5. Sam
CHAPTER FIVE
sam
At least I don’t shovel cow shit for a living , Sam thinks for the twentieth time in about two minutes. God, why did I say that?
The snobby, self-entitled words are branded on her soul, absolutely searing. Any ounce of superiority she thought she had over the jerks in her office is officially gone. She’s an asshole, same as them, looking down on the rest of the world.
Except she really hopes that’s not true.
It was that stupid word. Fancy. Or maybe not so much the word, but the mocking way Cooper had said it. As if the thought of her in the banking world was a joke. As if she didn’t belong. In hindsight, it’s clear he meant it as nothing more than a teasing jab. He had no way to know how deep the knife would cut. But the moment he said it, she heard another voice in the back of her mind—the one she’s spent the better part of six years trying her best to forget.
You think you’re my girlfriend?
You’re a fucking charity case, Sam.
A pity lay.
And honestly, I’m running out of shits to give you.
Spencer’s words echo across the void, still as sharp as the day he said them. She doesn’t miss him. She doesn’t even hate him anymore. It’s not him , but what he said that sticks with her, because the jabs taught her an invaluable lesson. That she could build her life around someone, that she could give him every bit of herself, could make him her world, and in less than a minute he could take it all away. Men aren’t dependable enough to act as a foundation. The only thing a woman can count on in this world is herself.
Sam closes her eyes, scrunching her face up tight.
Stay focused.
She buries the memories. She blinks them away.
With her arms crossed, she stares hard at the closet full of Emily’s clothes and suddenly wonders what the hell she’s going to wear. Swapping places meant swapping everything—wardrobe included. And while she grew up in Georgia, the frilly, lacy, ruffled trappings of a Southern belle like her sister make her physically ill. She can’t remember if she’s always been this way, or if New York just vaporized the sweet tea from her blood. Give her a power suit. Give her stilettos. Give her a pencil skirt over a peplum blouse any day of the week, a smoky eye over smocking. That soft, feminine look works for Emily. It works for a lot of women, and good on them, because the absolute last thing Sam wants to do is to slip on an approachable sundress and suddenly appear like someone who might actually offer to give a lost tourist directions to the subway when she’s running five minutes late for a meeting and it’s their own fault for not being able to figure out a freaking grid system. It’s not that hard!
God. I really have turned into an asshole.
She groans, grabs a muted floral cover-up—the only beige thing she can find—and makes a silent promise. Next week, she’s going to help one of those poor lost souls get to Times Square if it kills her. And she’s going to buy a whole bag of groceries for the homeless vet who lives outside her building. She and Winnie usually take turns giving him food from the apartment on their way out, but he deserves more. And…she might even feed a pigeon.
Nope. I’ve gone too far.
Sam slips into a pair of beaded flip-flops and glances back toward the living room, envisioning the cowboy waiting patiently on the other side of the wall.
I probably owe him another apology while I’m at it.
She sighs. The only thing she hates more than actually being wrong is copping to it. Losing gives her hives.
Being gracious isn’t a crime, Samantha.
It’s her mom’s voice this time and she rolls her eyes. The woman is a perfect Southern belle—a stay-at-home mother turned flower-shop owner who runs the local garden club and always has an ear in the town gossip. A true steel magnolia. Soft and feminine and the bedrock of the family. And while she’s been trying to turn Sam into a lady her entire life, the lessons never stuck. As if they were two halves of one whole, Em got all the magnolias and Sam got all the steel.
She groans.
The flowers on this dress mock her as she yanks open the door.
You’re not Emily , they whisper. You’re not the sweet, kind, strong, loving woman who is supposed to be wearing these clothes.
She straightens her spine and lifts her chin.
No, I’m definitely not.
Sam spots Cooper across the hall. He’s waiting with his arms crossed over his broad chest and one knee bent, his foot up against the wall. That white T-shirt strains across his muscles. Worn light-wash jeans hug his thighs. Boots poke out from underneath the hems, and his bright red hair is in wild disarray without the cowboy hat to hold it down. It’s not messy, though—it’s effortlessly tousled, mussed up in the sexiest way as loose strands curl over his eyes and around his ears, just waiting to be smoothed back. But it’s the shit-eating grin on his face that stops her cold. One glance into his devilish eyes and any thought of being the bigger person goes out the window.
“You haven’t by chance seen a cowboy hat lying around anywhere, have you?”
Sam reaches to the side and snatches it off the dresser before nestling it onto her head with a grin. “What? This old thing?”
A spark lights his gaze. “It looks good on you.”
“Maybe I’ll keep it.”
