Chapter 21
Jamie
I woke up warm.
For a moment I didn't know where I was. The weight of an arm rested around my waist, and the rise and fall of breathing that wasn't mine. My head wasn't on a pillow. It was resting on someone's chest.
Sam.
I was lying on Sam. And I was completely naked.
The night came back in pieces. His hands. His mouth. The way he'd said my name.
I turned my head slowly. He was still asleep, his face slack and peaceful, one arm draped across me like he'd been holding on even in his dreams.
I slipped out from under his arm, holding my breath. He didn't stir.
My clothes were scattered across the floor. I gathered them quietly, dressed in the hallway, and paused at the door to look back at him.
What had I just done to us?
The kitchen was cold. I started the coffee maker just to have something to do with my hands.
I remembered everything now. Rosie falling asleep on the couch, her head in Sam's lap. The way he'd carried her to bed without being asked, pulled the blanket up to her chin, brushed the hair from her face. The way I'd watched him from the doorway and felt something crack open in my chest.
I'd always liked Sam. Since we were kids. But he was Jack's best friend, and I'd never let myself hope for anything more than that.
But the way he'd been showing up these past few weeks for me, for Rosie, without being asked, without expecting anything back—
The coffee maker gurgled. I stared at it without seeing.
I'd only broken up with Mark a few weeks ago.
Sam had only ended things with Amber a little before that.
Were we even thinking clearly? Or was this just grief reaching for the nearest warm body?
Two people who'd lost the same man, looking for comfort in each other because it was easier than being alone?
What if it wasn't real?
"Hey."
Sam was standing in the doorway, wearing his jeans from last night and nothing else. His hair was a mess.
He crossed the kitchen and kissed me. Simple, easy, like it was something he'd done a hundred times before.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." My voice sounded strange in my own ears. "You?"
"Best I've slept in weeks." He reached past me for a mug and poured the coffee. Completely relaxed. Like this was any other morning.
"About last night—"
"Stop." He put the mug down and looked at me. "I know what you're about to say."
He stepped closer, close enough that I had to look up. He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "It wasn’t a mistake."
"Sam—"
"I'm sure." His eyes didn't waver.
"We just—" I started. "You and Amber, and Mark, and everything with Jack—"
"I know." He didn't look away. "I know the timing's a mess. I know we're both still figuring things out. But I'm not confused about this. About you."
I searched his face for doubt. For hesitation. For any sign that he was saying what he thought I needed to hear. There was nothing but steady certainty.
He kissed me then. Soft and unhurried, like this was just the first of a thousand mornings.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
"I've liked you for a long time, Jamie. This isn't new for me."
The words hit somewhere distant, like I was hearing them through water. I waited for them to make sense.
Sam. Liked me. For a long time.
All those years I'd watched him date other girls. Then coming home and seeing him with Amber. I told myself I was being stupid for wanting something that was never going to happen.
And he'd been—
"What?" It came out barely above a whisper.
He smiled. Leaned in and kissed me again.
"I said," he murmured against my mouth, his thumb brushing my cheek, "I've liked you for a long time."
There were tears in my eyes. I laughed, the sound catching in my throat. "Be serious."
"I am serious."
He kissed me again. And again. Until I stopped trying to argue.
All those years of not letting myself hope. Of watching him from a safe distance, convincing myself that what I felt didn't matter because it would never be returned.
I'd just been wrong.
Rosie didn't wake up for another hour. We made good use of the time.
The days that followed settled into something I hadn't expected.
Sam showed up consistently.
He was there in the mornings, making pancakes while Rosie set the table with the mismatched plates Megan had donated.
He was there in the evenings, helping with the preschool worksheets I didn't remember being so complicated.
He was there on weekends, fixing the squeaky cabinet door the landlord had never gotten around to, teaching Rosie how to hold a screwdriver without stabbing herself.
I watched him fold himself into our life seamlessly, like he'd always been meant to be there.
I kept waiting for him to pull back. To realize that a woman with a four-year-old, a dead brother, a burned-down house and an unsolved arson case was more than he'd bargained for.
He didn't.
One evening, Sam arrived with his guitar case slung over his shoulder.
Rosie's eyes went wide. "You play?"
Sam nodded. He settled onto the blue couch and pulled the guitar into his lap. Strummed a few chords. Adjusted the tuning.
"Play something!" Rosie demanded.
He grinned at her and launched into a song I half-recognized, something silly with nonsense words and a bouncy melody. Rosie shrieked with delight and started dancing, her socked feet sliding across the floor, her arms windmilling in circles.
I stood frozen in the kitchen doorway with the dish towel in my hands, unable to move.
Sam caught my eye over Rosie's spinning head, winked, then kept playing.
Rosie twirled until she got dizzy. She collapsed onto the carpet in a fit of giggles while Sam transitioned into a slower song. She climbed onto the couch and curled up beside him, watching his fingers move across the strings with the fascinated intensity she usually reserved for cartoons.
I set down the dish towel, crossed the room, and sat on Sam's other side.
This was what family looked like.
Later that night, after Rosie was asleep and the apartment had gone quiet, we lay in the dark together.
"I've been thinking," I said.
Sam shifted beside me. "About what?"
"Staying in Havensworth." I stared at the shadows. "Not just until the proposal is done."
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"What about your job?"
"What about it?"
"Jamie." He propped himself up on one elbow so he could look at me. "You worked for eight years to build what you have." His eyes searched my face in the dim light. "Are you sure you want to walk away from that?"
I'd expected him to be relieved. Happy, even. Instead he was asking me to think it through.
"If I decided to go back to New York." I turned my head to look at him. "Would you come with us?"
He went still. I watched his face, trying to read what was happening behind his eyes, but the shadows made it impossible.
The silence stretched long enough that I started to regret asking.
"Do you think I could make it in the FDNY?"
I almost laughed. "You saved me and Rosie from a fire. I think you'd have a fair shot."
He pulled me closer and kissed my shoulder. "I'll go wherever you go."
I leaned into him and let him hold me.
Outside, the city went on without us. But in the dark, with his arms around me and Rosie asleep down the hall, none of it mattered.
This was real.