming. But still. When the reality set in many hours later, she’d brushed off the inconvenient firing and immediately gotten busy hunting for a new job. Two weeks had gone by since, and all she’d managed was a couple of quick freelance gigs off Craigslist.
Things were looking pretty dismal in the job market, and if that wasn’t enough of a kick in the head, this morning she’d found a note in her mailbox—a form letter that the whole building got—informing tenants of a significant rent increase about to go into effect.
The hits just kept coming.
Staring into the pantry, Sam took a mental inventory of supplies and grimaced. Unless she planned to subsist on canned tuna and half a shelf of organic rotini she’d picked up in a BOGO sale, she needed to get groceries. And groceries required money—money she didn’t want to spend, since her funds were officially finite and dwindling further by the day.
Oh yeah, and there was that pregnancy thing.
Closing the pantry door, she grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, made quick work of washing and slicing it, and then headed to the sofa.
Clicking the TV on with one of the three remotes stacked on the coffee table, she searched the channel guide for something to watch and chose Comedy Central for background ambiance.
The apple served its purpose and gave Sam something to do. But the crunchy distraction did not keep her eyes from wandering every few minutes to a sketch Ryan sent. It was her and Andi in a cartoon block, dressed in full wedding regalia, vanquishing an evil queen. It was amazing.
And wonderful.
Discarding the apple core, she pulled up her legs and crossed them, sitting with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting on a clenched fist.
Fighting against feeling sorry for herself, she pushed away the worry that her life was circling the toilet bowl and wrestled the first happy thought crossing her mind, straight to the ground.
Ryan—Mr. Charming—called her every single night at seven o’clock on the dot. And he texted every morning with a sweet hello plus a drawing or doodle of some kind. He was making every possible effort to stay connected. One day last week, he even gave her a FaceTime video walk-through of one of his design outfits.
That little adventure opened Sam’s eyes to the unlimited scope and creativity around what he did and permanently vanquished her dead-wrong impression of who and what a designer was.
She was impressed, big time, with the diversity of the people working for him. It wasn’t a den of stoners and Deadheads, after all, she thought with a smile. Oh sure, there were a couple of young designers with questionable taste in appropriate work attire, but what fascinated her the most were the women he employed. And the older people. It showed an interesting facet to his personality and gave her yet another reason to like him.
Not that her liking him was in question. Jeez, not even. He’d be the perfect design from a Build-A-Boyfriend Workshop.
Her gaze shifted once again to the sketch she’d propped up on her cluttered desk in the corner of the room.
He never directly mentioned the pregnancy issue. Didn’t come right out and ask if she got her period, and she was glad he hadn’t. Somehow, she figured talking about it would be her tipping point. She hadn’t admitted to anyone yet that she was unemployed and barely skating by. There was too much on her plate right now, and she was struggling not to drop everything into a holy hell mess that she’d never be able to clean up.
In the bathroom, sitting right out where she had to see them every time she went in there, was a box of pregnancy tests. And a pack of Always pads because life was funny that way and she ended up needing both.
Had she gotten her period? Ah, the thousand dollar question.
Sam sighed. Had she? It was hard to tell. Last week, she’d cramped like crazy, right on time, but nothing really happened after that. There was some spotting and a couple of hours of. . .something that amounted to a lot of nothing. But that was it.
Consulting with Dr. Internet seemed like a smart move, so she looked up a couple of ‘Am I Pregnant’ threads and concluded there was nothing to conclude. To know for sure, she’d have to take a test. But so far, a week later, she hadn’t worked up the guts to do it.
Rock? Meet hard place.
Wall? That’s my head you’re smacking.
If there was ever a time when she needed Andi, this was it. The newlyweds were slowly making their way home, and she could hardly fault them for extending their love-trip a few extra days.
Though they maintained radio silence the whole time they were gone, once back in the States, Kyle started sending out a group text with semi-daily updates on their adventures. The shopping, according to his new wife, was off the hook in New York City. They’d be shipping a ton of stuff to Florida because no way could they handle the baggage on a flight.
Sounded like fun. She knew the two were happy as could be, so she waited not very patiently, knowing it would suck if she jumped on her friend the second she came back onli
ne. This was the longest they’d ever gone without communication, and it was driving her nuts.
“They’re beautiful, Ryan. Thank you again.”
