Samantha
SAMANTHA
C handler is pouting when we pull into the restaurant's parking lot. It’s like traveling with a toddler. I’ll admit, I’m a little nervous about meeting his family, especially after the slip-up in the pool. He looked like a fucking God with no shirt on. His efforts at the gym have paid off well for him, but now it’s all I can think about. I almost came from the feeling of his hardness grinding between my thighs. I'm not sure what made every part of him irresistible to me at that moment, but I should figure it out. And quick. Maybe being around his family will help taper whatever it is I'm feeling for him. I’ve hardly said two words to him since we got in the car, and the silence is oddly comforting instead of uncomfortable. I spent the car ride looking out of the window while we drove down the highway. Traffic was a damn nightmare, but when we got off the freeway, it was smooth sailing.
Water Cape is a small town just under an hour from Raleigh. It looks like something out of a Christmas catalog.
When we get onto Main Street, we pass a few shops that give off a whimsical feel. It's quite charming: a bakery, a boutique, a wine and cheese store. I watch people walk on the sidewalk, offering a friendly smile to everyone they pass. I had always wanted to live in a place like this as a kid. I wanted to live in the small charming towns you see in hallmark movies, but my Mother loved adventure, and small towns didn’t have enough of it.
We take a left at a stop sign and turn onto another street that’s lined with a few restaurants and turn onto a dirty road. I eye Chandler suspiciously. Where is this place, anyway? On the dirt road, he takes a right, and I see the restaurant come into view.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I don’t know what to expect from his family or if it’s the fact that I don’t know what his family expects of me. I’m not sure which role to play when I meet his family, and it makes my stomach turn.
Friends? Hardly. From what it sounds like, he does talk about me somewhat to his family, and I’m not sure if I should be flattered or embarrassed. Either way, we’re here, and now I need to suck it up. It could be fun. I just need to stop the dirty thoughts from entering my mind.
“You okay?”
I turn to Chandler, and he seems to be genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine," I say. “Just find it a little weird that your family wants to meet me.”
“Do you?”
“Kind of," I say. “What exactly do they know about me?”
Chandler rolls his eyes. “Just that we work together.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Nothing else at all?”
“Like what?”
I bite my lip, not wanting to say the word out loud. Chandler stares at me for a moment before I can see it finally click, and he erupts with laughter.
“Sam," he says, but he’s still laughing while I sit with my cheeks burning with embarrassment. When he finally stops laughing at my expense, he continues. “Do you really think I’d tell them about your weird watching porn at work fetish? I’m an asshole, but I’m not an idiot. It’s fine. Come on, they’re already inside.”
“It’s not a fetish," I mutter under my breath.
We exit the car, and as we walk toward the entrance, Chandler's eyes widen like he’s seen a ghost. He stops right in the middle of the parking lot. “What are you doing?”
“I forgot all about that fucker.”
I raise an eyebrow and look to where Chandler is looking to see a bull standing behind a gate near the door of the restaurant. It’s staring right back at Chandler.
“You two know each other?”
“Yes.” He nods, pointing at the bull. “That’s Bernard.”
“You know his name?”
“Oh yeah, when I was a teenager, my grandmother took care of him, and he stayed at our farm for a while. I know him well," he says while shooting daggers at the bull. It’s like I’m witnessing some kind of weird Western showdown.
“And you have beef with the cow?” I ask with a snicker. Sometimes I am too funny. Chandler doesn’t seem amused or even acknowledge my attempt at a joke. Just continues to stare at Bernard.
“Okay, well, while you have your weird little squabble with the cow, I’m going inside," I say and make my way to the entrance, but when I do, Bernard lets out a huff and stomps his hoof on the ground kicking up the dirt. I jump back and stand behind Chandler, gripping the back of his shirt to use him as a human shield.
“He can smell fear," Chandler whispers .
“I wasn’t afraid until he looked like he wanted to break down the fence!”
“Okay, maybe if we move slowly, we can get to the door without upsetting him.”
“Okay," I nod and let go of Chandler’s shirt, which is replaced by his hand. I look at our interlocked fingers and then at him.
“Ready?” I nod. We both take one step toward the entrance, and Bernard notices this right away, tapping his horns against the fence and kicking up dirt under his feet. We stop, and Bernard stares. We’re about 20 feet from the door now. This is the most bizarre thing I’ve ever done. This place is definitely not going on my list of top favorite restaurants. The chicken was good, but worth having to get past a raging bull? I think NOT.
