Whatever It Takes (A Saratoga Falls Love Story Book 1)

by Lindsey Pogue

  A fleeting pang of envy makes my skin flush, and I turn back to the dishes in the sink. I turn the faucet on, letting water run over my fingers as I wait for it to warm.

  “Thank you for your help today, darling.” Alison’s voice is all praise and affection.

  “You’re welcome, Aunt Alison. You know I love you. Mom wants you to stop by to see her soon. Said she hasn’t heard from you in a while.”

  “I was just in town today, too—oh, I forgot to tell you, Samantha . . .”

  I don’t like the pitch of her tone. I brace myself and pause from scrubbing a plate to look over at her.

  Alison’s wine sloshes around in her glass as she takes a step toward me, her pale blue eyes fixed on mine. I know there’s kindness in them. I’ve even seen her eyes smile when she’s talking to Nick, but now they’re gleaming—from the wine, from the malicious thoughts she’ll never share, I’m not sure. “I saw Shirley at the post office this morning.”

  My breath hitches—falters and stumbles—and I nearly drop the sudsy plate in my hand.

  “She said Mike’s back in town on business for a month or so.”

  I stare down at my hands as they begin moving automatically under the searing hot water. Mike doesn’t bother me so much, it’s what he represents—my ignorance, the accident, what happened between me and Reilly—that makes me uneasy. Knowing Mike slept with a dozen other women in town, and right under my nose, makes me feel sick to my stomach all over again. The fact that I knew deep down he was an asshole, one that showered me with gifts and attention, but an asshole nonetheless, and that I stayed with him anyway makes it hard to push the memories I’ve gotten so good at ignoring away.

  “You might see him around town,” she adds.

  “Aunt Alison, don’t—”

  “What? I just thought she should know, so she’s prepared.” I hear the sound of her slippers dragging along the tile floor as she walks out of the kitchen, but I don’t bother to look.

  Nick sidles up next to me.

  Unwilling to look at him either, to see the sympathy and anger I know shadows his expression, I rinse the plate in my hand and set it in the drying rack before I pick up the next one.

  “I can’t take the way your face falls around her all the time, Sam. She’s just—”

  “Angry. Hurt. She just hates me. Trust me, I get it.” I drop the plate in my hand into the sink basin, lucky it doesn’t break, and turn to him.

  I hate the way Nick’s eyebrows draw together and his mouth quirks up in the corner. “She doesn’t hate you, Sam. She kept this place for you, didn’t she?”

  Because I begged her, but I don’t say that. Alison and I have never been close, but since the accident, the fissure between us has turned into a gaping ravine, one that grows wider every day. And even despite that, I still want to make things work between us. I owe her—I promised Papa.

  I meet Nick’s pitying gaze, wishing Alison’s effect on me wasn’t so obvious. I don’t want my burden to be his. I don’t want my burden to be anyone else’s. I wish there was a way to make him feel better, to fix what’s broken between Alison and me. But save for removing myself from her life and Papa’s ranch, I know there’s nothing else I can do. And I’m not ready to give up on this place yet. It’s all I have left.

  Plastering a smile on my face, I turn the water off and reach over to wipe my hands on the towel hanging from the handle before I squeeze his arm reassuringly. “At least I have you.” I move in for an impromptu hug.

  “It’s not enough. You need each other. This”—he steps away and gestures between me and the living room, where Alison’s talking to the TV—“isn’t healthy.”

  “Papa’s birthday is Friday,” I say, hoping it will shed light on Alison’s darker-than-usual mood. I want him to drop the conversation I’m so sick and tired of having.

  Nick nods. “I know.” He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for me to promise him something I’m not ready to.

  So I nod toward the clock. “Doesn’t your game start in like, ten minutes?”

  Nick groans, which means he’s giving in and letting the conversation go, finally. “Yeah, I should head out.”

  I turn the water back on, staring down at the stainless steel basin. “Oh, hey,” I say, happy to change the subject as I remember his date with the new bartender down at Lick’s. “How are things going with the hot redhead you told me about?” I elbow him. “Are you still pining for her?”

