Chapter 8
CHAPTER
I have to be honest, I was surprised when I got your text.” Sam lifts a hand, calls the waiter over. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again, especially not to meet for dinner.”
He’s not the only one surprised we’re on a date tonight.
If none of this were happening—I wasn’t being haunted by the past and hadn’t found out he’d investigated me —I would probably never have spoken to him again.
But I need to feel him out more, see if he has anything to do with what’s going on. Keep your enemies near and all . . .
My list of suspects has grown as fast as my paranoia—Ivy, Chief Unger, Father Preston, the man sitting across from me , not to mention the person I should never have told.
After my conversation with Ivy a few days ago, I decided I need to rule them out methodically, one by one, and get to the bottom of this.
Sam orders a bottle of wine, makes some small talk. A few minutes later, the waiter pours us each a glass of pinot noir. I stare at the deep red color, swirling it around, watching the legs streak down the glass.
“So tell me,” I eventually say. “What else did you learn about me from your investigation?”
Sam frowns. “I told you, I didn’t investigate you. I ran a simple report.”
I wave my hand. “Semantics. Tell me what this report contains.”
He shrugs. “Basic background data.”
“Where does the data come from?”
“The NCIC database—National Crime Information Center.”
I’ve been relatively calm since we sat down, even knowing I might be sitting across from a man who holds the keys to my future, but the mention of the word crime makes my blood pump faster. It swishes through my ears, leaving me instantly off-kilter.
I swallow. “And what does ‘basic background data’ contain? Do you now know the PIN to my ATM card? What about my bra size?”
“It just lists things the police department would want to know about someone—if you’ve ever been arrested or had a warrant issued, prior addresses, stolen property reported, known gang affiliations. For you, the only thing that popped up was a list of prior addresses.”
“Ah. And that’s how you found out I grew up in Louisiana?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, Sam. If you’ve known I grew up there since shortly after we met, why didn’t you call me out when I told you I was born and raised in New York?”
He shrugs. “I assumed you had your reasons. You don’t talk about your family, so I thought maybe you had some difficult memories from that part of your life and preferred to not speak about it.”
“Difficult” is putting it mildly.
Sam gestures to my forehead. “I didn’t push for the same reason I didn’t push when I asked you how you got that faint scar on your hairline and you ignored me.
You have a way of getting your point across without saying much, Elizabeth.
” Sam sips his wine, watches me over the glass.
“ Is that what it is? You don’t want to talk about the past, so it’s easier not to open the door at all? ”
I look away, debate how to navigate this. “My mother’s an alcoholic. So, yes, it’s a topic I prefer not to delve into.”
Sam reaches across the table and takes my hand. He squeezes and waits until I meet his eyes again. “Thank you for sharing that just now. I truly am sorry for running you. It wasn’t cool.”
“No, it wasn’t. I feel violated. An unspoken trust between us has been broken.”
He hangs his head, rubs the back of his neck. If he’s full of shit, this man should get the Academy Award for feigning guilt. “I understand.”
I count to ten in my head, try my best to keep focused, and take a deep breath. “Look at me, Sam.”
He stares straight into my eyes.
“I prefer when someone has questions that they go straight to the source. Is there anything you want to know about my past? Anything at all that your background investigation didn’t tell you?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t need to know about your childhood with your mother or anything from your past you don’t want to discuss.”
I watch him deliberate on saying more, the debate playing out all over his face.
Fear of what will come out of his mouth next prickles up my spine, makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.
Is he Hannah Greer or just a cop whose job has made him suspicious about everyone, and he thinks it’s okay to investigate every woman he meets?
After thirty seconds that feel more like thirty minutes, he takes a deep breath.
“Bottom line, I like the woman you are today, and I’d like more with you than just the occasional hookup.
You’ve made it pretty clear that isn’t what you want, but you’re asking me for honesty, and that’s the honest truth.
I like you, Elizabeth. You’re smart, funny, independent, and all of that is wrapped in one hell of a package on the outside.
I think there’s something here, something more than just great chemistry in bed.
Though if my choices are keeping things casual or nothing at all, I won’t push, and we can keep things the way they are. ”
My eyes jump back and forth between his, searching for any sign of insincerity. But I find none. Sam is telling the truth. I’m 99 percent sure. I should be relieved, but it just means the devil is someone I don’t know intimately, at least not anymore.
“I realize that today is about groveling,” he continues. “And probably tomorrow and the next day, too. Because I fucked up. Royally. But if I expect to ever earn your trust again, I need to come clean about where I am with this.”
I’m not sure he could earn my trust again.
I have issues that have nothing to do with what Sam did.
To me, trust is like glass. Once it’s broken, even if you glue all the shards back together again, it’s never the same.
On some level, I can almost understand why Sam would do what he did.
Hell, I’ve googled men I’ve dated before—isn’t that almost the same thing?
I just didn’t have access to the database that Sam does.
But even putting trust issues aside, things inevitably get messy when two people want different things from a relationship.
Though . . . my gut tells me I should keep him close a bit longer—just in case—even if it’s wrong to string him along.
“I need some time to think about things, Sam. We’ve hit a hurdle I’m not sure I can get over, much less keep running forward. ”
He nods. “I understand. Take all the time you need.”
The rest of the evening goes by pretty much pain-free. We share a meal, talk about New York City politics and the effect it’s having on the police department and school funding, and pretty soon the waiter brings the check.
Sam opens the padfolio. “I know you like to split the bill, which kills me. Will you at least let me pay for it this time as part of my apology?”
I shake my head and pull three twenties out of my wallet. “I’ll let you put in an extra five since I don’t have change. How’s that?”
He smiles, plucks his American Express from his wallet, and stuffs the cash in. “It’s a start. I’ll take what I can get.”
The waiter comes a minute later and disappears with the card. While we wait for him to return, Sam’s phone buzzes. It’s face down on the table.
He picks it up and swipes. “It’s my captain, reminding me to get the paperwork in to block off my vacation time. The old-timers get first pick, before the new guys. I always forget.”
I nod. “My vacations are when the university tells me they are.”
“How long is the summer session?”
“It runs through the end of July. But I get a short break in about a week.”
“You have any plans? I should be able to take some time off. Maybe we can go away to the Caribbean or something? Work on rebuilding the trust I’ve lost while sipping margaritas.” Sam sees my face and holds up a hand. “That’s not exactly giving you time. Forget I mentioned it.”
I smile. “I’ve actually been kicking around the idea of going home.”
“To Louisiana?”
I nod. “It’s been a while.”
Outside, I walk to the curb, lift an arm to flag down a cab.
“You want to go to your place or mine?” Sam asks.
“I think I’m going to head home by myself tonight.”
Sam’s shoulders slump, yet he nods. “All right. Can I call you in a few days?”
I force a smile. “Sure.”