16. Samantha
Chapter sixteen
Samantha
I’m living life.
It’s been three weeks since I started working with Movie Boy, and I’m starting to believe that I’ve earned the money he gave me in advance. The guilt of being handed something has long disappeared. This time, only the feeling of fulfillment remains.
What do I do?
Each day, I show up on time and give the job my hundred and ten percent. I create truly magnificent spreadsheets, projections, and financial systems for Stan Holt Productions. I bring Stan a cup of hot coffee anytime I make my green tea, especially since he stocked the kitchen at the office with my favorite blends from the local bistro. I help manage Lesley and his timelines as the projects around the office space carry on.
In only a matter of a few weeks, Lesley transformed the place with new drywall and modern light fixtures. The painting has yet to come, but I can already envision how beautiful it will be. Fresh but rustic all at once.
I pick Ruth up from school every day, sometimes with Stan as a bitchy-faced chaperone, and try to play it cool when I see her wearing my scrunchie. We never talk about it, but she wears it daily. Whenever I see it, I feel this strange pinching sensation in my chest.
Stan and I are friendly. Too friendly. Too… bland. He keeps a respectable distance, never pulls my hair, and do esn’t say rude things like he has no plans for us to fuck. In fact, he swears more around Ruth than he does around me. It makes me feel a bit lonely.
I wonder if I fucked up by asking those questions. It’s making me feel like I am the only one going through this. Is Stan even affected? I hate being the only one going through this turmoil.
On Sunday nights, I have dinner with my parents, sometimes with Lucas, Selena, and the kids, or I visit my uncle and aunt. It leaves Stan to hang out with Ruth. The two of them are slowly becoming as thick as thieves. Right now, she’s watching videos of auditions for Stan’s new project, fascinated as each actor tries to get the part for the role they auditioned for.
I look over at them, smiling as they try to figure out which short film in Stan’s drafts to upload to YouTube. I love watching them interact. She’s by his desk as he types something on his computer. I watch eagerly as his fingers dance across the surface of his keyboard. The way his arms flex when he stretches.
No, I shouldn’t allow myself to get distracted right now. I do not want these thoughts to affect me while he sits with his daughter.
“And your dad taught you these?” Ruth asks as she watches the screen.
“Yes, and now I’m teaching you. Just in case you’re interested in carrying on the family’s torch of film production,” Stan answers.
He keeps talking, but Ruth isn’t listening. She is just happy to be spending time around him. That’s all that matters to her.
I have work to do, but I don’t mind watching them a little longer.
Things are calm for a while… until they aren’t .
“Where is my jerk of a brother?” asks a woman slightly younger than me with a pixie haircut.
I know her. It’s Grace, Stan’s little sister, named after her mother. We didn’t hang out much as kids—the age difference felt so much bigger back then—but I know that unlike her father and brother, she’s into music production, not film. So I guess she’s kind of been the odd child out.
I’d let her in, but Stan and Ruth are still having a bonding moment, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone stop them right now.
“Grace, could I at least help you?” I ask, keeping it casual with a dash of professionalism. Like I said earlier, I’m not familiar with her.
She sucks her teeth and tries to move past me. I step to the side to block her entry into the office. She moves to the opposite side to pass, and I cut her off there, too. “You’ll have to wait until he’s done.”
“Move, Samantha,” Grace growls. “Let me see my brother who’s hiding the fact that he’s a father.”
Oh… did he tell someone else?
Nevertheless, she’s upset, and I can’t let her in.
“Like I said,” I repeat myself, letting my tone darken, “you will have to wait until he’s done. He may be your brother, but he’s my boss, and this is working hours.”
“Did I come at a bad time?”
Someone else walks inside the office behind Grace. I look over her shoulder to see George standing there. I completely forgot that almost a month ago, he promised to come visit. But it’s not the weekend or even the week I expected. Either way, he has a confused look on his face as he sees me exerting my authority and position over Grace. He’s never seen me raise my voice or get this pissed.
Grace sighs. “Oh, whatever, I’ll be by the lake. I’ll see Lucas first.” She starts to walk away. “My brother better be ready to see me when I’m back,” she adds.
“Yes, ma’am,” I give her a salute before settling on George .
I didn’t expect him here at all. He never texted or called me, or alluded to a visit now. I thought I still had time to prepare. I knew it would be uncomfortable seeing him again. But looking at him now, standing in front of me with open arms, makes me realize I may have underestimated just how uncomfortable.
The last man I hugged was Stan, and I practically melted into him. When I raise my arms and step forward into George’s arms, the embrace is plain awkward. My hips stay pushed back, and George pats my back.
Fuck, this is going to be painful.
When we step away, he says, “You should go grab your boss, then we can talk. You almost done for the day?”
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh.
I turn and retreat into the office space. When I face the brown leather couch where Stan and Ruth sit, they stare at me with almost identical expressions on their faces. It’s almost uncanny, and I stifle a chuckle.
“Any chance you both heard all that?” I ask.
“Grace isn’t exactly quiet,” Stan mutters.
My cheek twitches. “No, she isn’t. She’s checking in on Lucas, then she’ll head to the docks, where she’ll wait to deliver your judgment. Oh, and George is outside,” I add quickly.
“Your boyfriend is here?”
My gaze shifts to Ruth, who asked the clarifying question. I wish she hadn’t. Her eyes are narrowed now, and she crosses her arms.
“Yes,” I answer.
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure.”
I’m not going to lie to her, but I’m also not going to tell her I plan on sending him packing before I’ve even broken up with him. When I glance at Stan, the intensity of his gaze scorches my skin. I feel the telltale itch that always comes when his eyes trace over me with that intense, almost displeased look on his face.
I used to wonder if I was allergic to him. It seemed feasible enough at the time. But in the past few weeks, I’ve come to realize that’s not what it is at all .
“Well, I’m getting out of here,” Ruth announces, slapping her thighs as she pushes up from the couch. She marches right past me, avoiding eye contact, and when she gets to the front door, I hear, “People walk past here, fuckface, so move it!” followed by the door slamming behind her.
My eyes widen right as Stan clamps a hand over his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut, and his shoulders shake.
“That was rude,” I say with a chuckle, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from falling into a fit of giggles.
“Oh my God,” Stan practically wheezes before running his hands through his hair. “How did I end up with you all? You’re a fire-breathing dragon, Grace is a rabid dog, and Ruth is me on steroids.”
I smirk and cross my arms before giving a casual shrug. “Seems like you’ve got a type.”
Now his eyes are back on mine, and he’s not laughing anymore. My body warms as his eyes take a leisurely slide from my face down to my feet and then all the way back up.
“Yeah. I do,” he says.
Then he’s standing up, his tall frame striding toward me. His big hand lands on the small of my back, making me squirm in my own skin as we walk side by side to the front door. He rubs his thumb in gentle circles, and I almost cry. I don’t know why. The pressure. The stress. The impending conversation I’m about to face.
Before we turn into the short hallway that leads to the entryway, Stan stops. One finger hooks into the thin leather belt wrapped around my waist. A soft gasp leaves me as I come to a screeching halt and turn to face him.
“Are you okay?” His low voice is rough and gritty as it rumbles in the air between us.
All I can offer back is a nod. “Are you?”
His head tilts, and the motion brings to mind the calculated movements of some sort of apex predator. Reminding me, like he always does, of a lion or panther stalking around a cage. Sleek and powerful and ready to pounce. The way he looks at me sometimes is almost animalistic.
A shiver runs down my spine as he murmurs, “No.”