Chapter Ten
Samantha was early. Early. She had never been early for anything in her entire life.
She had even run late for her college graduation and her cousin’s wedding and a very important interview for a writing position at a fashion magazine many years ago.
As expected, she didn’t get the job. Not that it mattered because Samantha was more than content with her freelancing work.
Climbing out of her car, she pushed the door closed and winced when it creaked loudly.
Despite having enough money saved up to buy a new car, she had intense sentimental feelings about her banged-up Honda Accord.
The car was smothered in memories: road tripping along the West Coast. A kiss with the semi famous singer, Cheryl Mint.
Driving her grandparents to their weekly bingo night when they were still alive.
She couldn’t possibly sell it when it reminded her of all the good times in her life.
Stepping over a row of pink flowers—the name escaped her—she walked up the stone pathway to the front door.
Angel lived in a picture-perfect townhouse with white walls and a slated roof and a neat garden.
The windows were large, letting in plenty of light, and if Samantha leaned enough to the right, she could glimpse into Angel’s living room.
Pressing a finger to the bell, Samantha took a step back and listened to the jingle reverberate along the walls of the house. Less than a minute later, the door flung open to reveal a lovely-looking Angel, who was still dressed in station wear.
Angel frowned and looked down at the watch on her wrist before she locked eyes with Samantha. “You’re early. I thought you were only getting here at seven.”
It was exactly a quarter to seven. Samantha had glimpsed the time on her car’s radio before she climbed out. A big part of her wished she had stayed in the car counting down the minutes to seven, or at least had driven around the block a few times. Who knew being early could be so embarrassing?
“I know. I’m sorry…” she started, ready to explain that it was very unusual for her, but work was rather quiet today and since she was still restricting herself from fire dancing, there wasn’t much else to fill the time until their date. “I just—”
“Don’t be sorry.” Angel interrupted and stepped out of the way. “It’s fine. I just didn’t expect you to be early. Honestly, I thought you might be late, which I guess is a little audacious of me to think.”
Waving the would-be-insult away, Samantha walked into the house.
Just like the outside, it was perfectly clean and neat.
At the end of the hallway was a bathroom, and halfway down the short passage was the start of a staircase.
To her right was an open-plan kitchen leading into a dining room as well as the living room.
Everything was either white or beige, or cream, except for the few potted plants that sat in various corners.
“So, what are we doing tonight?” asked Angel as she wrung her hands together like they were a dishcloth. “What’s the big surprise?”
“A bonfire.”
Angel looked like she was refraining herself from rolling her eyes. There was even a twitch of her eyelid as it was strained from the effort. “A bonfire?”
“Do you hate the idea?” asked Samantha nervously.
Her palms were suddenly sweating and so too were her pits.
A bonfire had sounded like the perfect second date.
It was certainly romantic, the fire highlighting the night sky, and there was plenty of time to talk and get to know each other.
But the look on Angel’s face told her that she was wrong.
“No, of course not.” Angel shook her head furiously from side to side, yet the disappointment remained. She hated the idea and Samantha wanted nothing more than to sink through the warm oak floors. “A bonfire is fine. Perfect. Really.”
“We can do something else,” offered Samantha.
She could easily save the homemade burgers she had made, which were now in a Tupperware container packed in a basket together with a bottle of wine and lemon bars she had whipped up from scratch.
“Anything. You just name it. I’m sure there are plenty of restaurants around with a table available.
” She reached into her handbag, desperate to get her phone and call a restaurant, any damn restaurant.
“What do you feel like? Italian? Thai? We can even do Mexican. Although I have to be honest, my stomach doesn’t really handle Mexican well. ”
Angel extended her hand and stilled Samantha’s trembling fingers. “Sam, relax. A bonfire is fine. Stop stressing. Really, I don’t mind what we do.”
Sam. It was the first time Angel had used her nickname. Was it a sign? A softening of the firefighter’s rigid lines, a tiny crack in the fortress Angel had built around herself.
An awkward silence followed as both avoided eye contact and instead looked about the hallway for inspiration for a topic of conversation.
Samantha wondered if they would run out of words to say to each other a few short minutes into the date.
Their last date had involved watching a movie and only a bit of talking.
What if they had nothing to say to each other?
What if the entire date was a disaster because they had so little in common?
“Let me go and finish up,” said Angel, interrupting the silence. “I need a shower and a change of clothing. You can wait in the living room. I won’t be long.”
“Bring a jacket,” said Samantha quickly when Angel was already halfway up the staircase. “In case it’s a bit chilly at the beach.”
Angel nodded and Samantha took a right into the living room.
There wasn’t much to see except for a few melancholic-looking art pieces of ocean waves in a storm on the walls.
No photos or framed memories or books scattered messily around.
Everything was in its place or in the bookcase that took up an entire section of the wall closest to the window.
Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, Samantha wondered if tonight was a mistake. Clearly, they were too different, too incompatible. It would be like trying to mix oil and water—no matter how much they stirred, they couldn’t blend together.
It could never work.
But then Samantha remembered a piece of wisdom her grandmother had shared with her when she was just a little girl.
Her grandmother had been an artist, a gardener, a yoga instructor, and a part-time opera singer.