“It’s bad luck to take another man’s hat,” he says. That dimple digs a little deeper into his cheek. “Unless, of course, you’re planning to keep me too.”
Sam scowls and marches across the room to plop the offending item on his head. “Not a chance.”
“Aww, I think there’s a chance, Cuj,” he counters as he resettles the hat on his head, and dammit if the sight of it doesn’t twist her insides. She shouldn’t have given it back. It’s like sprinkles on a cupcake—a little extra touch that makes him all the more delicious. “Breakfast?”
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s go.”
The moment they step out onto the pier, he takes her by the hand and twirls her around until she lands pressed up against his side with their clamped fingers against her hip.
The first thing she notices is the sheer size of his hand.
The second is a little flutter deep in the pit of her stomach.
And the third is an electric bolt of red-hot rage.
Oh, hell no.
A flutter?
Is that seriously happening right now?
A flutter!
Hell. No.
She doesn’t do feelings. One-night stands? Sure. The occasional fling? Yeah. Friends with benefits? Absolutely. But feelings? It’s a hard line—one Sam’s not about to cross anytime soon.
She tries to rip her hand free, but he’s made of freaking iron. The arm wrapped around her waist doesn’t even budge. Her rage intensifies.
So does the flutter.
Grrrrr!
She tugs again. He squeezes her fingers, completely unperturbed. “Someone might be watching.”
It’s a fact.
But the way he said it also makes it sound like a dare.
She’s never hated her competitive spirit more than she does in this instant, but even so, she relaxes against him and lets him guide her forward. He smirks and flexes his hand. The tip of his thumb slides precariously close to the bottom edge of her bra.
It does NOT make her heart lurch in her chest.
No way.
Not even a little.
“One inch higher,” she hisses through her forced smile, “and I’m hip checking you off this pier. I know how much you love to swim.”
He leans close enough to brush her cheek with his nose. Warm breath hits her skin, and a trail of goose bumps ripples down her spine. “If I go down, Cuj, I’m taking you with me.”
She shrugs. “You can try…”
This earns her a dubious glance. Which, okay, yeah, he’s practically a giant compared to her and it would take him little effort to toss her like a rag doll into the ocean, but there’s one attack that can down even the burliest of men.
Sam reaches subtly with her free hand.
She prepares her thumb and her pointer finger.
When he’s least expecting it, she strikes.
His ass is shockingly firm—the man is a freaking Adonis—but she still manages to grab a sliver of loose skin through his jeans. Freshly manicured nails at the ready, she pinches with everything she’s got.
Cooper yelps.
Actually yelps.
The hand around her waist snatches back as he jolts in pained surprise. Sam takes the opening to dash out of reach. “…but you have to catch me first.”
With that, she’s off.
He recovers almost instantly, but she’s shockingly quick, and shockingly scrappy. Halfway down the pier, she flings her flip-flop up, snatches it midair, and chucks it over her shoulder. Then grins when a gruff oof fills the air.
I hope it hit him right in his smug freaking fa—
An arm suddenly snakes around her waist. She cries out as he sweeps her clean off her feet as if she weighs nothing at all. A hand digs into her hip, another curls under her legs, and before she knows it, she’s somehow been flipped over his shoulder with her ass precariously close to his face.
“Put me down,” she demands haughtily. At the moment, attitude is all she has.
He barks out a laugh. “Not on your life.”
“Put me down,” she repeats, but this time she slams her fists against his back, kicks her feet, and squirms as she’s never squirmed before.
His stride doesn’t even falter.
“Put me down!”
She goes for his butt again, but he bounces his shoulder to dislodge her hand. “It’s adorable you thought that might work a second time.”
“Cooper,” she demands.
“Yes?”
She doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s grinning. The arrogant lilt of his words is enough.
They stop at the edge of the pier.
Crystal-blue water glitters below.
He snakes his hands up her thighs, reaching for her waist. She knows exactly what he’s planning to do, so she twists his shirt in her fists until she’s got a secure grip. She’s not going down without a fight.
“You don’t want to do this,” she warns.
“I really think I do.”
Fingers clench around the small of her waist. He lifts up, and for a moment she’s weightless, then—
“I leave you alone for twelve hours,” someone calls from behind, the sound filled with gentle reprimand.
They both freeze.
Sam only met the producer three days ago, but she recognizes Nina’s voice even before she lifts her head to find the woman fifteen feet behind them on the pier dressed in a black minidress and combat boots. She has her hip cocked to the side and her arms crossed. A bemused expression lights her brown eyes. “What the hell are you two doing?”