He chuckled and concentrated on listening to the particularly husky quality in Samantha’s sexy voice tonight.
“I had no idea what was involved with sending you flowers,” he told her with a big grin. “At one point, I was afraid they were going to ask about your shoe size.”
Her snickering laugh sounded like heaven, even if it was through the phone.
“They needed so much delivery information; I started to wonder if you were in a witness protection program or something.”
“No one besides my dad has ever sent me flowers. I was surprised.”
“Good. Surprises are soul food.”
“What made you think, ‘Hey I’ll send flowers’?”
He thought for a minute and then laughed. “Fuck, I don’t know. I remember being at my desk and next thing ya know, I’m ordering flowers.”
“I feel so special.” Was that wonder he detected in her voice?
“You are special, Samantha. How was your day, babe? God, I miss you.”
“My day sucked, and I miss you too.”
Ryan picked up on her immediate hiss of regret at her choice of words. Speaking quickly, she’d exposed herself. He wondered if she’d try and backpedal. He pushed anyway.
“Tell me what’s bothering you. And don’t try to pretend. You know damn well I can hear something in your voice. This isn’t the time to play it safe, honey.”
His heart was beating fast. He wasn’t sure what was happening on her end, and the not knowing was killing him. There were so many possibilities that he could barely wrap his mind around half of them.
He allowed the silent pause—not that he had much choice. The simple fact that Samantha was carefully choosing how to respond told him the logjam keeping them on different sides of the country might be easing if only a little bit.
“Um, well, things aren’t going too great here at the moment.”
Oh, boy. Not good. His stomach started to knot. “Are you okay?” Fuck, he mouthed when the question came out like an accusation.
“Ryan. . .” And then nothing.
He started pacing. She needed him. He heard it in her voice and how small it got the more she talked.
This was not okay with him. Them dancing around the fact that he was in love with her didn’t diminish his protective instincts. She wasn’t supposed to sound like she did. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Something worrisome stabbed him in the gut. He recalled Ali advising him to come clean. Waiting for Kyle to return and take the hit didn’t seem such a smart move at the moment.
“Sam,” he murmured with more emotion than he intended. Shit, he didn’t want to scare her off. “Kyle told me you, uh. . .” He stumbled and winced at his own foolishness but kept on. “Well, honey, he told me you weren’t exactly happy in L.A. Is that what’s bothering you?”
Uhh, shit. Was she crying? Sure sounded that way. All of a sudden, Ryan hated the phone. Hated the impersonality of it. Not being able to see her and weigh her reactions and body language was killing him.
“Are you crying?” he barked. “That’s it. I’m coming to get you. This is ridiculous, Samantha. I don’t fucking care if you’re up for an Academy Award. You don’t belong there.”
“I don’t know where I belong,” she wailed miserably. “Everything’s a mess. I’m a mess.”
He asked because he couldn’t remain silent any longer. Waiting for her to come out with it wasn’t working, and he was starting to realize this was one of those female things he’d never understand. Nobody was more straightforward and ballsy than the Samantha he’d gotten to know. But when it came to a rubber meets the road moment, maybe she wasn’t all that confident and together.
Goddammit, men were stupid.
“Are we pregnant, Samantha? Is that what this is about?”
A short gasp was followed by a full-throated sob. “I don’t know!”
Okay. This was insanity. He had to get his ass on a plane immediately and go to her. He couldn’t handle the idea of her being unglued and crying with so many miles between them.
“Shh, shh, honey. Easy does it. Take a deep breath and calm down.” He heard her trying to reel it in. “Good girl. Nice and slow, Sam. Together, okay?”
Willing her to join him as he breathed deep and slow, Ryan visualized a protective bubble surrounding his love. He was worried. If she didn’t know that had to mean something was up. Since he knew exactly squat about women’s things, he knew enough to watch his words and take direction from her.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.
He wasn’t surprised she didn’t answer. He imagined her head bobbing and hoped she really was.
“I’m coming to L.A.. Non-negotiable,” he slipped in after a slight pause. “Can you take off work?”
The crying started up again. What the hell? he wondered.
“Oh, Ryan,” she sobbed into the phone. “I lost my job and—”
“When?” he barked, cutting off whatever else she had to say.
“Please don’t be mad.”
She was kidding, right? Well, she fucking better be because a little bit of being mad was nothing compared to a full-blown rager.
