Chapter Seven | Sam
Chapter Seven
Sam
Sleep was impossible. My body hummed with unfinished business, every nerve ending aware that Gus was just one floor below, probably lying awake too. The memory of his mouth on my finger sent heat pooling low in my belly.
I pushed off the covers and padded to the beverage station. Empty—I'd finished my chamomile stash this morning before the rehearsal disaster. The kitchen would have tea. Just grab some bags and retreat to my room. Simple.
Except nothing with Gus was simple anymore.
The inn was dead silent as I crept downstairs, the old stairs creaking under my bare feet despite my attempts at stealth. Soft light spilled from the kitchen doorway.
Gus stood at the sink, clearly having given up on sleep too, shoulders rigid as he attacked the already-spotless counter with unnecessary force. He wore black joggers and a faded thermal long-sleeve that clung to his torso, highlighting the tension in his muscles.
"Can't sleep either?"
He spun around, his defensive posture relaxing when he saw me. His gaze swept over me, lingering a moment before returning to my face.
"Kitchen needed more cleaning."
"At one-thirty in the morning?"
"Better than staring at my ceiling thinking about—" He stopped himself, jaw working.
"About what?"
"You know exactly what." His voice dropped, rough with want. "About having you in my arms. About the sounds you made when I was kissing your neck. About what other sounds I could draw from you if you'd let me."
My breath caught. "Gus—"
"I know. Tomorrow's the wedding. You're leaving Sunday.
This is complicated and messy and the logistics couldn't be worse.
" He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in ways that shouldn't be attractive but were.
"But I can't get you out of my damn head.
And I don't think you came down here just for tea. "
He was right. I'd known he'd be here. Some part of me had counted on it.
"I came for tea," I said anyway, clearing my throat, needing to maintain some pretense of control.
"Cabinet above the coffee maker." His voice was carefully neutral now, but his eyes stayed hot. "Though if you really want to not sleep, I have a better idea."
I raised an eyebrow.
"There's a haunted house in town. Fright Night. Still running for Halloween weekend." A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his face. "Unless you're scared."
"I am definitely not scared," I said with more confidence than I felt.
"Of fake zombies and rubber masks?"
"You seem like the type who'd scream at every jump scare."
"I do not scream."
His grin widened. "Oh? Prove it."
This was reckless. Irresponsible. The wedding was in less than fifteen hours. I should be sleeping, reviewing my timeline, checking my phone for vendor confirmations, doing literally anything other than sneaking out with the chef I'd been grinding against in this very kitchen hours ago.
"Give me two minutes to get ready."
I raced upstairs, pulled on socks and sneakers, grabbed my coat. When I came back down, Gus was waiting by the side door, jacket thrown over his thermal shirt.
"Ready for some terror?" he asked.
"Bring it on."
We slipped out like teenagers breaking curfew, both of us grinning at the absurdity. The October night was sharp enough to steal breath, but Gus's truck was warm when we climbed in, heat blasting from the vents.
"This is insane," I said as he pulled onto the dark mountain road.
"Probably." He glanced over, that half-smile making my stomach flip. "When's the last time you did something reckless just for the fun of it?"
I thought about it. Really thought about it. Before the business consumed everything. Before my ex made me feel like spontaneity was childish. "I honestly can't remember."
"Then we're overdue."
I rolled down the window despite the cold, letting the wind whip through my hair. The mountain air smelled of pine and frost and possibility.
"You should wear it down more often," Gus said, his eyes on the road but aware of my every movement.
"It gets in the way when I'm working."
"Not everything has to be about work, Sam."
"Says the man who was scrubbing his already-clean kitchen at one-thirty in the morning."
"That wasn't about work." He glanced at me, heat in his expression. "That was about working off frustration before I did something stupid like march upstairs and knock on your door."
"And if you had?"
"You wouldn't have gotten any sleep."
The promise in his voice made me squeeze my thighs together. The rest of the drive passed in charged silence, both of us hyperaware of each other in the small cab.
The haunted house was set up in an old barn on the edge of town, harsh colored spotlights turning everything garish. A line of teenagers waited outside, their laughter sharp in the cold air. The hand-painted sign promised "TERROR BEYOND YOUR WILDEST NIGHTMARES!" in dripping red letters.
"We're definitely too old for this," I observed.
