by Becky Wade
Natasha had finagled this dinner by bringing him steaks?
Of course she had. Natasha could be crafty. Genevieve had confided in her about her fight with Sam, and this was her sister’s way of helping repair things between them. “That’s true. I’ve gotten off track with my schedule the past few days.”
“How come?”
“After botching things up with you, I was feeling blue.” He was an unlikely confidant. Yet, as usual, she found it liberating to tell him things. “Plus, I’m tired and overwhelmed in general. I haven’t had the energy for the schedule this week.”
“That worries me because the schedule’s been working for you.”
“I know. It’s helped.”
“So? Are you going to return to it?”
“Someday soon.”
“How about tomorrow?” he asked, insisting on pinning her down. Then he smiled a persuasive smile. Olive skin, green eyes, dimples, slightly imperfect white teeth.
Absorbing the sight was like trying to catch a fifty-pound ball of starlight. She’d have agreed to anything he asked in that moment. “Um, I’ll return to the schedule tomorrow.”
“Beaut.” He moved aside to make room for her in front of the cast iron skillet, where he’d finished searing the steaks. “Is there anything else I can do to support your recovery, Gen? Because if there is, let me know.”
“Cooking me dinner seems like enough at the moment.”
He tilted the skillet and used a spoon to scoop up the butter floating in the corner along with fresh herbs. Then he ladled butter on top of the steaks over and over. “Just do like this.”
“Got it.” She did her best to imitate the action he’d demonstrated.
He sautéed asparagus. They were standing very close now, the outside of their arms brushing as they worked.
“Have you considered stepping away from the study you’re working on?” he asked. “Would that help you feel less overwhelmed?”
“It would. But I can’t step away.”
“Why not?”
He clearly didn’t understand the magnitude of her job. “I’ve signed a contract that requires me to submit the study to my publisher by its deadline. In all the years, I’ve never been late for a deadline, and I’ve never canceled a speaking engagement.”
“Right, but this time’s different. This time your health’s at stake. You get well, you’ll be able to write more studies in the future.” He made a spooning motion. “Baste,” he reminded her.
She resumed basting. Since the day when she’d crashed her car into a parking planter, she’d doubted whether she was qualified to continue serving as a Christian leader. But whenever she considered taking a break, she immediately thought of all the employees of her publisher, all the readers, all the conference directors who were counting on her. “I’ve been managing my deadline and my health so far. I can continue.” And she could. Though the idea of facing weeks jammed full of work responsibilities made her feel as if someone was squeezing her throat. “I live off the income from my writing and speaking.”
“I’m guessing you can afford to take a break. The lady at the bookstore told me that the DVD set for Bearer of a Woman’s Soul cost one hundred and twenty dollars.”
She dropped the spoon and set her hands on her hips. “The DVD sets are for groups! Also, I don’t price the books and DVDs. My publisher does.”
He eyed her with something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“Sam!” Even though his feet were inches from hers, he was stepping all over her toes. She’d hoped to maintain their cease-fire longer than two and a half minutes.
“Baste,” he said.
She huffed, picked up the spoon, and ladled butter. The cooking beef smelled mouth-watering. “The direction of my career is something I’m going to have to think through and pray through on my own . . . without intervention from my landlord.”
“And mate.”
By that, he meant friend. She softened slightly. “And thorn in my side.”
“And grocery shopper when you were crook.”
“Crook?”
“Sick.” He transferred the steaks to plates. “Dinner’s ready.”
Together, they relocated the meal to the dining room. Gorgeous cutlery waited there on top of neatly folded linen napkins.
“Sit,” he said. Then added, “Tenant.”
“And person who is donating her considerable talents to better your farm.”
“And thorn in my side.”
“And woman you called a brilliant speaker.” She took her seat with as much dignity as she could muster.
“House crasher.”
“Local girl made good.”
He bent his head to pray.
She peeked at him from beneath her lashes.
“Thank you, God, for this food, this place, and Gen. Amen.”
Was that it? She’d have required ten sentences to say what he’d said plainly in one.
He skewered a potato with his fork.
“I forgive you for ambushing me about my career,” Genevieve said.
His lips quirked. “I didn’t ask for forgiveness.”
“Nevertheless,” she said primly, “I choose to extend grace. I’ll expect grace in return should I ambush you about your career in the future.”
“If you see that I’m screwing up my career in any way, then please ambush away. Bring it on.”
He did not appear to be screwing up his career. This steak was not just the best thing she’d eaten this month but the best thing she’d eaten all year. It melted in her mouth, tender, with just the right amount of sear and salt. In response to the taste of it, her stomach begged her to marry him.
She noticed that he held his knife in his right hand, his fork in his left, and only rarely set either one down. Aussies seemed even more casual than Americans in most ways, but this—his style of eating—struck her as adorably proper.
They took their time over the meal, discussing the similarities and differences between her childhood in Georgia and his in Victoria, Australia.