  Nick glowers. “I was never pining for her. Men don’t pine.” He straightens. “But yes, I’m still pursuing Savannah, if you must know. The date was casual, a couple drinks after work, nothing crazy.”

  “That’s good, I guess,” I say, and whip him with my towel. “Move it. You’re in my way again.” I collect the dirty pans from the stovetop and set them in the sink to soak. “Does she like being pursued? I mean, you guys work together, so you probably already spend a lot of time with one another.”

  Removing his hat, Nick runs his fingers through his hair again and makes a disgruntled, anxious sound. “Yeah, working. It’s not like we get a lot of time to chat.” He plops his hat back down on his head. “I don’t know, dating’s hard,” he grumbles.

  Nick’s never had a lot of luck in the dating department. Although he is the handsome, boy-next-door type, with hazel eyes and a knowing, devious smile etched on his face most of the time, he’s also the kindest, most hardworking person I’ve ever met. He’s a combination of playful charm and no-nonsense work ethic, two traits women don’t seem to admire or appreciate about him the way they should. At least, not the one he really wants—but thankfully, we don’t talk about Bethany much anymore.

  “Alright. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, lifting off the counter to head for the back door. “I’ll make sure to mark the dying oak trees first thing.”

  I shake my head. “You heard Alison, she wants to wait. I don’t want you doing it alone. It can wait until next week when things go back to normal, okay?” I hope and peer out the bay window, at the ocher glow of the setting sun. “We still have time,” I say, trying not to let Alison’s constant undermining of my decisions rile me up again.

  “Actually . . .”

  Sparing a look over my shoulder, I wait.

  “This is probably a good time to tell you that Reilly’s coming home for a while to work on his dad’s place.” My heckles rise as Nick tells me this cautiously and I hate that he’s watching me for a reaction, because it takes every ounce of willpower I have to keep myself from losing it. Mike and Reilly. Reilly and Mike. Both of them back. Now? I pretend to refocus on the dishes, but my stomach gnarls into an aching knot and it’s a struggle to take a deep breath.

  “I know that’s probably weird for you, but we could really use his help around here, especially on some of the bigger projects we’ve been putting off—like the trees. He’s strong and able, and we’d have his truck if we needed it, too.”

  Each word slices me open.

  “And maybe he’ll take his dad’s dog back. And if he doesn’t, I promise I’ll find him a home.”

  “Yeah, just like you found a home for the unnamed ranch cat that’s been roaming around here for two years.”

  “Mouser? She’s essential. And don’t pretend you don’t love her. I’ve seen you petting her when you don’t think I’m looking.”

  “We can talk about it later,” I say quietly, trying to hold myself together long enough for him to leave.

  Nick steps closer. “Sam, we really do need his help. I need his help. There’s a lot to do before the end of the summer. I really want to . . .”

  I can’t hear Nick over my galloping thoughts. It’s harder and harder to push away the gnawing, ravaging feeling I desperately want to ignore. Spending time with Reilly after everything that happened fills me with dread, and I feel the heat of humiliation spread up my neck and over my cheeks. All this time I thought Josh Reilly was gone for good, that he’d gone career in the Army and wasn’t
planning on coming back, ever. Especially now that Mr. Reilly has passed away.

  I swallow the bile rising up my throat, though it doesn’t alleviate the tightness and discomfort, it only makes it burn. “Whatever you think,” I barely squeak. I’m too busy trying to keep a flurry of images from my mind: Reilly standing at Mike’s front door and that gut-wrenching moment I wrote Reilly that letter. I’m not sure I can face him.

  “. . . his dad’s place fixed up so he can sell it,” Nick continues.

  Pretending to look at the clock on the wall, I say, “We should probably talk later.” My voice is low but light, trying to stir the mood and get Nick out of the house. “You’re already late.”

  Nick’s quiet, and I flick water at him. “Get out of here, would you?” Petey starts barking outside. “And take that damn dog with you, too.”

  Nick flashes me an apologetic smile. “Can’t. Sorry. I’m going to Lick’s, remember?”

