9. Sam
CHAPTER NINE
sam
When they arrive at the beach for their jet ski tour, Nina is there waiting. The producer offers an overly cheerful wave. Sam does her best not to scowl.
I swear that woman is stalking us.
One afternoon. All she wanted was one afternoon without watchful eyes. One afternoon off. One afternoon with a little bit of distance from the man who is now casually threading his fingers through hers and pulling her closer. His touch is tender, but with a rough edge, his calloused palm scratching in just the right way. It’s impossible not to imagine that gentle scrape against the soft skin of her stomach, those large, commanding fingers dipping low.
Aaaaaand I’m thinking about sex again…
Fuck.
She swallows and straightens her spine. This is the problem with Cooper. He’s too damn hot. He walks inconspicuously into the room and—bam! Her hormones rage. Her imagination cartwheels into dangerous territory. And worse, her heart…twinges. An uncomfortable ache has pinched her chest all morning, and she’s over it.
Screw you, cowboy!
Why did he have to say her name in that deep, sexy rumble that seemed to touch every sensitive part of her? She can still hear him.
They can’t hold you either, Samantha.
Not Cuj.
Not Sam.
Samantha.
Even now, a shiver ripples across her skin. As if feeling it, Cooper glances over. She refuses to meet his questioning gaze. As if it’s not enough for him to have six-pack abs and a jawline cut from diamonds, he’s got to stand there all devilishly handsome and wax poetic about how she deserves more out of life. Then, THEN, he walks around with a camera looking all artistic and brooding and shit.
My god.
A girl can only take so much.
You cannot go there, Sam. Think of Em. Think of her business. She’s depending on you not to screw this up. Well, more than you already have.
It’s the kick in the ass she needs.
“Hi, Nina!” Sam waves back politely. Then she grabs Cooper’s arm with her free hand and leans in to give his obnoxiously firm bicep a hug. It’s the worst. Not really. But—ugh. “How are you?”
“Good. Sort of. Actually, I’m bored to death with Trish and Fred, and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I joined you guys for the jet ski tour.”
“Not at all,” Cooper immediately supplies, ever the gentleman.
Asshole.
“Great!” Nina’s entire face brightens. Her dark brown gaze slides to the side. “The tour guide said we only had two jet skis reserved and it was too late to change that, but you two don’t mind sharing, right?”
Sam is too busy trying to shoot lasers from her eyes to answer.
Cooper squeezes her hand. “Right.”
“Perfect.”
The tour guide steps forward. He’s middle aged and bald with the most infectious smile she’s ever seen, white teeth bright against his golden-brown skin. He seems like a nice guy, the sort to jump from an airplane at the drop of a hat just for the thrill. Too bad she’s too busy imagining how to rip every one of Nina’s limbs from her body to pay attention to a single thing he says. A continuous stream of curse words simmers in the back of Sam’s thoughts, the metaphorical current surging as they wade into the water and climb onto their jet skis. Cooper grabs her by the waist and heaves her easily into the seat as if she weighs nothing at all. Lightning strikes deep in her abdomen, a sudden flash of heat.
Kill me now.
The last thing Sam needs is the freedom to wrap her arms around Cooper’s torso for the next two hours and accidentally feel up every inch of those rock-hard abs. Yes, they’re wearing life jackets. No, that will not stop her traitorous hands.
She launches herself into the driver’s seat and grips the handles.
Much better.
Except, no.
No. No. No.
Cooper settles in behind her, close enough she can feel a hefty bulge between her ass cheeks. He drops his hands to his meaty thighs for a second, then hovers them on either side of her waist, before finally reaching forward to grip the handles too, as if that’s better, safer.
It’s not.
His whole front presses against her whole back. His arms stretch alongside hers. His fingers mold around the outer edges of her hands. He’s like her own personal cocoon. Warm breath brushes against the back of her neck. Goose bumps rise along her skin. The area burns with awareness that his lips are right there , and—
Abort.
ABORT.
“Got any idea what you’re doing, Cuj?”
Goddamn it, why is the cockiness in his tone so attractive? And why does it go against every fiber of her DNA to let his implied challenge go? She’s answering before she can stop herself. “You’re not the only one who knows how to ride, cowboy.”