When they’d finished eating, they angled their chairs farther from the table and continued to talk. The food and his company and the light from the fixture overhead spun a delectable spell. She didn’t want to leave. Ever. And she definitely didn’t want to break the spell, but it occurred to her that the spell might be strong enough to coax Sam to talk to her about Kayden.
“I’m interested to hear about your years in Melbourne after you graduated from the university,” she said.
His face shuttered.
C’mon, spell. Hold.
“Sam,” she said reasonably. “We’re trying to be truthful with each other, remember? I’d like to know about those years.”
Pressing his thumb against the table’s corner, he took a slow breath. Just when she was sure he was going to refuse her, he asked, “What do you want to know?”
She started asking questions. In an even tone that likely disguised soul-deep feelings, he answered every one.
He’d loved Kayden. And she could clearly see that he’d done his very best for Kayden. Unfortunately for Sam, his love for Kayden had ended tragically.
Did he view her as Kayden’s understudy, the one who had to get it right because the star of the show, the one he’d loved, had failed? Was he constantly measuring her against Kayden? Even if she did get it right and stayed clean, would she ever be able to compete with Kayden?
She didn’t know.
What did she know? She wanted to try to make things better for him. After hearing his history with Kayden, she was more ferociously determined than ever to stay off Oxy for good. For herself. For him.
“Will you tell me what you’ve found out about your folks?” he asked.
He’d just placed his confidence in her by telling her the hardest and most private things about him. In return, she found that she couldn’t shut him out. More than that, she wanted to tell him.
She explained about Russell, the Shoal Creek Kil
ler, and her visit to Birdie Jean’s house in Camden. He listened in a way that was exceedingly rare in the current culture. He wasn’t distracted by technology; his attention didn’t fracture. He leveled the weight of his focus on her as she talked.
When she finished, he leaned back slightly, interlacing his fingers over his lean abdomen. “What do you and your sister plan to do next? Are you going to look into Angus Morehouse?”
“Yes. I went to see the house where my mom and Russell lived, and it was creepy. The whole setting felt wrong, including Angus’s house, which I could see in the distance. So, we’ll look into Angus. We’ll go back over all the photographs I took of Birdie Jean’s newspapers. We’re still also planning to check if anything unusual happened during the years when my parents lived in Savannah.”
“Because the person who sent you the mystery letter seems to be accusing both your parents of doing something. And they didn’t even meet until Savannah, right?”
“That’s right. Russell’s death happened before my parents met, and there’s little chance of my parents getting away with anything after moving to Misty River.” She combed her fingertips through the last few inches of her hair. “If my parents did something, they probably did it in Savannah.”
Dark eyelashes fringed Sam’s watchful eyes. Genevieve saw within those depths his loyalty and loneliness, his humility and sorrow. Those qualities made him beautiful to her, and like a hot air balloon, her heart pulled so strongly toward him that it snapped the ropes she’d been using to anchor it down.
She hadn’t yet been clean for ninety days. He was very likely still in love with a woman who’d died. In this moment, however, those concerns fell away like chaff in the face of how badly she wanted him to kiss her—
Abruptly, he rose to his feet. “It’s getting late.”
She stood, indecision swirling with disappointment. How was she supposed to get through to a man this disciplined? “Let me help you with the dishes—”
“No need.”
“I’d like to lend a hand.”
“No. I’ll take care of the dishes.”
She paused. “All right.”
They made their way to the foyer. Politely, he opened the door for her. She passed through, then turned to face him. Every reflex she had screamed at her to kiss him.
She couldn’t kiss him! She fidgeted, reluctant to leave.
“’Night,” he said.
Her desire and her self-control rammed into each other. The silence lengthened until it became fraught. “Good night,” she finally said.
She walked down the steps toward her cottage.
The farther she went from the light of his porch, the more the darkness encroached, and the more certain she became that she’d chosen wrong when she’d chosen caution.
Sam retreated to his office.
He wrapped his fingers around the metal container that held his pens. With odd detachment, he noticed that his hand was shaking. He observed the container, then very deliberately threw it against the wall. It made a satisfying crash and pens rained down.
He scowled at the mess, which somehow satisfied him more than neatness could have.
What was the matter with him? What fatal flaw was buried in him that made him want to be loved so badly?
He’d spent years depriving himself and deepening his faith and telling himself that he was strong.
He wasn’t strong. He was a fool because his stupid heart that hadn’t made one right decision was giving itself piece by piece to Genevieve. No amount of structure or routine or control was good enough to hold it back—
A knock sounded on his front door. His attention cut to the foyer as his pulse began to pound.
His footfalls loud in the quiet, he made his way to the door and opened it.
Gen looked beautiful, standing there with her delicate face and long, thick hair. She gave him a raw expression of apology. Then she launched herself into his arms and kissed him.
The shock of it barreled him back a few paces. He carried her with him, not wanting to drop her.
