Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  “When the audience applauds for me,” Genevieve continued, “or when people ask to take a photo or when TV stations call me, it strokes my ego, which isn’t good. It also makes me afraid that my prior studies were a fluke, that I don’t know what I’m doing, and that no one will buy or like my next study. Which isn’t good, either.”

  “How long were these pressures mounting before you broke your ankle?”

  “Like I said, things were mostly great before I broke my ankle. I don’t want to paint an inaccurate picture.”

  “Yes, but for how long were these pressures mounting?”

  Genevieve toyed with the three bands of her rolling ring. “Two years. No. Three, maybe.”

  The doctor zipped a fingertip through the diffuser’s mist stream. “At any point during the past four years did memories or nightmares about the earthquake begin to increase?”

  The gentle, conversational question collided with Genevieve, unsettling her. “Yes, actually.” A few years ago, nightmares about the earthquake began to sneak back into her life. Thoughts about the quake had followed. Which had fed more nightmares.

  “Trauma never disappears, Genevieve. The things we’ve experienced are always a part of us. When we’re stressed, old traumas like to rear their heads.”

  Genevieve sighed. “It sounds to me like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  “Take heart. It sounds to me like we’re beginning to get to the root of the matter.”

  Almost a week later, Genevieve let herself into Sam’s laundry room. She closed the exterior door loudly. She moved around noisily. She banged the washing machine’s lid.

  But alas. Sam did not appear.

  Surreptitiously, she tried the door that led from the laundry room to the rest of his farmhouse. Locked, just as it had been the previous times.

  A sense of disappointment descended over her like black confetti. Since she’d spoken with him at The Kitchen, she’d done laundry two other times and pulled weeds in his garden three more times. On every occasion, his truck had been parked at his house. On every occasion, she’d hoped to speak with him. On every occasion, he hadn’t showed.

  She’d now crawled and scraped her way to day thirty-seven of sobriety. She’d made it more than a third of the way toward the ninety-day mark. According to Dr. Quinley, some dopamine was supposed to have RSVP’d yes to her brain’s invitation by this point.

  It didn’t feel like it tonight. After dinner, she’d tried and failed to watch a movie. She’d tried and failed to read a non-fiction tome on theology. When she’d caught herself fantasizing about how quickly and easily the Riverside Pharmacy could fill her remaining Oxy prescription, she’d bolted down to the pond.

  Skipping rocks on the moonlit surface of the pond while whispering, “Not today, Satan” hadn’t helped, so she’d decided to do something healthy both about her craving for human interaction and about the laundry in her dirty clothes hamper. She’d changed out of her sweatshirt and yoga pants into a sweater the color of a mocha, black jeans, and her cute new pair of leopard print flats. Then she’d come here.

  Tonight, without the benefit of Oxy, she really needed Sam to answer the SOS she was sending him via washing machine.

  She got the washing machine’s cycle going, then closed the lid with another clang. It’s only 8:15 p.m., Sam! The sun set less than an hour ago—

  The door to the interior of the house sailed open. Sam stood in the doorway, looking tired and rumpled from a long day’s work.

  Sam!

  “Is there something you don’t understand about how to operate my washing machine?” he asked grumpily.

  He came! “Hmm?” Genevieve tried to look inquiring and repentant, but she couldn’t seem to hold the expression. The internal confetti turned pink and swirled happily upward. “No, no. I understand the operation of your washing machine perfectly.”

  His eyes narrowed. He wore yet another soft, casual T-shirt with jeans. His feet were bare. “No banging allowed.”

  “No, indeed. Certainly not.” She smiled in a way she hoped would win him over. Then waited for him to soften.

  And . . . there. The skin around his eyes crinkled with reluctant amusement.

  Grasping his non-verbal invitation, she moved forward to peek around the edge of the door’s casing into the mysterious confines of his house. “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? Me too!” She slid past him into a mudroom that ended in a short hallway. “Care to give me a tour of your house?”

  “No.”

  “But you will anyway, right?” she asked over her shoulder as she slipped into the hallway. “Because I’ve already infiltrated past the drawbridge?” If she moved quickly, it would be harder for him to tug her back and quarantine her in the laundry room. The hallway led to a walk-in pantry, which emptied into his kitchen.

  And what a kitchen.

  The space had been renovated in a clean, unfussy style that suited the old bones of the house. Concrete countertops. Lower cabinets stained the same medium brown as the original wood floors. A white shiplap backsplash ran behind open shelves holding glasses, plates, bowls, pots. She didn’t spot a single piece of clutter. Only spotless, empty spaces.

  The kitchen opened in two directions. Toward the dining room at the front of the house and toward the living room that spanned the remaining width at the back of the house.

  “You’re not saying much,” she mentioned.

  “If you want someone to talk about furnishings, I’m not your bloke.”

  She slid the tip of her pointer finger along the dining room table as she passed it, then stopped for a moment to glance out one of the windows. Until now, she’d only been able to look in from the outside. This was her first, and maybe only, chance to look out from within.

  She continued to the central foyer. On its far side, she found an office. Her senses feasted on the surroundings, savoring every detail the way she’d savor bites of chocolate cake. She backtracked to the foyer and ascended the stairs to the second floor—

  Masculine fingers encircled her wrist.

