"To save money, I went with a higher deductible," she said, bringing him back to her reality.
He nodded and pulled up the payroll screen. He could think of one place where she could find the money she needed right now. He scrolled down until the cursor flashed on his name. "Here's one expense you can skip."
She looked up at him. "Are you suggesting I put off paying you, Sam?"
"No," he said, looking her in those incredible blue eyes he'd been avoiding. "I'm suggesting you don't pay me at all."
The eyes flashed surprise and she all but sputtered, "I can't not pay you, Sam!"
He straightened—backed a step, needing to put space between them before he hauled her to her feet and into his arms and begged her to take what he had merely by virtue of being a Carrington. "I don't need the money."
"But you worked for that pay. You worked harder than any chef I've ever had. You deserve it."
"Nice of you to say. But I live off a trust fund, Red. I don't need the money."
"That's not the point."
He placed his hands on the chair's armrests and leaned close. "I know. But it's one way I can help."
"You already helped by stepping in when my chef walked out on me. You helped keep me from totally losing my cool today."
"Believe me, Red, money is the easiest way in the world I can help you. In fact…" he tightened his grip on her chair as though anticipating she would try and flee at what he next said. "I want to wipe out your debt. I may have to do it in installments…"
"You're going to do what?" She leaned at him, but didn't seem to be in flight mode. Of course not. That wasn't how she operated. That was his modus operandi.
He released the chair. "I'm going to wipe out your debt. I can't do it with one big check. That'll red flag Stuart. But smaller amounts…"
"I can't let you do that," she said.
"You can't stop me."
"No. I can't—I won't take a handout."
"This is no handout, Red. This is Mickey's screw-up cousin trying to make things right for his family. You wouldn't be so strapped if you hadn't had to fight Stuart over Ben."
She shook her head. "I don't feel right about taking money from you."
"From me? Or from anyone with Carrington blood in his veins?"
"What are you implying, Sam?"
"I'm implying nothing, Red. I'm saying you're gun-shy about taking anything from any member of Stuart's family. I'm saying you're afraid it'll feed into his impression of you."
"I don't care what Stuart thinks of me."
"Yes, you do. You care because he's Ben's grandfather and because he was the father of the man you loved."
He'd hit the nail on the head. He could see it in her eyes. But there was more.
"And you're afraid taking money from me might give him fodder in his case to prove you unfit to support Ben."
She swallowed hard.
"Don't look so scared, Red. He'll never get Ben away from you because there's no way in creation anyone could see you as anything but the best mother in the world."
She sank back in her chair, tears glazing her eyes. "Oh, Sam. What do I say?"
"Say 'Yes. Thank you.'"
She shook her head. "I'll give-in on the paycheck, but I can't let you pay off my debt."
"Why?" he asked.
"I have to make a go of this on my own."
"Which you would easily be doing if not for Stuart fighting you."
An indulgent smile lifted her lips. "Life is great for handing us lemons, Sam. Our choices are to let the lemons sour us or to take those lemons and make lemonade out of them."
"Don't let pride get in the way of accepting my help, Red," he pleaded.
"I'm a mother, Sam. I need—I want to set a good example for Ben. It's all about integrity."
Integrity. Something he had none of. No wonder he found it hard to accept her reasoning. But he could still help her on some level and that was something.
"So, it's a no to wiping out your debt, but a yes to my not taking a paycheck."
She nodded. He sighed.
"You drive a hard bargain, Red."
#
Was she being overly proud, not to take his handout? This was the family homestead, Nana's home on the chopping block if the restaurant failed. The farm wasn't hers to lose. Then there was Ben's future, his security.
Sam set a plate of quiche in front of her, a beautiful spring greens salad beside it lightly dressed with raspberry vinaigrette.
"Beautifully plated," Dixie said, and glanced at Nana and Ben across from her on the bench of the little table under the back stairs. They were already digging into their quiche.
"I'm thinking we could add quiche to the Sunday brunch," Sam said. "Start it as a special. See how it goes over. It's cost effective to make, especially if we offer a fruit of the season cup in place of the salad for those who'd prefer fruit to greens."
She took a bite of the quiche, chewing slowly so as to take in every nuance of the dish.
"It could eventually replace one of the omelets on the menu, thus cutting down on chef labor," Sam said.
"The flavor is divine. But a quiche is a more involved dish to make than an omelet," she said.
"But it can be made up ahead of time," Sam said, spinning the lone chair from under the end of the table and sitting straddling it. "Or, during the slow periods between services."
She nodded. "Thus relieving my chef's duties during the busy times."
"That's the idea."
"And the more quiche served, the more time my chef has to cook made-to-order orders and the quicker my customers get served."
"You got it," he said. "So, what do you think?"
"I think I'd like another piece," Nana said, holding up her empty plate.
Sam grinned, Ben crammed another bite into his mouth, and Dixie laughed.
"My Sunday brunch clientele are the type who'd like quiche," she said. "Add it to the weekly lunch menu and I could increase my lunch clientele."
"I've got half a dozen winning quiche recipes already picked out for you."
"Whoa," Dixie said. "Let's not go overboard."