A soft chuckle spills through his lips, puffs of air splashing against her neck like a tide. The deep rumble reverberates across his chest and down his arms, touching every part of her. Sam squirms, trying to fight the sudden tension in her core. But it has the opposite effect when she feels one very specific appendage harden in response.
“I bet you do,” he murmurs, almost more to himself. Then he clears his throat. “But do you know how to ride one of these? Because I’d prefer to know exactly how close to death I’m traveling today.”
She turns her face to the side. The tips of their noses graze. His eyes darken.
“No faith,” she whispers, the sound huskier than she intended.
“Oh, I believe you can do anything you set your mind to. Trust me.” His gaze dips to her mouth before he swallows and looks back up. “But I also believe you’d break into the gates of hell just to prove you could.”
His pupils dilate, edging out the emerald. She snaps her face forward.
“I like to go fast,” she warns.
“Darlin’,” he murmurs, lips brushing the outer edge of her ear. Tingles cascade down her neck and across her shoulders, making her shiver. Something inside her chest swells. “I already knew that.”
Sam hits the throttle, a sudden need to go, to run, to get away drowning out the rest.
They don’t move.
She wrinkles her nose and holds down the throttle again. Come on.
Nothing.
She squeezes as hard as she can, then shakes the handles in frustration, one second from punching the stupid thing.
“Cuj?”
“I’ve got it,” she snaps, wound way too tight.
“I know.” Amusement simmers in his voice. “But it might help to turn it on first.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
She turns the key. The engine rumbles to life, which isn’t really helping things down there , so she guns it. They jerk forward with a burst of speed. Sam flies back, saved only by the human cage wrapped around her. Cooper grips the handles, his forearms flexing so tightly his veins pop. It’s a more absorbing view than the aqua waves surrounding them on all sides. Water droplets glide over muscular contours. Tan skin glistens in the sunlight. She may or may not lick her lips.
“Christ,” he mutters as he snatches her hand off the throttle. The engine cuts and they slow to a stop, bobbing up and down in the water.
Cleared from her daze, Sam elbows him in the ribs and retakes control. Speed is what she needs right now. A thrill. A distraction. “Not even he can save you now, cowboy.”
They’re off.
“Fucking hell,” Cooper grumbles as he recloses his fists around the handles and presses his legs firmly against her thighs to hold them both in place.
This time, she doesn’t let it distract her.
She keeps her eyes on the water, her mind clear of everything but the wind and the waves and the electric rush.
The guide surges ahead, taking the lead. Nina shoots closer with a wide grin and revs her engine in challenge. With a sudden laugh, Sam meets it. They race, practically flying as they bump across the sea. Cooper hollers wildly, a pure burst of joy, sounding just the way she imagines a cowboy should. It’s easy to picture him galloping across a field on the back of his horse, kicking his spurs, hands on the reins, a feral gleam in his eyes—too easy. She blinks the image away and goes faster, all of her concentration on controlling the machine beneath her as a turquoise world rushes by.
Twenty minutes in, a school of dolphins joins the fun, leaping alongside their jet skis, darting and diving and flipping through the waves. Forty-five minutes in, the guide cuts his engine out of nowhere and points toward a dark shadow under the surface.
“Whale shark!” he calls before leaping into the water and diving deep.
Sam doesn’t even think. In a blink, she follows him in. Cooper splashes behind her. A minute later, a white-speckled mouth emerges from the endless blue, wide open, but not threatening. The gentle giant glides effortlessly by, paying them no mind. It’s got to be thirty feet long. Her heart lurches into her throat as she blindly grabs for Cooper’s hand. Their fingers clasp in part awe, part fear, part I can’t believe this is real!
At the halfway mark, he takes over driving. They stop a few more times to see turtles and rays and giant schools of fish. She presses her cheek flush against his spine and wraps her arms firmly around his waist. It’s all too easy to pretend the ring gleaming on her finger is real. She tells herself it’s this place. The Maldives are made for romance. Bathing suits. Heat. Beauty all around. She could feign an affair with a cardboard cutout here. But deep down, she knows it’s partially Cooper too. His looks, yes, but more the way he drinks life in as if it’s the most satisfying cocktail he’s ever been lucky enough to consume. Laughter spills freely from his lips. Joy seeps off him like the sweetest sweat. An infectious glow lives inside his eyes. He’s not jaded. He’s not thinking ten steps ahead. He’s not dragging a deadweight. He’s just…happy. Happy to be here. Happy to be present. Happy to soak it all in. It makes her want to be closer to him, as though she could get high off the residual fumes, as though maybe around him she could just be breezily, easily happy, too.