  Instantly, she stopped. Her inhale stilled partway as bands of awareness spread outward from the place his hand touched.

  “No need to go upstairs,” he said.

  Heavens, he was private. “Okay,” she said lightly. Truly, it had been a miracle that he’d allowed her to see the first floor.

  His hand moved to support her elbow as she backed down the stairs. “Careful. I wouldn’t want you to break your other ankle.” The deep, quiet timbre of his Australian accent curled into her ear and ran a delicious shiver down the side of her neck.

  “There’s a very real danger of that, I assure you.”

  He dropped her elbow as soon as she was stable, but the eye contact between them felt even more charged. The beauty of that darker ring of gray-green encircling the paler green of his irises . . .

  Sam broke the moment by moving into the living area, which reflected the same spare, masculine design of his other rooms.

  His desk and dining room table were both utilitarian farmhouse antiques without any frills. The chocolate brown leather sofa before her oozed smooth angles and quality. She liked both it and the mission style chairs that accompanied it, but she couldn’t fathom how he existed without rugs, throw pillows, and all the other accent pieces—vases of flowers, pottery, photos, art—that she’d arrange on every surface if given a chance.

  “This is a great farmhouse,” she announced.

  “Thanks.”

  She’d lived in Nashville since the age of eighteen. She appreciated its restaurants, shopping, coffeehouses, museums, and theaters.

  This was the first and only time that she’d passed weeks of her life on a large tract of land. While she hadn’t decided yet whether she was suited to life on a farm, she knew for sure that it suited Sam. The life he’d carved for himself here was plain and straightforward. A man who lived and worked on his land was a self-sufficie
nt, competent, independent man.

  She motioned to a portable laundry rack, around the size of a small wall piano, standing in the room’s corner. Clearly, he’d set it above a heating vent, because the upward air flow ruffled the clothing he’d arranged there. “I see that you have an indoor clothesline.”

  “Yep. For when it’s cold or dark or rainy.”

  “You failed to mention this revelation when you introduced me to your outdoor clothesline. I’ve . . .” Her concentration slipped because it appeared that the man preferred boxer briefs, which was infinitely more interesting than talking about clotheslines.

  See, she wanted to crow, clotheslines can rob you of privacy, Sam! But how could she? Then she’d have to call attention to his briefs. She dragged her focus up to him. “I’ve been waiting for nice weather to wash my clothes. You’ve forced me to become a laundry meteorologist!”

  “You may want to invest in an indoor rack, North Korea.”

  “Winter’s coming. You may want to invest in a dryer.”

  “Not going to happen,” he stated. “Hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “What did you have for dinner and when?”

  “Ramen. Two and a half hours ago.”

  He shook his head in a way that communicated contempt for ramen. “Fancy a banana muffin?”

  “Maybe even more than one.”

  He padded into the kitchen and went immediately to work, every move efficient. He did not consult a recipe.

  “Oh. You’re going to make them from scratch?”

  “I make almost everything I eat from scratch.”

  “And I’m the opposite. I’m very pro-processed foods.”

  He ignored her.

  “Do you ever splurge and eat something that’s bad for you?” she asked.

  “Almost never.”

  “Which means you occasionally do splurge. What is it that you eat on those occasions?”

  “Tim Tams.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “They’re chocolate cookies.”

  Since her weaknesses had been on such ample display, it comforted her a little to know that his willpower wasn’t infallible. “Can I help?” she asked.

  “In a sec.”

  She washed her hands at the sink. It turned out that her help amounted to whisking the dry ingredients and then placing muffin cups in the muffin pan, which was probably what her level of baking expertise deserved.

  He added strange, super healthy ingredients to the mix. Almond flour. Cashew butter.

  Little wonder he had such a fantastic body.

  “No sugar?” she asked.

  “The natural sugar in the bananas is enough.”

  Enough for you, maybe, she wanted to say, but didn’t. That would have sounded ungrateful when she wasn’t. On the contrary. A melting thankfulness was overtaking her by degrees. So much so, she felt a little on the wobbly and tearful side. He’d invited her in. His company was comforting, and he was making muffins in a kitchen bathed with bright, cheery light.

  It would have taken Genevieve ages to make muffins. Within a matter of just a few minutes, Sam was sliding the muffin tray into the oven.

  She hurried to the sink before he could beat her to the post and began rinsing the mixing bowl and utensils he’d used to make the batter.

  He opened the dishwasher and propped one narrow hip against the counter. She handed him items. He inserted them in the machine.

  “Every time I see you,” he said, “you look like you’re feeling better.”

  It wasn’t exactly an effusive compliment. In fact, it would’ve been hard not to look better than she had after withdrawal, when she’d resembled a cadaver. Yet, his statement delighted her. “Thanks. I’m feeling a little bit”—a very little bit—“better all the time.”

  “Yeah?” he said, utterly serious. With that one word, he asked a whole essay full of things.

  Genevieve didn’t know whether Sam liked her true self. At least, though, she felt free to be her true self with him. He didn’t need anything from her, except for her to abide by the rental agreement they’d struck. He had no ulterior motives. Her career, what she could do for him—none of that mattered here.

