Chapter 17 Sam
Sam
Who the hell just walked into your house?
The moment Frankie’s eyes connect with mine, I know I’ve fucked up. Her brown orbs are wide and panicked as she stares at me while a plethora of noises echo from her phone. I just about catch random words like “English”, “man”, “hot,” and I’m frozen on the spot just as much as Frankie is.
“Frankie!” someone shouts from her phone, snapping her out of the daze.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Who the hell just walked into your house?”
Snow melts into my collar as I continue cursing myself. I hadn’t even crossed the living room yet, hadn’t realized she was mid-call. They can’t see me, not from this angle, but they’ve bloody well heard me.
Frankie fumbles, scooping up the phone, tilting the camera toward her face like she can somehow erase my voice from their ears. “No one,” she blurts, cheeks flushed. “It’s just… it was the wind. You know. Old house noises.”
I arch a brow at her, biting down on the urge to laugh because she looks ready to spontaneously combust. My jacket drips steadily onto her floor, and I stand there like an intruder in my own life, wondering if staying silent makes this better… or not.
Muffled voices crackle from the phone again. “That was not the wind, Francesca. Unless the wind is British and sounds suspiciously like a man.”
Frankie squeezes her eyes shut for half a second like she’s silently begging the floorboards to swallow her whole. “Mom—”
“Frankie. Honey. Who’s there with you?”
And I should stay quiet. I know I should. But silence feels worse, cowardly somehow, so instead, I step forward, discard my coat, and sit next to Frankie on her sofa. “Hey, Mrs. Thompson. I’m Sam Nicholas. I live across the street from your daughter.”
Faces crowd the screen. One older, worry etched across her brow, but unmistakably Frankie’s mom, they have the same eyes. The other is younger, grinning so similarly to Frankie, I’m guessing her sister.
The older woman exhales, pressing a hand to her chest. “So there is someone with you.” Her voice is soft, scolding wrapped in motherly relief.
The grinning one snorts. “Knew it. I knew there was a guy.”
I clear my throat, aware that Frankie is sitting bolt upright beside me, her hand creeping toward mine like she might throttle me at any second. “Our power went out, so I figured I’d bring over coffee and food. Didn’t mean to crash family time.”
The grinning face leans closer to the camera, eyes narrowing in mock interrogation. “Coffee and food, huh? Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
Frankie huffs and buries her face in her free hand. “Please stop talking.”
Her mom frowns, but her mouth softens into something gentler. “Well… thank you, Sam Nicholas. For looking out for her. I’m Cynthia Thompson, Francesa’s mother, and this is her sister, Ivy.”
I wave and smile. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
Frankie’s fingers are still clamped tight around mine, nails pressing crescents into my skin.
She’s holding on like I’m either her lifeline or her hostage; I’m not sure which.
My instinct is to squeeze back, to let her know I’m not going anywhere, but I force myself still.
I kind of just inserted myself into the situation without asking or anything, and now I’m feeling a little silly.
Why did I do that? What if she doesn’t want me to meet them right now?
Cynthia gives me a polite nod, though her eyes keep darting to Frankie, like she’s trying to read between every line of what’s happening off camera. Ivy, on the other hand, looks downright gleeful, chin propped in her palm as if she’s settling in for the show.
“So,” Ivy says, dragging the word out, “Sam Nicholas, who lives across the street… how long exactly have you been ‘looking out for her’?”
Frankie lifts her head just enough to shoot her sister a death glare. “Ivy.”
“Two days,” I answer before I can stop myself, which earns me another bone-crushing squeeze of her hand. Hostage then. Her eyes fly to mine, wide with disbelief, and I fight down the urge to laugh at how utterly betrayed she looks.
“Two days,” Ivy repeats, her grin practically feral.
“Fuck my life,” Frankie mutters under her breath.
“Don’t cuss. Your nephew is listening,” Ivy scolds, angling the phone down toward a crib, where a tiny baby lies, bundled in more blankets than I thought possible, his fist twitching in sleep.
Frankie softens instantly, her shoulders dropping as she leans closer. “Oh my god, he’s gotten so much bigger.” Her voice shifts, hushed and aching with affection, and for the first time since I sat down, she forgets about her death grip on my hand.
Ivy’s grin widens, smug and triumphant. “He’s perfect. Unlike your manners.”
I have something on the tip of my tongue about her sister’s manners, but I hold it back, knowing that’ll likely end up with an elbow to the ribs.