"We won't as long as we feature just one a day."
"We? You planning to stick around and bake quiches for a while, Sam?" She raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
He blinked away and shrugged. "Whatever the future holds, you'll at least have an arsenal of quiche recipes that'll keep your customers coming back for more."
Not quite the answer she'd hoped for. But ever grateful for whatever good came into her life, she placed a hand on the back of his. "That's very generous of you, Sam."
"Just trying to be helpful."
She smiled at him, willing him to see how valuable his help was. "You've gone above and beyond anything I could have, or even should have expected of you."
He shifted in his seat, shrugged, and muttered something about it being the least he could do.
The least he could do? He made it sound almost like he owed her.
"I better put together a tray for Ms. Weston and bring it up to her," he said, removing his hand from under hers.
"I'll do it," she said, sliding off the bench.
"You've been on your feet all day," he said, rising from his chair.
"And you haven't?" she retorted, turning to the cupboard.
"I'll do it," Nana said, scooting around them and collecting a plate from the cupboard.
Sam placed himself between Nana and the quiche on the counter. "No. I can do it."
"Of course you can," Nana said, sidestepping him. "The issue is I've got a slice of that quiche in my belly while you have eaten yet."
"But—"
"Not to mention you both have worked your backsides off all day while I pretty much laid around."
"Nana, please," Dixie said, from beside Sam, her chest tight with pride in how readily he'd jumped to help with Nana.
Nana shook a finger at her. "I'm addled girl, but I can still walk and carry things.
And if a bit of milk gets sloshed onto the salad, it'll serve that cantankerous biddy right for expecting to be waited on hand and foot."
Dixie exchanged a look with Sam. He raised questioning eyebrows at Dixie. Under his breath, he asked, "Does she get like this often?"
"This is new."
They watched Nana plate the quiche, salad, and a muffin. Plate, glass of milk, silverware, and napkin added to a tray, Nana headed toward the steps. From the bottom of the stairway, Dixie and Sam watched her climb the stairs. When she climbed out of sight, they listened, on the ready should they hear a crash.
A couple door rattling knocks echoed down the stairwell.
"Is she kicking the door?" Sam asked.
Dixie clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing and nodded.
"Here's your supper, you lazy cow," Nana said, her voice reverberating down the stairwell.
Dixie fell against Sam, burying her face in his chest to muffle her laughter. He hugged her, laughing into her hair. It was a fun moment, a release of tension. As long as they could still laugh, Dixie knew everything would be all right.
#
Holding each other and laughing at the bottom of the stairs was a moment Sam wished would never end. But, in his experience, all good things came to an end. Stuart's phone call that night had proven it. The volume of the old man's rants at his failure to yield anything useful to him had been so loud, he'd drawn Ben's Pooh Bear bedspread over his head in fear Dixie would hear Stuart from her bedroom.
So, here he was, torturing himself by tossing bales of hay from a loft in a dusty old barn just to be near Dixie.
"That's the last of them," he called down to her.
"Great," she said. "For once I won't be scrambling at the last minute to clear my loft for the early hay harvest, thanks to you, Sam."
He smiled, Dixie's words crowding out Stuart's and infusing him with super hero energy. All puffed up with pride, he grabbed the uprights of the loft ladder and vaulted from the loft, booted feet gripping the outer edges of the uprights. But, as he slid toward the barn floor macho hero-style, something went wrong. A stab of reality, courtesy of an old wood ladder.
He hit the floor with his heels. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the straw strewn floor, too embarrassed to utter a single ouch.
Dixie was instantly on her knees at his side, hovering over him as he lay there. "Did you hit your head?" she asked, fingers sliding through his hair and across his scalp. Searching for bumps, no doubt.
"There's nothing wrong with my head except for it making some stupid decisions," he said, sitting up, breaking contact with her fingers in spite of how much he enjoyed their exploration.
"How about your back?" she asked, running a hand down his spine.
He pushed himself up onto his feet, grumbling, "The only thing hurting is my ego and my hand."
"Your hand?" Instantly she had the hand he'd waved cradled in both hers.
"It's only a sliver," he said, attempting to pull free only for her to tighten her grip on him.
"What were you doing, sliding down the ladder like that?"
"Trying to impress you."
She poked around the sliver and he jumped. "You impress me every day, Sam."
He grunted.
She glanced up at him. "I'm beginning to think you keep playing that poor Sam card just to get me to say nice things to you." She released his hand and headed toward the door facing the house.
Bereft of her letting him go, he went after her. "I didn't. I don't. If I do, I don't mean to."
She stopped just short of the open door and faced him, a soft smile on her lips. "I was only teasing, Sam."
She lifted a first-aid kit from a shelf by the door. She hadn't been leaving at all.
"Come stand in the light, Sam."
He moved to the doorway. She stepped in front of him, her back to him, and tucked the arm of his wounded hand against her side. "Can't take a chance my favorite chef's hand will get infected."
"Favorite chef?" He laughed. "I'm your only chef."
"At the moment," she said, gripping the sliver with the tweezers from the first-aid kit and easing the invading splinter from his palm.