The way she used to be.
The way she wishes she could be again.
Out on the open ocean, with blue skies above and blue seas below, adrift and unmoored, no sense of place or time, it’s easy for Sam to slip into this dream. But the sight of swaying palm trees and sandy shores is a harsh return to reality, a rough hand rousing her from sleep. The resort looms like a parent with watchful eyes, able to read every mischievous thought in her mind, silently demanding she behave. She suddenly realizes her hands did indeed sneak beneath the edges of Cooper’s life jacket. Her fingers are spread wide over hard, hot skin, feeling muscles shift and flex as he cuts the engine. She reluctantly drops her arms.
“Wow, that was great!” Nina calls over. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
The note of farewell in the producer’s voice causes a sudden ache in Sam’s chest. It seems almost cruel to go from the speed and the thrill and the fun back to the room where she knows her computer is waiting with calls and spreadsheets and endless grunt work she can’t afford to ignore. It’s too much. She’s not ready to go back yet.
“How about a drink?” Sam blurts.
Cooper swivels to look at her. His gaze touches every part of her face, seeing too much before the edges of his lips quirk. “I’m in.”
“Nina?” She extends the invite not because she particularly likes the woman’s company, but because in it, she has an excuse to keep touching him.
“I’m always down for a pi?a colada.”
“I pegged you as more of a whiskey soda kind of girl.”
The producer rubs a palm over the left side of her head where her black hair is cut almost to the scalp and grins. “Don’t let this fool you. I’m not nearly as edgy as I seem. And pi?a coladas are fucking delicious, like frozen pineapple coconut crack. I make no promises you won’t have to carry me back to my room.”
Sam pats Cooper’s bicep. “I think he can handle it.”
“Rock on.”
With a thanks to the guide, they ditch the jet skis and head to the beach bar. It’s too easy, the way Cooper slides his arm around the back of her chair and casually runs his fingers over her shoulder and down her arm. Too natural, how quickly her own hand snakes over his lower thigh to hook under the back side of his knee. They drink and chat and joke and laugh. An hour passes in a blink. Nina begs off, walking in a zigzag back toward the bungalow, leaving the two of them in a buzzed haze.
Sam zeroes in on the shape his lips take as he wraps them around his beer bottle. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. How his red hair curls over his ears, practically begging to be pushed back.
She takes a sip of her drink.
His eyes flash as he drops his gaze to her mouth on the straw. She inhales sharply, acutely aware of her breasts and how they rise and how his attention shifts a little lower.
The heat spikes, suddenly oppressive.
“We should probably get back,” she murmurs, wanting to do anything but leave this moment. The suggestion sounds weak, hollow. She clears her throat. “I have some work I need to do.”
“Sure. If that’s what you want…”
It is.
It is.
IT IS.
“That’s what I want,” she answers, voice clipped. Because, obviously, it’s not. He knows it. She knows it. The bartender who’s been serving them drinks for an hour probably knows it too. But the only thing she wants more than to eat Cooper’s face off right here at the beach bar, then drag him back to their bungalow to have her way with him is to help her sister. And those two things are at direct odds with each other.
She quickly slurps up the last of her pi?a colada.
He downs the rest of his beer.
The five-minute walk back to the bungalow lasts a millennium in the taut silence stretching between them. Sam doesn’t even glance his way as she fumbles with the key and pushes open the door.
He grabs her hand and stops her.
She looks then, over her shoulder, up at his too-close face and his burning gaze. His hold is gentle, yet commanding.
Don’t do it , those steady eyes seem to say.
Don’t cross that line.
Don’t go back inside.
Don’t become a stranger.
Stay here, with him.
Keep having fun. Keep laughing. Keep playing.
Keep pretending.
But that’s the problem. Deep down, she can already tell that with him, on some level it’s not a game. There’s potential there, a popcorn kernel of it wedged so annoyingly deep no amount of pressure can dislodge it. She can’t give in and let it fester. She’s got to pick and prod and poke until it’s gone.
