Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Grant
Sam’s expression shifts and I can’t tell why. Before I can ask, the waiter brings our dessert.
“Cookies and cream cheesecake with, of course, our own dairy products and cookies from Honey Bun in town. Enjoy.” He bows and leaves.
It’s a little much because it’s not quite fine dining here, but the guy has pride in his work, and I can appreciate that.
“What is it?”
Her gaze shifts to me and she shoves a bite of the cheesecake in her mouth.
“Did you really just do that?” I chuckle at her blatant evasion, then get hung up when she licks her lips and hums with pleasure.
Heat and longing snap through me and I straighten in my seat. “Seriously, what’s wrong?”
“There is nothing wrong now that you’re here,” she says, gazing at the cheesecake.
This earns a loud laugh, which brings out her smile again.
“I’m good. I swear. And you have to try this.”
We’ve kissed a handful of times now and a few of them have been fairly heated, so sharing her fork shouldn’t get to me, but it does. Everything about her does, and every step we take together hits me all the more.
I’m not huge on desserts, but I don’t miss the opportunity to take her fork, which she’s already loaded with a bite.
We’re just a tad too far apart for her to feed it to me.
And yes, normally if I saw a couple feeding each other across a table, I’d roll my eyes to say the least. But it sounds like a great idea with Sam.
The sweet, tangy flavor is fresh, the texture perfect, and it’s a decadent bite I thoroughly enjoy. I go back for another before passing her fork back to her, and only then do I notice the dazed look on her face.
My gut clenches and I’m more than ready to be alone with this woman. I have no designs other than time and whatever she wants to give. Anything she wants from me is hers.
“Ready—”
“Yes.”
Extra tip for the waiter, who’s tuned into us enough to bring the check and get us out of there in record time.
My fingers lace with Sam’s and even this contact sends a flare of pure wanting through me. By the time we reach my car, it feels like time has slowed and we’ve got far too many miles to travel before I have her to myself the way I need.
She must feel the same, because after I open her door, she turns, wraps her arms around my neck, and rises on her toes to kiss me.
Mary Ryan didn’t raise a fool, so I reciprocate, eagerly meeting her wild kiss with my own.
It is frantic, hot mouths and soft lips.
When she nips at my bottom lip with her teeth and slides her hands from around my neck down over my chest, I am close to losing all sense of place.
I am very close to not caring at all that we’re still parked on a side street in the middle of town.
She makes a desperate, needy sound when my hands slide down over her curves and urge her closer. There is no amount of proximity that will satisfy, but I have a few ideas. And none of them can happen here on the back end of Main Street.
“Home.” It’s ragged, but I manage it, and she’s already nodding.
I lift her by the waist and set her into the front seat, then feel a surge of satisfaction when I see her eyes bright, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling with big gasps.
She’s a little undone from my hands, from our kiss, her soft sweater pulled to one side, the lovely ridge of her collar bone and dip of her throat begging to be tasted.
Forcing myself to move, I shut the door after stealing a quick kiss and vowing I won’t touch her while we drive.
I can’t afford distractions because every bit of my mind and every cell of my body is locked in on Sam.
But I won’t be unsafe driving home. Not tonight, not ever.
It’s a vow I made the minute I heard about Julia and Brad’s deaths, and it’s one I’ll keep until I die.
We don’t talk. A Chris Stapleton song plays, low and soulful, and the mountains are turning from purple to shadowy black underneath these juniper skies.
Taking them in helps calm me, straightens out every bunched-up bit of me that is more than ready for what’s coming.
It’s been years since I’ve cared about someone, years since I’ve wanted someone, and the fact that Sam is proving to be the most I’ve ever cared about or wanted a person feels more than a little significant.
“Your place or mine?”
She breaks the silence between us when I pull into the driveway.
“Girls are at my parents’ for a sleepover. Up to you.”
When I park, she’s biting her lip and I finally register how that sounded. “For the record, they’re having a sleepover because they do about once a month. It gives me the chance to just…” I shake my head. “To have a full night off. Plus you’ve seen my parents with them.”
She smiles, but I see the tightness around her eyes.
“We can end this now. We can make out a little and then go our separate ways. We can watch movies all night. Or we can do more. But whatever we do, whatever, Sam, will be what you want, too. There is no pressure here, and I don’t want anything you don’t. Make sense?”
Her lashes flutter and she exhales. “Yeah.” She nods. “Yes. It does.” She reaches for my hand and cradles it with both of hers, then brings it up and presses a soft, slow kiss to my palm like I’ve done to her countless times now.
“Thank you.”
With a nod and liquid fire in my veins, I hop out and jog around to help her down. We haven’t said anything about it since she asked, but by mutual agreement, we head toward her door. She can check on Mr. Bingley and then we can relax.
Her hand is clasped in mine, our movements less frantic, more purposeful now. It’s not quite dreamlike, but there’s a heightened quality to the air.
“Oh.”
The sound is one of surprise, and I register what causes it a fraction of a second after she says, “Are these from you?”
My “no” is a whip.
She wonders aloud, “I wonder who would send them.”
Now she’s moving in slow motion, bending to pick the card from the top of an extravagant arrangement squatting in a vase on her front porch.
She gives me a funny look, curious and confused, like she’s not sure she believes they aren’t from me. Like it’s impossible someone else would send her flowers.
She tears open the tiny envelope, pulls out the card, and even in the fading light, I see her blanch.
I know it in my gut even before she says a word, but she confirms it with wide eyes and a shaking voice.
“They’re from Andrew.”