She stepped away from him, leaving his body cool in the places where hers had touched his.
"Someone answered one of you ads?" he asked.
"We've got two to interview," she said, returning with a bottle of peroxide and motioning him to hold out his hand.
"This'll be cold and bubbly, but shouldn't sting."
"Shouldn't?"
She peeked up at him through her lush lashes. "Even if it does, I can't risk my favorite chef's hands to infection."
Favorite, but soon to be replaced chef. Soon to be no longer needed by her. Her with hair the color of sunshine and a smile that could warm a man clear to his soul. What would he do once she no longer needed him? Where would he go?
Who could replace her? No woman on earth. Dixie Rae Carrington was a one of a kind, standing there holding his hand—blowing on his palm where a splinter had once been. He knew, in that moment, he couldn't leave without knowing what those lips felt like against his.
Gently, he knuckled her chin up until her eyes met his—until he saw in them she understood what he was asking her. Her lips parted and she leaned in, lifting her mouth as he lowered his toward hers.
He'd meant to take just a sampling. Just enough to create a memory he could dream of for the rest of his misbegotten life. But she rose into the kiss, pressed back—parted her lips further.
Their tongues met, tasting, teasing, each inviting the other into the ancient dance of two people in need. Her fingers wove through his hair, holding them in the kiss. His hands stroked down her back, holding them in close embrace.
When their mouths broke for breath, she let her head fall back, baring her throat to him. Without hesitation, he accepted her invitation. He tasted her sweet, dust-coated flesh. Small gasps escaped her and he traveled lower into the v of her t-shirt, kissing and nipping his way, listening for response.
She moaned.
He slid one hand up her side and stroked her breast with his thumb. Her breast rose with a deep breath as she inhaled a throaty, "Yes."
He ached for more of her and, if the way she slid one leg up the outside of his until they were crotch to crotch was any indication, she wanted everything he did. He recaptured her mouth and half carried, half rolled her onto the hay bales he'd thrown from the loft that now littered the aisle of the barn.
Somewhere in his lust drunk mind the prickliness of the hard-packed bales registered. But she'd wrapped her legs around his waist and held him close, all tongue and soft curves beneath him.
Later, they'd fix that less than comfortable problem of scratchy hay, their bodies seemed to be saying as they wrestled their way behind a pile of bales. She was on top of him now, legs splayed to either side of his hips, thick lashes fanned across her cheeks from her closed eyes. She removed the clip from her ponytail, her hair falling about her shoulders like golden fire. She moved her hips, the pressure almost painful for him, but the guttural groan rising from her throat—the scent of her need made it worth it.
Then she reached down, gathered the hem of her t-shirt and peeled it up over her head. He cupped her high, round breasts, weighing the bounty within the slick fabric of her bra.
"You're beauti—"
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him, and slid her hands under his tee, pushing it up. Leaning forward, she laid her cheek against his bare skin, her breasts tightening against his stomach as she inhaled.
He stroked her hair. She purred and rolled her head, her tongue tasting his skin, her lips nipping at his nipples. Her fingers slid up his sides and her arms pressed into him as though she couldn't get enough of his flesh. He wanted more, too.
He sat up, taking her mouth with his, drawing her legs around his hips. Her heat enveloped his throbbing core. He cupped her behind and her arms tightened around his neck. The
y moaned into each other's mouths. Fingers scrabbled for fasteners and bells went off.
But the bells weren't inside his head. The vibration against the palm cupping her behind confirmed the source of the ringing.
"Your phone," he panted against her lips.
"Ignore it," she panted back, fingers struggling at the snap on his jeans.
"We have to separate to get these pants off," he said, nibbling his way to her neck.
"Yes. No. Not yet," she said, hugging him to her. "Hold me for a moment."
He drew his arms across her back in spite of the need tearing at him.
"I haven't been held by a man like this since…"
He understood why she let her words trail. He knew whose arms had last held her like a lover. He didn't want him here between them at this very moment.
He tightened his hold on her, his lips pressed to the tender skin just below her ear. He stroked her back and shifted between her legs just enough to remind her she was a woman well desired. She rolled her hips—rolled her heat across his throbbing ache. They both groaned and she began to move back, her hand reaching down between them.
"Mommy, mommy."
Dixie was off him before he even fully registered Ben's voice.
"What, sweetie?" she asked, head raised above a hay bale.
"Uncle Roman's on the phone. He said he called you on your cell phone and you didn't answer."
"Tell him—" She looked at Sam who remained out of sight from Ben in their would-be love-nest, a bevy of emotions rolling across her face. "—I'll call him back."
Sam held up her t-shirt, mouthing, "Go."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It had taken a full five minutes to convince Roman nothing was wrong; and her body hadn't stopped tingling the entire time. As soon as she hung up she wanted to run back to the barn and take up where she and Sam had left off. But she had questions.
She took out her cell, ducked into one of the restaurant dining rooms where she'd have privacy and hit the quick dial for her most frequently called number.
"Annie, can you talk?"
"Sure."
"He kissed me."
"He who?"
Finding Home (St. John Sibling Series Book 2) Page 14