Whereas her grandfather—rest his soul—had been an accountant with a penchant for crafting miniature ships inside delicate glass bottles.
The memory was so clear that Samantha could whisper the words out loud to herself, “Like magnets drawn to their opposite poles, sometimes it’s the differences that spark the strongest connections. ”
Smiling to herself, Samantha glanced about the space, sending her gaze along the white walls to the clean countertop and to the cushions that weren’t an inch out of place.
Rising, Samantha walked to the bookcase and ran her fingers along the spines of the books.
Most were autobiographies and non-fiction revolving around spirituality and mindfulness, and amongst them, interspersed discreetly, were mysteries and romance novels.
One of them caught her eye, a familiar book with a forest green binding and gold letters.
With a gentle tug, Samantha held up the book and smiled.
It was the same mystery book Samantha was reading on her Kindle about the woman and her missing son. The spine was bent, and a bookmark stuck out at the top at the end of the book.
“At least we’ve got something to talk about tonight,” she said out loud to herself and placed the book back.
“As long as Angel doesn’t give me any spoilers.
Although I won’t mind knowing if Victor is the bad guy.
Ugh. What’s taking her so long?” she muttered and looked back at the clock on the wall in the kitchen.
It wasn’t even seven pm, yet Samantha was bored and slightly curious.
What did Angel’s bedroom look like? Was it as perfect as the rest of her house?
Or did she let her wild side loose in at least one of the rooms?
Samantha was quite sure Angel had a wild side.
Everyone did. Some just hid it better than others.
Before Samantha could convince herself to stay, she was already at the top of the stairwell.
The sound of water running came from the end of the hallway, behind a closed door.
As if a magnet was pulling her toward the bedroom, Samantha’s steps quickened and by the time she pressed a palm flat against the door, she was breathless.
It would be rude to enter without knocking, disrespectful even, especially since Angel seemed like such a private person, someone who valued her space above all else.
Yet, Samantha’s palm slid down the wood until it rested on the handle.
Without considering the consequences, she pushed down, and the door swung open.
The bedroom led to an ensuite bathroom.
Angel was standing with her back facing Samantha, a towel in her hands.
She was naked and her body was wet and glistening.
The bare curve of her ass was so intoxicating, Samantha gulped loudly and nearly ran out of the room, down the stairs, and back to the sofa where she would pretend she hadn’t seen a thing.
Except she didn’t.
Samantha remained rooted to the spot. Watching.
Admiring. Tracing Angel’s curves with her eyes.
Her heart was beating so fast she could hear the thump, thump in her ears.
An alarming feeling of wetness settled between her legs as Samantha imagined stroking her hands down Angel’s back, and gripping her hips, and kissing her in all the right places…
Angel suddenly looked back over her shoulder.
Her gaze immediately locked onto Samantha’s.
Surprise flickered across her sharp features, and her eyes widened, her brows furrowed, and then her face smoothed blankly.
“I see you found my bedroom,” she said coolly and wrung the ends of her hair with the towel.
Samantha opened her mouth to apologize, but no words came out. She willed her legs to turn and run away and never come back, because goodness, this was more embarrassing than being early. So much worse. Yet her body couldn’t move.
Angel turned around completely. She was flawless.
Every inch of her was perfect. Seeing her like that, so naked with the evening light shining through the windows, was like seeing all of Angel.
It was the unfiltered, raw version of the woman Samantha had slept with the other night.
Samantha dragged her eyes from Angel’s face and down her body, to her full breasts, to her tanned stomach, and the faint traces of her abs, and down to her hips, to her smooth plump lips.
“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come in?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, Sam. Who else is here? Are you going to come in and take your clothes off, or are you going to wait out there until I put my clothes back on?”
Heat built in Samantha’s stomach. It was the same heat that moved outward and upward and down to her hips. Was this really happening? Were they going to have hot sex before the date even started?
“Any minute now, Sam,” remarked Angel impatiently.
As if Samantha was a puppet, and Angel the puppeteer controlling her strings, she stepped into the bedroom and made her way across it, tearing off her clothes in the process.
Her skirt dropped to the floor beside the bed, her top came soon after and her bra was left lying in the doorway to the bathroom.
Angel stepped forward. A waft of warm steam floated off her smooth, velvety skin.
She slid her palms around Samantha’s lower back and pulled her closer, holding her exactly where she wanted her, at the exact spot where they fit so well together.
It was uncanny, as if their bodies were perfectly sculpted from the same marble slab.
When Angel’s wet stomach pressed against hers and Angel’s thumbs moved forward caressing the sides of Samantha’s hips, just above the line of her panties, every sensation felt ramped up.
Every touch felt heightened. Samantha wanted all of Angel, not just her body but her mind, and her heart, and everything in between.
“I wasn’t actually watching you; you know? Not on purpose,” stammered Samantha, only realizing then how shaky her voice sounded. She sounded as if she had just been in a near-death experience and adrenaline was coursing through her veins.
Angel ran her hands up to Samantha’s neck and threaded her fingers through her hair. “Well, that’s too bad,” she smiled and then pressed her lips against Samantha’s.