Instead, I watch the way Frankie leans closer, her face softening as she coos over the baby.
The teasing falls away, replaced by adoration and love for her family.
There’s a tenderness in her I’ve only glimpsed until now, but I bet she doesn’t realize how freely she cares about people, me included.
Ivy leans so close to the camera that her grin nearly fills the screen. “Sam, I really need to know more about you. What’s your deal? Are you single? Employed? Serial killer? Because if you hurt my sister, I swear, I’ll hunt you down, storm or no storm.”
Frankie chokes on air, but Ivy’s already firing again. “Also, what are your intentions? Is this a Hallmark fling, or are we talking long-term potential? Oh, and can you cook? Because Frankie burns toast at least twice a week.”
I blink, caught somewhere between amusement and sheer panic, trying to decide which question to even attempt answering first. “I, uh,” I do not know where to start, but I can see how similar they are as sisters with their rapid questions.
“Ivy, shut up,” Frankie whisper-hisses, her cheeks flushing.
“It’s okay.” I take a breath. “To answer your questions, Ivy. My deal is I moved here six months ago. I’m single and a writer.
I’m not a serial killer, though I do intend to write one in the future, but I have no intention of hurting your sister.
I can cook a mean beef wellington, and it’s something I’d like to do for Frankie,” I turn to face Frankie to see her mouth open and wholly focused on me, “if she’ll let me. ”
The quiet around us all feels like someone hit the pause button, but the beautiful girl beside me doesn’t move, so I place my finger under her jaw and gently push it closed. “Most unladylike of you, Miss Bennet.”
“Oh my god,” Ivy squeals through the phone. “Did he just reference your favorite book, Franks?”
Now she blushes that shade of crimson I saw over and over last night when we were together. She doesn’t take her eyes off mine, but nods to her sister anyway.
“Well, that sounds lovely, dear. What do you write?” Cynthia asks.
“He’s S.B. Taylor, Mom,” Frankie answers for me, and the response I get from her mom is very similar to that I got from Frankie a few days ago: excitement and awe.
I answer all the questions she throws my way, when’s the next book, who inspired characters, yada yada, and when I look to the girl holding the phone, I say simply, “I’m not sure I’ll live up to all of your expectations, Mrs. Thompson. ”
Her mother says something about calling her Cynthia, but I’m a little distracted because Frankie tilts her head the smallest fraction, cataloguing me.
. It’s disarming. I’d rather thought she’d laugh or roll her eyes, anything that would let me retreat behind sarcasm, but instead she just sits there holding me in place, making it impossible to look anywhere else.
Before I can work out what to do with the weight of her stare, another voice cuts in, deeper and distinctly male.
“Did you get through to Frankie, honey?” A man leans into frame, broad-shouldered, hair silvering. His gaze finds his daughter first, then shifts to me, brows lifting. “Well, there she is. And who’s the guy on the sofa?”
Frankie lurches upright like she’s been caught sneaking in after curfew. “Dad, this is… this is Sam. He lives across the street.”
“Hi Sam, nice to meet you. I’m Thatcher, Frankie’s dad.”
“Sir.” I nod. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
“None of that ‘sir’. Thatcher will do fine.”
Her mom’s voice comes in next. “Frankie, sweetheart, the news says flights should be back online by tonight. We’ll check for you here as well, but if the storm’s cleared, you should be able to get home tomorrow at the latest.”
Tonight. Tomorrow. It doesn’t matter when, but that is a stark reminder that this isn’t something I should be counting on as permanent.
She’s going to see her family, and I will not let my presence change that.
The little cocoon we’ve been in, the storm, the dark, the way her hand has stayed wrapped around mine, is already fraying at the edges, just as the snow outside will melt eventually.
And the thought of it breaking open, of stepping back into whatever life waits on the other side, is a stark reminder that I’m not fully a part of her world, and this is short-lived.
I force myself to move, standing before I can think better of it. Frankie’s gaze flicks up, her brow creased, but I can’t hold it for long. “I’ll give you some privacy with your family,” I manage, my voice uneven. “I’ll just… be in the kitchen.”
I scoop up the bag of groceries as though that’s the reason I’m leaving, the reason my pulse is stuttering, and retreat.
Bread and fresh farm eggs I bought before Christmas set neatly on her counter, a thermos unscrewed, the kind of small tasks I can hide inside while I wait for the ache in my chest to ease.