Chandler grips my hand tightly. “Okay, Sam, we’re going to make a run for it!”
“Wait!” I say, but it’s too late. Chandler is running toward the door and dragging me behind him. Bernard kicks and nods his big horns at us like two weapons, but we finally make it inside, unharmed and a little sweaty.
“That was the scariest and weirdest thing I’ve ever done," I say between breaths. Chandler lets out a breathy laugh.
“Try having to live with him.”
“Howdy, partners! Table for 2 today?” A man in a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a cow-printed shirt with a name tag that reads ‘Dale’ greets us. He has a piece of what I think is straw hanging from his mouth, and his southern drawl is obviously fake. I wonder how many times he practices the accent before coming to work. Chandler looks almost surprised for a minute and gives him a once over.
“No," he says slowly. “We’re meeting people here. Thanks.” Chandler grabs my hand and leads me around the hostess post, leaving Dale to work on his accent. I take in my surroundings while I follow behind Chandler. This restaurant isn’t as dramatic as the one Chandler and I ate at in Florida, and I’m glad it’s lacking fake carcasses on the wall. That's odd, considering they have a guard bull. It has a bit more charm and warmth to it.
There are chandeliers with mason jars above each farmhouse-style table, and the dark wood looks good with the brick walls. The tables surround a large dance floor, and couples are twirling and laughing as they sway to the live country band that’s playing on a small stage. I like this place. It’s inspiring me. I’m itching for my iPad or my sketchbook, and I’m reminded to call Penny tomorrow and ask her how the showing went. We reach a table with a total of 5 occupants. A woman with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, a man that is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome next to her, and two children with identical Sandy blonde hair but with brown eyes sit next to an older man with white hair and glasses that enlarge his blue eyes. Everyone here looks like they could be a model. Mr. Randall obviously has good genes. The woman looks up from her menu at Chandler, breaks into a wide smile, and stands from her seat.
“You’re here!” She pulls Chandler into a hug, which he returns. Then she turns to me and smiles wide again before excitedly saying, “Hi!” Her arms wrap around me tightly, and I’m stunned and don’t move for a moment. I’m not much of a hugger, and unless I know the person on a personal level, it’s pretty much out of the question. When it’s apparent she isn’t planning on letting go, I awkwardly pat her on the back. I think Chandler notices my discomfort because he says, “All right, Cheyenne, let’s not give her a heart attack.” He pries her off of me, and she blushes, smiling from ear to ear.
“Sorry, I’m just so glad to finally meet you," she says, and that mixed feeling of being nervous and intrigued is back. Chandler and I take our seats at the opposite end of the table. I’m sat between Chandler on my left and the little girl on my right.
“About time you showed up,” the older man says, his voice rough and gravelly. I assume it’s his grandfather, considering Chandler looks a lot like him, and he looks like he’s aged, like fine wine. I notice more striking similarities to Chandler when he smiles at me.
“Who’s this fine, young lady?”
Chandler points at me with his thumb. “This is . I work with her.”
“Sam," I say and offer my hand for him to shake.
“I’m just glad Chandler got you here safe and sound.”
“Sorry. Bernard was out front," Chandler says.
“You’re still afraid of that damn bull?”
“He tried to kill me!”
“Not the way I remember it.”
“What happened with the bull?”
“When Channie was about 15, he came home drunk, and Bernard had gotten out of the pen and chased him around the farm," he says and looks at Chandler. “This dumb shit thought he’d try to ride him and got bucked off. Hard. That bull never liked him much.”
“That bull had it out for me. I think he recognized me in the parking lot.”
“No doubt,” his grandfather says.
“Thanks for letting me tag along for dinner.”
“Nonsense! Thank you so much for coming! I’m Cheyenne, Chandler’s awesome sister. This is Derrick, my husband," she says, her enthusiasm on full blast as she points toward the man in a sweater vest sitting beside her with her thumb. “Our kids Sophia and Danny.” She points to the two children, too busy coloring to greet me.
I wave to everyone at the table and offer a smile.
“We’ve heard a lot about you. I was beginning to think Chandler worked so much that Sam was just the name of his Google Assistant or something."