  “I’m still adjusting to living alone in the country,” she confessed. “The isolation’s tricky. I . . . miss the benefits of Oxy. Every physical pain hurts worse than before and my job feels more stressful.”

  Grave lines etched into his face. “If you’re tempted to take Oxy, you can call me.”

  “I can?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’ll pick up?” she teased.

  “For sure.”

  “The truth is that I didn’t come here tonight to do laundry.” She handed him the final spoon. He inserted it and closed the dishwasher door. “At least,” she continued, “laundry wasn’t my first priority. I came because I was hoping for someone to talk to. The solitude wasn’t exactly helping matters tonight.”

  “In that case, I’m glad I was here.”

  “Me too.” The moment stretched. She really shouldn’t and couldn’t fall for anyone until she had herself back in order. And yet . . . she didn’t know if it could be helped. She could feel herself falling for Sam slowly and unavoidably. And, disastrously, it felt good. In fact, the delicious chemistry tugging her to him was one of the few bright spots in her life at the moment.

  “Any news on your search into your parents’ past?” he asked.

  “Quite a bit, actually.”

  “What have you found out?”

  “That they’ve been keeping something that happened before their marriage a secret from my sister and me.”

  “What’s the secret?”

  Oh, perish. This was awkward. She straightened her leather earring, which had twisted. “I’d rather not say. Which sounds very rude, especially considering that you’re making me banana muffins. It’s just that I feel honor-bound to protect my parents’ privacy. For the moment, anyway. Do you understand?”

  “Gotcha,” he said simply.

  Her posture relaxed. “I have about twenty things I’d like to ask you about the upcoming Fall Fun Day. Can we talk about that?”

  “Sure.”

  They stayed in their spots, her at the sink, him at the oven, as the muffins baked and they discussed their plans for the Fall Fun Day they’d be hosting the first Saturday in October, a mere week and a half away.

  After taking the muffins from the oven, he placed one on each of their plates. He split them with a knife so that steam danced out, then applied a pat of butter to the center and propped the two halves back against each other. He made for the dining table.

  “How about we take our muffins to the sofa?” she asked.

  “I don’t eat in the living room.”

  “Of course you don’t. But I’m a terrible influence, so c’mon. Bow to my peer pressure.” She curled onto his sofa, balancing her plate on its arm rest. She tapped the top of her muffin to see if it was cool enough to eat. It wasn’t.

  He took the sofa’s far end, putting as much space as possible between them.

  “You’re a very structured person, aren’t you, Sam?”

  “That’s how I’ve hit my goals for myself.”

  “What goals? Give me an example.”

  “I wanted to own a restaurant,” he answered. “I wanted to lease one of the national park farms. I wanted peace.”

  “And now that you have those things, do you think you can afford to be a little less structured?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you’re not careful, people will sleep in your guesthouse and eat your banana muffins.”

  She grinned so widely her cheeks stretched.

  He smiled back, his face creasing in that way that stole her breath.

  To save herself from a swoon, she took a morsel of muffin, held it like a diamond to light, then ate it. It wasn’t as sweet as she was used to, but it was rich, dense, and bursting with flav
ors of cinnamon and nutmeg. “Admit it. It’s fun to have me here, sleeping in your guesthouse and eating your banana muffins.”

  “Hmm,” he replied noncommittally.

  “I’m outgoing and unpredictable, and I provide conversation.” Regardless of what Sam believed, he needed people. He also needed a little spontaneity in his life. It would do him a world of good if he could give himself the freedom to occasionally fudge one of his own rules.

  She had problems. But so did he. It seemed to her that he had the steadiness to help her with her problems. And she had the exuberance to help him with his.

  “Go on,” he said dryly.

  “And I’m not terribly structured, which provides a . . . lively complement to your, uh, regimented ways.”

  “If you say so.” His sentence communicated ambivalence, but his eyes communicated a very different thing. Heat. Fondness. Desire.

  It was as if he were standing on one side of a lake and she on the other, and he longed to cross the lake but would never allow himself to do so.

  He’d chosen his very separate life and had no intention of changing.

  Ben

  While Luke brushes the grit off his cell phone, I pat my arms to reassure myself that I’m not dead.

  I’m alive.

  For now.

  I look around at the four kids with me—all of them white except for me. I wish my mom and dad were here. Or any of my brothers and sisters. Or Jordan and Derrick, my closest friends in the youth group and the only two other Black kids on the trip. They’re still on the soccer field above. It’s dumb to want them here. I shouldn’t want that, because they’re safer where they are.

  I’ve grown up in the same town and church as the sisters and Luke. They’re cool. But I don’t know Sebastian. He’s never come to anything at church before. He’s quiet and angry, and when I tried to talk to him yesterday, he shut me down.

  Luke dials the phone and all of us watch, desperate for him to make contact with anyone who can help.

  Chapter Ten

  Over the days of the following week, autumn began painting a collage of fall color across the north Georgia mountains. Genevieve continued to stick to the daily schedule Dr. Quinley had given her as if her life depended on it. Which, perhaps, it did.