  I scowl and throw the dish towel at him. “Fantastic. What are you, the bearer of bad news today? Get!”

  “Aye!” Nick yelps and scoots out the door, but he stops outside the porch, hesitating. “Love you, Sam,” he says. “Thanks for supper. See you in the A.M.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I wave him away, grab one of Alison’s dirty wineglasses, and turn back to the sink.

  As I stand there, alone with the burden of a dozen swelling emotions and the reality of what the next few months will be like with Reilly in town, I can’t help the unease that settles inside me.

  He’s coming home.

  Reilly’s face is all I can see in my mind. I thought I didn’t care about him anymore, but the flooding of heat under my skin, the tension twinging my muscles, and the heavy thud of my heart belies all I’ve been trying to convince myself of for years. I don’t hate Reilly for stepping in where he didn’t belong—for leaving me behind in the first place—not like I want to. But even after all this time, the mere thought of him being home makes me want to crumple at the onslaught of mistakes he embodies. I don’t need another reminder of all my regrets.

  I can’t bring myself to move, and I breathe only when my body makes me—it hurts too much otherwise. Blinking, I try to see beyond the darkness that clouds my thoughts and vision, beyond the burning, yearning sensation that takes over me. But like a bad memory unearthed, I see Papa’s body, battered and broken and lifeless. I see the blood. And once again, I’m awake in the hospital, barely able to move when the doctor tells me Papa didn’t make it. That my name was the last word he uttered.

  Once again, I’m alone. Hollow. Lost. Ashamed.

  Alison’s screams still haunt me . . . I can barely feel the warmth of Papa’s fingers in mine anymore, but my begging him to wake up as I float in and out of consciousness is seared in my mind. I begged him to look at me and say, “It’s okay, Smurf. Everything’s okay.” Even if he didn’t mean it.

  “Samantha!” Alison calls my name from the living room, startling me. When I look down, I notice the wineglass broken and gripped in my hand. My fingertips and knuckles are white and my hand is shaking. I stare at one of the shards, at the warm water rushing over my hands.

  The dismal ache inside me overshadows the disappointment I know I should feel as I contemplate the shard’s sharp edges. Standing motionless and muted, I take deep, grounding breaths.

  In . . . out . . .

  In . . . out . . .

  In . . . out . . .

  It does nothing to stave off the unbearable tightness in my chest. I should put the shard down. The months of fighting against the pain, of trying to ignore it and accept it, to control the growing weakness that nearly cripples me, moves so far beyond me I want to give in.

  I can’t push the urge aside. I can’t ignore it. Not any longer. I need the burn—so raw, demanding, and overpowering—to go away. I need my heart to stop aching, and for once, I want the grief and shame to ease, just a little, so I can breathe again.

  Finally, I let out a shaky breath. I run the pad of my thumb over the slick surface of the piece of glass. It’s thin, sharp, and might break in my hand if I clutch it any harder.

  A fiendish need claws inside me, and a delirious giddiness overcomes me at the thought of even a second’s relief.

  I lick my lips. This is what I need . . . one fell swoop of the glass across my skin. The burn. The sting of air and torn flesh, just enough to draw blood. Then I’d feel something else.

  I press a jagged edge of the glass to my palm.

  “Samantha, I was calling you,” Alison says from the doorway.

  Trying not to scream out, I let the glass fall from between my fingers and I look at her. I force myself to smile. “Sorry. What did you need?”

  She eyes me askance. “Are you alright? You look . . . tired or something.”

  I suppress a laugh. “I’m fine. Did you need something?”

  Alison waves my question away. “Never mind,” she says. In a huff, she leaves the kitchen and me, staring down at the shards of glass in the sink.

  Three years ago...

  I’m standing in Mike’s monochromatic kitchen, a room double the size of my bedroom at home. Opening the oven, I remove a pepperoni pizza with olives and jalapeños. It smells beyond amazing, a fortifying snack after a night of lovemaking and giggles.

