“What does me fetching garbage bags have to do with you being unapproachable?”
“Nothing at all.” He linked his fingers behind his head and relaxed back.
“Fine.” She stepped over his legs, making sure to hold there for a moment as she straddled him. “But only because I need coffee. Want one?”
“No.” He dropped his legs down from her chair, and quickly put a magazine on his lap as she moved back. “We’re finishing up in a few minutes, I think. The winner will be announced at five.”
Ali looked at her watch. “Forget the coffee then. I don't want to miss the announcement. I’ll be back in a sec.”
***
A crowd gathered outside. Ali called out to Mrs. Beaty again but with a bit of panic in her voice. “You said the bottom drawer?”
“They’re there,” she insisted.
“I’m not seeing anything but . . . oh, wait. Found them.” Ali laughed, rushing out the door again. The cheering had died down by the time she reached the town square and some disappointed stall-holders were already packing up. “I missed the announcement?” she asked a random woman.
“Just by a second. But—” Her head whipped up and she spun on the spot as the crowd broke out into dull roar, shifting back and then flooding forward suddenly.
“What the hell was that?” Ali said.
“Fight.” The woman shrugged, walking away.
Ali ran toward to the commotion and pushed her way through as women and children broke from the crowd and the men moved in. When the tight gathering parted for a moment, her heart did a nervous flip, seeing Sam with one fist bunched around Grant’s fancy shirt, the other one poised for a strike.
Grant grinned, snorting out an arrogant laugh. “Go head,” he said. “Hit me. I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got!”
Sam shut his eyes for a second to exhale, and for a moment the crowd breathed relief. But as the past settled the score with the present, Sam thought better of it and slammed his fist into Grant’s jaw, reveling in every precious second his knucklebones connected with it.
Several men moved in to tear them apart. Sam was passed backward through the crowd, yelling at Grant as he scuffled away with blood pulsing from between his fingertips.
“Sue me!” Sam yelled over the heads. “I welcome it!”
Ali finally made it past the packed bodies and back to Sam’s side, taking up his hand immediately to inspect the damage. His knuckles were red and grazed, a bit tender when she pressed them, but he seemed otherwise okay, if not exhilarated by the scuffle.
“What the hell, Sam!” she said.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Sam said, cradling his fist.
“I hope it was worth it.” Ali shook her head, disappointed in him but also pretty proud.
“It was.” Sam shook out his hand.
Since she had to agree, Ali just smiled. “So what was that all about anyway? What happened between you two?”
“I don’t wanna talk about.” He backed away and melded with the breaking crowd. Ali stood for a moment, exhaling. Something big happened between them once, and Sam was intent on being a vault. She was just about to follow him when Di caught her attention.
“Over here,” she whispered loudly, her voice husky.
“What’s up?” Ali said, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with Di as they looked across at Sam.
“Did he ever tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“What happened?” She motioned to indicate the hostility between Grant and Sam.
“No.” Ali turned her body to face Di. “What did happen?”
“Come.” Di moved away from ears, and as Ali followed, she decided she really loved small towns and the gossip that often circulated.
Di stopped at the picnic chairs behind her stall table and offered Ali a seat.
“Okay, spill the beans, Di. That man tells me nothing!”
“Well,” she said conspiratorially. “A few years after Sarah died, Sam started dating a Leaf Peeper. They got real close for a while there and the whole town thought she might be the one to drag him out of his funk, but since it wasn’t an official relationship—”
“Meaning they weren't a couple?” Ali confirmed.
“Right, so that meant he couldn’t do a thing to stop her from going out to dinner with Grant.”
“Oh.” Ali’s eyes widened, pretty much summing it all up from there.
“Obviously Sam liked this girl,” Di added, “and no one knows for sure what happened, but shortly after she started dating Grant she also started avoiding Sam, and then she left.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Not that any of us knows. All we know is that Sam and Grant got into a fist fight and that was the end of it. They haven't spoken since.”
Ali’s shoulders dropped, filling her with pity for Sam. “So what was that punch-up about then?” Her head jerked to the town square and the dwindling crowd. “What started it?”
“You didn't hear?”
“I was in the shop when it started.”
Di grinned, shuffling forward on her seat. “Grant won the bake sale, see? And the prize was—”
“A dinner for two at the hotel,” Ali said, nodding. She’d had her eye on that prize herself.
“Yes, and though Sam always has a stall at the bake sale, this is the first time anyone saw him make an effort to win.” Di grinned suggestively. “Some of us think he wanted to win that dinner to take a certain girl out for the night.”
Ali smiled too, hoping that was the case. “That’s sweet.”
“Yes, but the fact that Grant won isn't what set him off—Sam’s no sore loser, let me tell you. Now,”—she looked around, lowering her voice—“no one heard for sure, but Mrs. French overheard Sandra Hough tell Jerry Yan that Grant made a quip about taking you to the dinner with him.”
“Oh.” Ali cringed. That would certainly have set off a heated discussion at the very least. And from there, pushing each other’s buttons, it might have morphed into an all-out war. She stood up.
“Where are you going?” Di said.