Sam opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Cooper, too, is noticeably silent. An awkward moment passes before Nina arches a brow.
“Is this some sort of weird foreplay?” She narrows her eyes, taking them in. And then shakes her head. “You know what? Never mind. I saw the dream suite. I’m not sure I want to know what weird shit you two might be up to now that I no longer have to film it.”
Again with the dream suite… That’s the third time the producer has mentioned it—what happened in there? Sam would have bet money that her sister refrained from that level of intimacy with any of the contestants during the show, especially with Jake nearby, but with the way Nina is talking, she’s suddenly not so sure. Part of her is impressed— Go, Em! —but a far more annoying part of her is undeniably intrigued. Emily is practically the definition of vanilla, which means if something kinky went down, it was because of the man currently holding her like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder.
Just like that, the pesky flutter returns.
He slept with my sister.
He had what was apparently a very memorable, totally insane, off-camera night SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER! STOP FUCKING FLUTTERING!
Cooper chooses this moment to finally lower her to the ground, and by lower she means let go just enough that she slides down the front of his body, every inch of her against every inch of him, feeling every ridge of his washboard abs on the way down. The moment her feet hit the pier, he clamps his arm around her waist again and digs his fingers possessively into her hip bone.
The flurry turns to a frenzy.
I’m supposed to be Emily.
We’re supposed to be in love.
He’s supposed to be touching me like this.
Get your head on straight!
“We were on our way to breakfast,” Cooper explains.
Just to show herself she can, Sam grabs Cooper’s hand and pulls his arm farther across her stomach so he’s holding her from behind with her entire back pressed against his entire front. She threads their fingers together and holds him in place so his corded forearm rests just below her breasts, close enough she can feel the heat from his skin. Then she gives Nina a wink. “We worked up an appetite.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to know,” the producer murmurs offhandedly, as if uninterested, yet her gaze lingers on their clasped hands. A little spark Sam can’t quite place flashes in Nina’s dark eyes before she grins. “Though I guess it can’t be too salacious if you’re out of your room already. Most couples take at least twenty-four hours before showing their faces in the bright light of day. One even spent their entire five-day vacation in the suite. It’s why we left your schedule clear for today.”
An uneasy feeling stirs in Sam’s gut at the implication. Cooper must feel the same because he wraps his other arm around her and squeezes her tight, nestling his chin against the top of her head. The loving embrace is a silent show of unity—it’s also annoyingly comforting.
“She wanted to get room service,” he explains, then dips his head closer to nip teasingly at her ear. Heat ricochets down her spine, flamed further by the deep rumble that vibrates against her back as he chuckles softly, and then whispers, “Insatiable girl.”
Before Sam can react, he pulls back and lifts his head toward Nina.
“But we have our whole lives, after all. And this is only my second time seeing the ocean. I begged her to explore.”
Sam glances up at him.
Is that true? It’s only his second time seeing the ocean? It makes sense, with him living on a landlocked ranch. Still, she grew up on the beach. Mornings fishing on her father’s boat. Afternoons splashing in the waves. Evenings sneaking out to drink beers by the light of the moon. It’s hard to imagine growing up anywhere else. The very idea makes her want to learn more.
And that’s a dangerous, dangerous proposition.
Rules , Sam immediately realizes, hating the way her heart has momentarily softened. We need some fucking rules.
Rules will take emotion out of the equation. Sam is a businesswoman and this is a business arrangement. A transaction, plain and simple. She doesn’t know why she didn’t think of it sooner. Rules, a contract, some sort of guideline—it will give them characters to play, a script to follow, just enough separation to fortify her mind against his touch. If she and Cooper are going to survive the next five days together, they need to sit down, negotiate the terms, draft up an exit strategy, and remove any and all questions from the equation. She wants a clean and clear reminder that every time he gets too close, it’s for a game, a cover-up, and none of this is real.
Rules.
Sam grins.
It’s a genius idea. So genius, Sam is too busy congratulating herself to fully register what Nina says next.
“You want to explore?” the producer asks, eying them up and down. “Why don’t you come with us? The network booked Trish, Fred, and me a yacht for the day as a little end-of-season treat. It’s too big for just the three of us anyway. You’re more than welcome to join. It’d be fun to spend a little time with you both outside of the show.”
As nice as the invitation is, Sam can’t think of anything worse than being stuck on a yacht with her accidental fiancé and the television crew they’re trying to fool. They need to go to breakfast. They need to establish a game plan. And then she really, really needs to get her phone from the front desk.
Unfortunately, before she has time to say any of this, the cowboy tightens his arm around her waist and chimes, “We’d love to.”