I laugh and look at Chandler and notice his cheeks turning pink. How cute. The man actually gets embarrassed.
“It’s nice to meet you, too," I say. “You’ve heard a lot about me?”
“Oh Yeah!” she says excitedly and then with an equal amount of exuberance, “When I call Chandler, it’s always ‘Sam this,’ ‘Sam that,’ or ‘Sam threatened to tow my car.’ Seems like you keep him in check, but you’re all he talks about.”
“Oh, really?”
Chandler clears his throat, and his sister looks at him and then at me with a smile.
“What’s that term again? Work wife! That’s what you are to him, I’m pretty sure.”
“Jesus, Cheyenne,” Chandler groans, and she laughs.
“I’m just saying it’s good to know you’re a real person, is all.”
“Oh," I say and let out an awkward laugh. “Yep. I’m real, and I’m better than a Google Assistant.”
Chandler rolls his eyes. “Hardly.”
Cheyenne shoots Chandler a glare before turning back to me with a friendly smile. “How do you deal with him all day?”
“Lots of coffee in the morning and lots of wine at night," I say, and she laughs. I like her already.
“You guys act like I’m the anti-Christ," Chandler says. “And Cheyenne, when she says coffee, she doesn’t mean actual coffee. It’s this weird flower flavor crap that she drinks.”
“It tastes good. And it makes the day with you tolerable. Maybe if you had some, you’d smile more and remember to park correctly. ”
“I get there first, so I get first dibs," he says with a smug smile.
“The parking spots are assigned to us," I point out.
“Right, but you’re never there before me.”
“That’s because my human brain needs actual sleep instead of taking 4 hours a night to charge. Who goes to work at 6 AM?”
“She has a theory that most people at the office were made in a lab," Chandler says to his sister. My cheeks burn when noticing everyone’s eyes on us.
His Grandpa pipes up, "Ah, the new beginnings of falling in love.”
“We’re not in love!” Chandler and I say at the same time.
“Well, you two sure as hell act like it, don’t ya? Reminds me of your Gran and I, always arguing.”
“That seems healthy," Chandler says, not skimping on the sarcasm.
“Arguing was always better with our clothes off.”
“Gramps! The kids!” Cheyenne hisses, but the kids aren’t even paying attention, at least not that I can tell. Their eyes are still on their paper. He grunts, obviously unbothered.
“Howdy, Y’all! What are we looking at to drink tonight?” I look at Chandler and see a server wearing a cow print shirt.
“Jesus Christ,” Chandler murmurs.
I order myself a glass of wine while Chandler gets a beer. His grandfather gets whiskey, which, for some reason, doesn’t surprise me. He’s hardly said a word since we sat down, and when the rest of the table places their drink orders, the server leaves.
An awkward silence settles over us that I’m desperate to break. I look over at the little girl sitting next to me, coloring on her paper.
I ask, "What are you drawing? ”
“I’m drawing a tree,” she says without looking up at her paper.
She furrows her brows while she tries to focus on coloring what I think is the tree trunk.
“That’s a beautiful tree,” I say. She gives me a shy smile, then grabs a blue crayon from the table.
The little boy is folding up his piece of paper instead of coloring on it, and I curiously watch him as he methodically folds each piece and then groans with frustration.
“It’s not working!” He flusters, his nose crinkling as he glares at the paper in front of him. Cheyenne pats his back assuringly.
“Why don’t you ask Uncle Chandler to show you?”
Chandler smiles sweetly at his nephew. “It’s okay, bud. It takes practice," he says, and something stirs inside me, watching him teach his nephew how to fold a paper crane. He moves the paper in front of him and starts folding it up tightly until it creates a small paper crane.
“Remember, fold it tightly so it will stay. Keep practicing, and you’ll get it. Let’s ask the server for another paper, and you can try again.” Chandler’s so gentle that I almost don’t recognize him. When the server returns with another piece of paper, Chandler instructs him patiently on how to create his little masterpiece. This is a side of Chandler I never thought I’d see. Normally he’s brooding if he’s not being a smart ass or tormenting me. But he obviously has a soft spot for his niece and nephew. And honestly? It’s a big turn-on.
His nephew smiles wide and proud, presenting his own origami crane to the table. “Ta-da!”
Cheyenne gives her son a warm smile. Chandler has a paternal side, and my hormones are on overdrive.