"Speak for yourself." But he moved closer as a group of rowdy kids jostled behind us, his body blocking theirs from bumping into me. The protective gesture made something warm unfurl in my chest.
The ticket booth kid—maybe nineteen with elaborate zombie makeup—barely looked up from his phone. "Twenty bucks. No refunds if you chicken out. Say 'mercy' if you need the early exit. Next group enters in two minutes."
Inside, the barn reeked of fog machine mist and rubber masks. Strobe lights turned everything choppy and surreal. A recorded loop of screams played from crackling speakers that buzzed with distortion. My sneakers stuck to the floor—spilled soda, I hoped.
The first room was medical horror—an actor in a blood-stained coat lunged from behind a gurney, surgical tools clanging. I jumped backward into Gus, his arm coming around my waist automatically.
"I've got you," he murmured against my ear, his breath warm on my neck.
The second room, a morgue where bodies sat up in drawers with mechanical jerks, had me gripping his jacket, my fingers twisted in the leather. His hand covered mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles.
By the third room—a clown maze with mirrors and that awful circus music—I was practically climbing him.
"Not a screamer, huh?" he teased.
"Shut up."
Then came the chainsaw.
The roar erupted from nowhere, deafening in the confined space. My logical brain knew there was no blade, but logic meant nothing when a masked figure burst through a hidden panel three feet away. I launched myself at Gus with a shriek that would've been embarrassing if I'd had any dignity left.
He caught me easily, lifting me off the ground as my legs wrapped around his waist. The chainsaw actor moved past to terrorize the next group. We were suddenly alone in a dark corner, me clinging to him like my life depended on it, both of us breathing hard.
"Sam."
I looked down into his eyes. His pupils were wide, barely a ring of green visible. His hands spanned my waist, holding me steady but also holding me against him, where I could feel exactly how affected he was by our position.
"Tell me to put you down," he said roughly.
"No."
His grip tightened. "Tell me this is just adrenaline."
"It's not."
"Sam—"
I kissed him. No hesitation this time, no second-guessing. His mouth was hot and demanding, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that matched my own. I grabbed his hair, holding him where I wanted him as I ground against him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
"Not here," he gasped against my mouth. "You deserve better than—"
"I don't care about better." I nipped his lower lip, felt his whole body shudder. "I'm tired of waiting, tired of being careful. I want you. I've wanted you since you brought me dinner and looked at me like you actually saw me. Not the wedding planner, not the perfectionist. Me."
He kissed me harder, walking us backward until my back hit the wall. The fake screams and chainsaw sounds faded to nothing. There was only his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, the solid weight of him pressing between my thighs.
"Get a room!" Some teenager yelled, and we broke apart, both flushed and disheveled.
"Come on." Gus set me down but kept hold of my hand. "We're leaving."
We ran through the rest of the maze, past witches and zombies I barely registered. Outside, the cold air did nothing to cool the fire under my skin.
In the truck, Gus drove with single-minded focus while I tried not to combust from wanting him.
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw clenched like he was fighting for control.
When his other hand found my thigh, thumb stroking through my jeans in a rhythm that made thinking impossible, I nearly came undone right there.
"If you keep doing that, we're not going to make it back to the inn," I warned.
"We'll make it." But his hand tightened on my thigh. "I want you in a bed, Sam. Want to take my time with you."
At the inn, we barely made it through the side door before he pressed me against the wall, kissing me breathless.
"Your room," he said against my lips.
"Too far."
"Sam—"
I fumbled for the drawstring of his pants. "Please. I can't—I need—"
He caught my hands, held them still though I could feel the effort it cost him. "Not against a wall. Not our first time." His voice was wrecked. "I want to see you. All of you. Want to taste every inch of you. Your room. Now."
We stumbled up the stairs, trying to be quiet and failing spectacularly when I tripped and he caught me, both of us dissolving into muffled laughter. At my door, my hands shook so badly it took three tries to fit the key in the lock.
The second the door closed behind us, we crashed together. I yanked his jacket off, attacked the hem of his shirt, quickly pulling it over his head with his help. He was slower, deliberate, running his hands under my sweatshirt, palms hot on my bare skin.
"I wanted to hate you." I gasped as his thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts through my bra. "You were so arrogant, so stubborn—"