Like a landslide, his mighty defenses fell. His hands speared into her hair. Need roared, blotting out thought and light and sound and worries. He was kissing her hungrily. He’d waited his whole life for this, and his world was never going to be the same, and all he wanted was more.
She smelled better than any scent he’d ever known. She tasted better than anything he’d ever tasted. She felt like softness and femininity and strength.
It seemed like a century since he’d kissed anyone, and the sensory details of it rushed through his bloodstream, making him realize he was starving—
She pulled back, breaking the kiss with a gulp and a rueful laugh. Her chest expanded and contracted.
His unfocused eyes centered on her. Her lips. Her green-brown eyes.
“I just needed to catch my breath.” She smiled.
But the fact that she’d pulled back, that she’d needed to catch her breath froze him. He’d forgotten his own power and size.
What was he doing?
At what point would he have stopped?
He’d lost his mind and his control, which rattled him as much as if he’d come to his senses in the middle of committing a crime he hadn’t planned to commit. He didn’t know or trust himself.
Gently, he reached up and unlocked her hands from behind his neck.
“Sam?” she whispered in confusion.
He paused, unable to resist pressing a kiss to her palm. Releasing her hands, he stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
“For what?”
“For . . .” The hope and concern and bewilderment in her face scrambled his brain. She must think he was crazy.
“For what?” she repeated.
“For kissing you like that just now.”
Her brows lifted. “I loved how you kissed me just now.”
“I didn’t plan to do that.”
“I know you didn’t. I’m the one who flung myself at you.”
“But then I took over.”
“I liked it!”
Not as much as he had. Which was part of the problem. He’d liked it too much. “I wasn’t thinking.”
She pressed her hands into the front pockets of her pants. She looked like a woman who’d just been kissed, and he wanted to carry her away to a cave somewhere and keep her there forever.
“It’s okay not to think every second of every day, Sam. Sometimes it’s nice to feel. You know, to be present in the moment.”
She had no idea what she was talking about. He had to be able to think. Otherwise, he’d focus only on how good kissing her felt. He’d want more. And then he’d fall in love with her. And then life would hand her something challenging, and he’d find her hidden stash of pills. They’d start fighting, and he’d take her to rehab. And then she’d be dead, lying in a coffin with her nice sister and her nice parents looking at him with devastation.
No. No, God. Not again.
His pain decided the matter for him. He could assist her, the way he’d envisioned when he’d invited her over for dinner tonight. But he couldn’t have her as his girlfriend because she had the ability to crush him. He’d spent too long recovering from his year of depression to allow himself to be crushed. “I overstepped,” he said.
“No—”
“I overstepped my rules for myself,” he insisted. “We can’t be more than friends.”
She winced. “Why?”
“It’s just not a good idea.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said kindly.
“I’m not . . . meant for relationships.”
“Of course you are.”
“They’re not good for me.”
“Maybe they haven’t been in the past, but they can be in the future. My past romances, one in particular, ended horribly. But I still have hope.”
His expression tightened.
“We’re both single, with no commitments to other people, right?” she
asked.
“Right.”
“Then I don’t see the harm in kissing now and then.”
He did see the harm. He wasn’t built for superficial dating relationships. He was wired for serious love and commitment. Kissing Gen would be like playing with a stick of lit dynamite. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t lash out. Slanting her head a little, she scrutinized him the way she would a chessboard. “Okay.”
He had an irrational urge to jerk her to him and kiss her again and tell her that he’d already changed his mind.
“Friends?” she asked. “Don’t forget that I purchased your friendship fair and square with olive oil earlier.”
“Friends,” he agreed.
“Good. Thanks for dinner.” Then she disappeared into the night.
He’d done what he’d had to do.
He’d done the wrong thing.
No, he’d done the right thing.
He pressed his palms to the sides of his skull.
He’d told her not to take a fancy to him the day she’d moved in.
Then he’d gone and taken a fancy to her.
Natasha
Luke’s cell phone just died, and this quiet is so much worse than the sound of him talking.
We’re alone.
Genevieve and I are sitting criss-cross applesauce, like we used to at VBS or when watching The Sound of Music in our living room or when we’d play with dolls in our tree house.
“My dad said someone will come get us,” Luke says, looking at the ground. “He said to be patient and wait.”
“How long do you think it will take?” Ben asks. “A few hours?”
“Yeah,” Genevieve says hopefully. “Probably a few hours.”
“It’ll take longer than that.” Sebastian’s eyes are slits, and I know his headache must be terrible.
I glance up at the fallen building on top of us. The earthquake was so strong and this city is so large. There must be hundreds of crushed buildings just like this one. Crushed roads. Crushed cars.
“How long do you think it will take, Natasha?” Genevieve asks.
“A day?” I say. I try to sound normal even though the thought of being trapped here for a whole day makes me want to cry.
“A day!”