  “Thank you for my bracelet,” I say, admiring the delicate, glinting diamonds set in white gold. I never thought I’d have something so beautiful and expensive, but that’s how Mike makes me feel—beautiful, coveted, and special to him.

  Mike’s arms wrap around me from behind as I set the pizza on the stovetop. “God you’re so fucking sexy when you’re wearing my clothes.”

  I glance down at his blue button-up shirt, gaping open and covering, well, very little of me. “I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as clothes.” Though the wind is roaring outside and there’s a sudden downpour, the fire in the connected living room and heat from the oven keep us warm and cozy inside, even in my lack of wardrobe.

  I giggle as Mike nibbles on my earlobe and quiver when chills rake over my body, arousing every nerve ending still recovering from our romp on the couch less than an hour ago. Mike’s tongue snakes out to sample the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, leaving a pool of warmth between my thighs in its wake.

  “I prefer you naked, though,” he says, and one hand slides up my stomach to my breasts, the other hand trailing down beneath the waist of my underwear. “God, I want you,” he breathes into my ear. “Now.” It’s practically a growl that elicits an ache somewhere deep and hidden that spreads throughout my body. I want him to lick it away.

  “Why can’t it always be like this?” I rasp, my eyelids half closed with lust as I lean my head back against him. He’s usually so tired when he returns from his trips on the east coast, but I welcome his insatiable desire for me tonight—his constant advances that make me feel like the most desirable woman in the entire world. He’s never seemed so needy for me, so starved. And I crave it.

  Mike chuckles in my ear, completely entertained as I wiggle within his hold. I can feel his erection pressing into me, making every fiber of my being hum with pent-up need. I groan in pleasure when his fingers slip inside me. But then he stops.

  Taking a step back, Mike spins me around to face him. He lifts me up, his gaze pinning me in place with the promise of insatiable things to come as he carries me out of the kitchen. I wrap my legs around him, showering him in kisses and moving my hips in his hold, relishing each groan and curse as he carries me back over to the couch. “I’m going to fuck your brains out, angel.”

  A thrill of pleasure sends peals of laughter from my throat, and I shrug his shirt off, exposing my breasts completely as he drops me down onto the suede cushions. “Yes, please,” I breathe, and I arch into him as he lowers himself down to me. My head lolls back as he sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, licking and teasing until I can’t help but beg for more.

  We both jump at the sound of pounding at the front door.

  “
Fuuuck,” Mike drawls and rises to his knees. We’re both breathing hard, adrenaline making it difficult to concentrate. “Don’t move,” he says, and he hauls himself off the couch. His hair is tousled from my fingers clutching onto it.

  I can’t help it; I giggle again. He pauses, staring down at me. How I snagged this sexy, clever entrepreneur as mine, I’ll never fully understand. He scans my naked body, licking his lips and cursing as he forces himself to head into the foyer. Someone pounds anxiously again.

  For a brief moment, I panic, wondering if Papa somehow found out I was here instead of at Mac’s. She’s at a family reunion in Montana, and if Papa called her house and grew worried when no one answered, he might’ve been on a warpath to find me. Does he know where Mike lives?

  With the thrill and promise of another orgasm wearing off, I shrug Mike’s shirt back on and button it up—all the way to the top—before I pull my cell phone out of my purse and check to see if I have any missed calls from home. Other than a few drunk text messages from Nick, I don’t see anything alarming. I drop my phone back into my purse, suddenly angry that we were so rudely interrupted.

  Running my fingers through my blonde tangles, I pad out of the living room and stick my head out into the foyer. The front door is open a crack. Mike’s outline glows outside, under the porch light. Creeping forward, I wonder who he’s talking to at this time of night.

  Then I register an angry, familiar voice.

  Three

  Reilly

  Pulling out of Thornton’s Public Storage, I stop at the edge of the driveway, the water bottle on the seat beside me rolling onto the floor, bouncing off my single bag of possessions—five sets of clean clothes, a pair of running shoes, socks, the basic hygiene products, my Army ball cap, and the old man’s letter. It’s finally starting to sink in that, ready or not, I’m going home.