He runs his thumb over the back of her hand. “Sam…”
“Rule three, Cooper.”
He stills.
She takes the opening and shakes her fingers free. With her tail between her legs, she flees into the bungalow, grabs her computer from the table, and retreats into the safety of her room.
Unfortunately, work is the last thing on her mind.
Goddamn it.
Sam grabs her phone. Without thinking, she scrolls to the usual name, hovers over the call button, then—remembers.
I can’t call Em.
Literally, she can’t call Em. Her sister’s phone is tucked away in her bag, waiting to be mailed back to Georgia the second she returns to the US.
She could call Jake.
He could pass Emily the phone.
She could come clean to them both and confess about the accidental engagement. She could beg her sister for forgiveness and promise to make it right. She could ask for her opinion…or her blessing.
She could.
Except…
They know each other too well. They once shared a uterus, for god’s sake. There’s no hiding with Em. No running. It’s one of the many reasons Sam stayed in New York—to keep eight hundred miles between her and those knowing eyes. Em will have questions, questions Sam definitely isn’t ready to answer.
She scrolls again, dials, waits.
“Well, well, well,” a familiar Texas drawl answers mirthfully. “The prodigal roomie returns.”
Sam rolls her eyes. “I’ve been gone for like five days, Winnie.”
“Five days gallivanting in paradise, not bothering to call or text. Did you even spare a thought for me, all alone in the desolate trenches of New York City?”
“We live in the Village.” Sam snorts. “You’re doing fine. And aren’t Em and Jake with you?”
“They left for the airport this morning, about two hours ago, and let me just say, regular sex is a good look on your sister.”
“Ewww.” Sam slaps a hand over her face to smother her laugh. “They better not have been doing it in my bed.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny hearing noises.”
“Noises?”
“ Noises. ”
“I’m burning the mattress when I get back.”
“Hell no, you’re not. I need that deposit.”
“Then I’m taking yours.”
“Have at it.” Winnie barks out a laugh. “Maybe the pheromones will rub off on me. Lord knows I’ll take whatever help I can get in that department.”
“Actually…” Sam takes a deep breath. “I could too. Use some help, I mean.”
“Spill.”
She falls back on the mattress and flings her free arm over her eyes as if to shield herself from the embarrassment. She can practically feel Winnie’s giddiness through the phone. It’s as if her roommate is there, kneeling on the bed, hazel eyes wide, black waves bouncing as she quietly claps her hands with eager delight. They’ve been inseparable ever since that fateful morning sophomore year when Sam sat down next to her at the start of English 125: Studies in Literature and muttered fuck as she spilled her latte completely down the front of her white tank. Winnie saved her ass by giving her a sweater, then pretty much held her hand through the rest of the semester so she didn’t fail the class, then became her best friend. She was a bright light in an otherwise dark time, the definition of positivity, something Sam could use a little bit of right about now.
She groans. “I accidentally got engaged to the most attractive man on the planet, and all I want to do is rip his clothes off, but I can’t.”
“What?” Winnie practically screams. “Why not?”
“Because I didn’t actually get engaged to him. Emily did. On television. For ten million people to see. Which might be a problem, considering she spent the past few days fucking one of the producers of the show. In my bed, apparently. And if that ever comes out, everyone in America would probably hate her. I mean, come on. It’s juicy as hell. The tabloids would feast on her carcass. We both know it. She’d be labeled a slut and a whore, some sort of praying mantis, while the men of course got off scot free. Misogyny at its finest. No one would care that Jake was her ex. No one would believe she’d been faking it for the show. They’d see the worst. Because that’s what the world always sees in a woman who makes a mistake. A villain. Her business would be ruined. And I can’t—I can’t do that.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
Sam sighs. “I have.”
“He must be really, really hot.”
“So hot. You have no idea.”
“Yeah… I’m going to need a visual. I need to know exactly what we’re working with before I give you any advice.”
“I’m not sending you a picture.”
Winnie hums for a moment. “How about a celebrity comparison? I get them all the time for work.”
She’s an assistant designer at a publishing house. Romance covers are her bread and butter.
“Sort of like that guy from Outlander . What’s his name?”
Winnie gasps so loudly it sounds as if she’s been possessed. They’re a bit of a dramatic duo. “Sam Heughan.”
“Yeah, him.”