“To talk to Sam.”
He’d calmed down by the time she arrived back at his side—calmed just enough to be feeling the consequences of his actions. He looked at Ali when she stopped by the table and shook his head at himself, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me.”
“Don't apologize to me,” she said, sitting on the table beside the remaining cupcakes. “You did what you felt was right at the time, and who am I to question it?”
Sam just smiled, but it was a weak one. He regretted losing his temper, she could tell.
“So . . . you wanted to win that prize, huh?”
Sam visibly blushed, turning away as a sheepish grin brightened his whole face.
“Any reason?” she prompted. “I mean, what does a single guy want a dinner for two for?”
“I just thought it’d be nice is all,” he said casually, shrugging it off but still unable to look at her. He didn't have the courage to ask Ali out on a date, but inviting her to eat a prize he won was as close as he might ever get.
She slid down off the table and leaned around his body to see his face, flashing him a cheeky smirk. “Nice as in friends-eating-out nice, or nice as in date nice?”
Sam swallowed hard, clearing his throat as he backed away—desperately in need of another garbage bag. Ali stopped him with a hand to his wrist.
“Well, would it have been a date or not?” she pushed.
Sam’s thoughts went back to that day in the kitchen when he hugged her and she pulled away. He didn't want to push the boundaries again by admitting the truth, so he tossed the ball high and hit it hard, leaving it in her court. “Would you have wanted it to be a date?”
Ali thought about challenging him further by asking if he would want it to be, but the answer was as plain as the nose on his face. “If you’d asked me out on a date . . . sure.” She shrugged. “I would
have said yes.”
It wasn't the answer Sam wanted. An enthusiastic “yes” would have made him happier. But it was enough for now. He smiled and walked away. “Saturday then?”
“Sounds good,” Ali called, grinning as she said, “Pick me up in the foyer at seven?”
“I’ll be there.” He laughed.
~13~
Date Gone Wrong
Sam trimmed his beard, giving it some form and shape not unlike like those men in romantic comedies, and put on his best suit, freshly dry cleaned for the occasion. Two days ago, he’d shared Thanksgiving dinner with this girl, but some part of him felt like this date—driving in an actual car and eating at a restaurant—mattered more. Mattered more to him, at least.
He stood at the base of the stairs waiting to pick up his date, but when she came down in a short black dress held on only by thin straps, leaving the back dipping so low she had to be wearing special underwear, Sam nearly lost his mind.
“Go change,” he demanded.
Ali stopped, stunned. “Pardon?”
“You can’t go out in that. Go change,” he demanded, doing it so causally Ali wasn't sure if he was joking.
“Um . . . are you being serious?” she asked in a dull, lifeless voice. “You’re telling me what I can and can’t wear?”
Sam, realizing how that must have sounded to Ali, redacted. “Not for my sake. For yours.”
“Why, because I look too sexy in this dress?”
“No. I . . .” Sam laughed at himself for saying no when he meant ‘God yes’. “You do look very . . . very nice,” he said, wishing he could use a different word, “but you just recovered from the flu, Ali—”
“Last month—”
“Yes, and you should be dressed warmly.”
“Dressed warmly?” She showed him her coat. “Isn't this enough?”
“No.”
“I’m not changing.” She folded her arms, staying on the stairs, intent on winning this argument.
“And I don't want you to, believe me. But I don't want you to get sick again, okay?”
Ali looked deep into Sam’s eyes, and all she could see there was deep concern. For a moment, she had thought he was one of those possessive guys that doesn't want other men looking at his girl, but it genuinely seemed to be because of her recent illness. She thought it was sweet, and yet wasn't about to go change her outfit. Here he was, a black suit, pressed white shirt and tie, looking like a movie star with his hair brushed back—leaving just enough of a curl to the front that it framed his face—his eyes sparkling, so she couldn't very well go out in anything less than a sexy black dress. She might be the one worrying about other girls looking at her date then.
“Ali.” Sam stepped right up on the seat by the stair railing and hooked his arm over it, his eyes soft. “Please put something warmer on, even if it’s just stockings and boots, and maybe a cardigan—”
“Okay, fine.” Ali sighed, turning to go upstairs. How could anyone resist Sweet Sam when he used those eyes?
Thinking better of it all, she paused and backed down a few steps. This dress had been worn to get a certain reaction out of Sam and she would be damned if she took it off without getting something from him. “I need you to untie me.”
“Untie you?”
Ali showed him the intricate set of strings on the back of the dress, which didn't need to be untied to take it off—being that there was a zipper on the side—but she didn't tell him that.
A man on Mars could have heard him gulp down the nerves as he stepped up behind her and brought his cold fingertips to her silky dress. The strings tickled her skin pleasantly as they unwound and she shut her eyes, imagining his hands smoothing down the curve of her hip and around to her belly beneath the fabric. She wanted him to press himself against her and lift her hair, kiss her neck, but if he wanted the same, he kept his emotions remarkably squared. It was a little insulting.