“Samantha Evers,” he began with a terseness he didn’t try to limit. “Have you been blowing sunshine up my ass all these weeks?”
“I didn’t know what to do,” she explained weakly. “They sacked me practically the second I got back. I looked for another job, but this is a tough town, and you have to be really hungry and aggressive to find work.”
He wasn’t about to let her off the hook. This was as good a time as any for her to understand who the fuck she was dealing with.
“So let’s review. You don’t have a job. And you don’t know if you’re pregnant. Am I covering the important stuff? Are you leaving anything out?”
She blew her nose close to the phone, and he made up his mind.
“Pack a bag, Samantha. I’m coming to get you. Oh, and that’s not a request nor a question. I’ve had enough. I never should have let you get on that plane in Hawaii. We both knew it was a bad move, but I had some crazy idea that you wouldn’t want me to get all big and bad and take control. Fuck that shit. I’m a control kind of a guy. You’re mine, and I’m done with whatever the fuck this is. I want you where I can take care of you. Is that clear?”
He was yelling. Probably a bad move.
And then she started to laugh. Quietly at first but the sound grew until she was wheezing giggles.
“Oh, my god. Is that the famous Sommerfield alpha growl?”
He wasn’t entirely sure if he should laugh too or take offense.
“Ryan, seriously. Please don’t come. I have to figure this out on my own.”
“No, you don’t, and that’s why you started crying and finally told me. You have nothing to prove. I already know you’re strong and can take care of your own shit. But this involves me too, honey. It’s about us. And the future.”
“I’m so confused.”
Shit. Could her voice sound any smaller?
“No more talk. I’m coming this weekend. I’ll text you in the morning with my flight information.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
One last thing and then he was buying a plane ticket.
“Have you taken a pregnancy test yet?”
“No.”
“Don’t,” he told her. “We’ll do it together. Okay?”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Everything’s going to be okay. Do you trust me, Samantha?”
No hesitation whatsoever. His heart soared.
“I do.”
Well. At least that was settled.
“And I got you this bangin’ top. It’s your color, Sami. That blushy rose shade you like so much. Found it in a shop in Paris. Hard to describe but it�
�s pretty and feminine in a baby doll style with a handkerchief hem.”
Sam found her friend’s enthusiasm and joy infectious. As soon as they started talking, she felt some of her anxiety lessen. Andi was back, and maybe now, she could get some perspective.
“Ryan will love it.”
Should she just start babbling? Blurt it all out? It was what she wanted to do but dumping on Andi’s post-honeymoon bliss seemed kind of shitty.
“Have you, um. . .seen Ryan since you got back?”
Andi’s shriek of laughter followed by her yelling, “I win! Less than five minutes,” stunned Sam into silence.
“Am I missing something?” she asked.
“Sorry, sweetie. Had to tell Kyle I won our bet.”
“Bet?”
“Sure. We made a bet on the plane to Florida. How long before Sami asks about Ryan and the same for Ryan asking about you. I won.” She snickered.
“I hate you.” Sam laughed. “Here I am, trying to be considerate of your feelings and acting like I give a shit about croissants along the left bank or how yummy Scottish men in kilts are.”
Andi was giggling. “Poor Kyle. He had a daily bitch-fit about how many pictures I took of hot Scots. Get it? Hot Scots?”
“What the hell did you take pictures for?”
“Well,” she tittered gleefully. “Shits and giggles, for starts. Some will end up on a Pinterest board. But mostly, I took them as leverage.”
“Because it drove your husband crazy?”
“Exactly.”
It was great to have a laugh with her BFF.
“Okay, Mrs. Sommerfield. Enough with the jokes. I asked a question.”
“Have we seen Ryan? That question?”
“Andi,” she growled.
“Cool your jets, Sami. Just having a bit of fun at your expense! Yes, we’ve seen him. He was here when we got back from the airport. And just like you, he gave us a few minutes of fake attention and then swept Kyle away for a private convo. About you.”
The carton in her hand went crashing into the sink, sending milk spewing everywhere.
“Uh, what? About me? What did they talk about?”
“Dunno,” Andi groused. “The hubs won’t say. But I got the impression there might be some groveling involved. By Kyle. Care to explain?”
The Wedding Affair (The Affair Series Book 2) Page 20