“He looks like Sam Heughan?”
“Yes.”
“SAM MOTHERFUCKING HEUGHAN?”
“Yes. But also sort of like Brad Pitt.”
“brAD PITT?”
“Yeah. You know that scene in Legends of the Fall where Tristan comes riding across the plains and meets Susannah for the first time and tips his hat with a smile and she’s like, Oh shit, I chose the wrong brother ?”
“You mean the scene that was wholly responsible for my sexual awakening at fifteen? Yes. I know the scene.”
“He looks like that, but better.”
“Better?” she squeals, sounding parched.
“Yeah, because he’s real.” Sam wets her lips, swallows. “Like how you can see an ice cream cone on a commercial and think, Damn. I want one of those. But if it’s the middle of summer, and a hundred degrees out, and you’re on the beach, and someone walks by licking a drip off the side of a fresh vanilla-chocolate swirl, it’s almost a religious experience? You don’t just want one. You need one. It’s like that.”
“Sleep with him.”
“Winnie—”
“Sleep with him right now or I will never forgive you.”
“Oh my god.” Sam laughs into the crook of her elbow. “Did you not hear me? I can’t. You’re supposed to be talking me out of this.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“That’s the whole reason I called!”
“Please,” Winnie comments dismissively. “We both know that’s not true.”
Sam stills. “What do you mean?”
“You did not call me, your best friend who reads three romance novels a week, to tell me that you’re fake engaged to the hottest man in the world and, now that I think of it, that there’s probably only one bed because you wanted to be talked out of it .”
“Yes. I did.”
“Sam.”
She gulps. Winnie’s pointed glare burns a hole in the side of her skull from across the Atlantic. “I did .”
“Sam.”
“What?”
“Samantha Rose Peters.”
“ What? ”
“Maybe you can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. You’re calling for permission. And I’m giving it. Sleep with him. You owe it to…sex. No, not sex. Me. Your perpetually single best friend whose vagina is practically the Sahara. Do it for me.”
“But…Em. And the bullying. And the misogyny. And cancel culture. And feminism. And—”
“Don’t throw buzzwords at me, young lady. What’s really stopping you?”
“He’s a cowboy. Like an actual cowboy. From a ranch. With a hat and everything.”
Winnie harrumphs. “I’m from Texas. That’s pretty much a prerequisite. You could use a cowboy after all the awful finance bros you’ve brought home.”
Sam sits up. “I do NOT date finance bros. That’d be like shitting where I eat.”
“Gross,” Winnie comments, no doubt wrinkling her nose. “But the point stands. They wear those vests. They have that look. Potato po tah to. What else you got?”
Nothing.
She has nothing.
Because Cooper pushes all her buttons yet respects every inch of her boundaries. He’s way too kind to be real, but has enough edge to keep her interested. He’s calloused hands with an artist’s soul. A delicious dichotomy. A dangerous one. Worst of all, he’s the type of guy who always has a bout of laughter simmering at the back of his throat, not because he’s never faced hardship, but in spite of it. She thinks about the somber shift of his features when he mentioned his mother, the haunted shadow erupting in the corners of his eyes. To lose a loved one to a disease like that and still be able to smile? To see the joy in life? She admires him. She doesn’t know how he does it. He’s just…
He’s perfect.
He’s fucking perfect.
And that’s the problem.
“You sleep with guys all the time,” Winnie continues, oblivious. “What’s the big— Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“Ohhhhh.”
“Winnie.”
“I love a good plot twist.”
“This is not a romance novel.”
“Actually, Sammy baby, I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Sammy baby?”
“You like him.”
“Sure. He’s a nice guy.”
“No. You like him like him.”
“I do not.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“I protested once.”
“You’re afraid you can’t just sleep with him. You’re afraid you’ll catch feelings.”
“I am—”
“Not?” Winnie interrupts with a delighted giggle. “Is that another protest?”
“Okay, this conversation is officially done.”
“But it just got interesting!”
“I’m going now.”
“You can’t run from me, Sam.”
“Love you.”
“I know where you live!”
“Bye.”
She hangs up and lets her face fall toward the door. The soft sound of shuffling feet travels closer. He’s right there, so close, so tantalizingly close, almost as though he’s out there waiting, wondering, wanting in the same way she is.
Sam can’t help it.
She stands up.