“There,” he said, pressing his hand to her hip to give her a gentle push. He didn't make it obvious to Ali, but she was the first woman he’d touched in over a decade, and the silky feel of her dress beneath his hand made him consider asking her to stay in with him tonight. But the gentleman in him took over. They hadn't even dated yet, barely knew each other. It wouldn't be right to ask that much of her yet. And Sam wasn’t ready to give that much of himself either.
Ali went up to her room and slipped out of her dress, choosing instead a lacy magenta one with long sleeves and a darker underdress that would allow her to wear black calf-height boots. She looked cute, but not sexy.
“Better?” she said to Sam begrudgingly.
“As long as you're warmer.”
“Not the answer I was looking for,” she remarked, heading out the door when he opened it.
***
All through dinner, Ali couldn't help but wonder about Sam’s request to change her clothes. She still didn’t know him that well and for all she knew he might have killed his wife. He might have been the possessive husband. Didn't it start out with little requests like changing your clothes? Excuses given that always make sense until they don’t?
“You’re quiet,” Sam noted, pouring her another wine. “Are you still mad at me for making you change your dress?”
“A little.”
Sam shrunk, pressing his lips together. He just didn’t know what to say to make her understand. “I’m sorry. I should have just let you wear it. I . . . I really thought it would be colder in here than it is.”
Ali folded her arms, sitting back in her chair.
“I screwed up, didn't I?” Sam said, his apologetic smile waiting in the wings.
Yes, he had. But Ali wasn’t yet ready to throw him to the wolves. “I don't know you, Sam. Not well enough to take a demand to change my clothes as an innocent request concerning my well-being.”
He sighed, rubbing his brow. “I didn't think of that. But I do understand. My sister had a boyfriend like that.”
“So then you know it’s a red flag for girls?”
He nodded, his face pulling into a wide grin. He tried to fight it but it was just too ludicrous a suggestion for him not to laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s just . . . that was the last thing in the world I was thinking about—you wearing something provocative to attract other men. I’d be honored to have you on my arm in that dress, Ali. And, in fact, if I can make one more demand of your wardrobe tonight, can it be that you do wear that dress on a date with me—maybe in the summer?”
“So you think we’ll still be dating in the summer?” Ali teased, and the look on Sam's face caught her off guard.
His gaze dropped to his plate. “I-I didn't mean to assume. I. . .”
“Sam.” She reached across to touch his hand. “I was joking. Of course we will be. I mean, I hope we will.”
Sam’s finger flinched under Ali’s, like he thought about pulling away, but instead he turned his palm and ran his thumb over hers. “So you’ll still be here in the summer?”
“I don’t have plans to leave,” she said, as if that answered his question. It didn’t. “Not unless I’m given a reason to.”
Sam nodded, drawing his hand back.
Ali finished her wine and looked at her watch. This was not going so well.
“We should go,” Sam said.
“Sam.” She stopped him as he went to stand. “Look, I haven’t dated in two years. I’m rusty. And I know this isn’t the best date, but I like you.”
“You like me enough to stay until the snow melts, right?” he muttered dryly, pushing his chair out as he stood.
“No. I like you a lot more than that. And, putting my novel aside, I think a guy that I’m attracted to—that also happens to likes me back—well . . .” She shrugged. “It might sound corny, but . . . until that guy gives me a reason not to, I’d say that he’s a pretty good reason to stick around and see how things pan out.”
Sam’s eyes met hers for the first time in half an hour. “Me? You're sticking around for
me?”
Ali shrugged timidly, not sure how this confession would go over—if it would frighten him off, being so new and all.
“What about your novel? I thought that was the only reason you were staying.”
Ali wanted to roll her eyes. Was he really that daft? “My novel is the reason I’m living at your house, Sam. Not the reason I’m here in this town.”
Sam smiled, hiding it in the incline of his head as he reached in his jacket for his wallet. He threw a wad of cash down on the table, including a generous tip. “You wanna get out of here? Go get a drink?” he offered.
Ali smiled. “Sure.”
***
Sam had forgotten what it felt like to hold someone's hand. Even in the cold night air the nerves made his palm slightly sweaty, but Ali didn’t seem to mind, so he held on for as long as she’d let him.
They walked casually along the quiet streets, talking about the town and its history, until Ali stopped outside the theatre. “Oh, let’s go see a movie. There’s one starting now.” Her intention was to get him in the back and make out with him, but he held fast, glued to the spot.
“I’m not really a movie kind of man,” he confessed.
“For real?” Ali was visibly disappointed.
“I haven't watched one in a long time,” he said. “I never even saw Titanic.”
“No way!” Ali’s eyes widened. “What is wrong with you?”
Sam laughed, taking her hand again and keeping them moving forward. “Let’s just do something else.”
“Well, like what? We ate, we had dessert, and we had drinks.” She stopped, picking up on the melodic ripple of a piano. “Where’s that coming from?”
“What?”
“That music.”
“Mirage.” He nodded to the Grand Hotel. “The bar in there.”
“Can we go?” She jumped excitedly. “I love the piano!”
“Yeah?” His face lit up, an idea coming to life that might just help him win her over again after disappointing her by declining the film offer. “Come on then.”
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