10. Samantha
Chapter ten
Samantha
I hate it.
I hate how I feel right now.
These past few days, I’ve been dancing on the edge of temptation with Stan. Every time I see him, I feel the urge to try something else that pushes the limits. I’ve done everything from squeezing his chest to ogling him to now ruffling his hair. I try to keep a blank expression each time I do it, but I know deep down that I’m barely in holding my desires.
I’m still in a relationship. Oh, right… I’m still in a relationship. My hand dives into my pocket, and I pull out my phone, firing off a text to George.
Hey, I know you’re probably at work right now. Wondering if your schedule is still looking as full or if something has opened up? I feel like we need to talk. This weekend maybe?
I stare at the lit screen, and within a minute, I see three gray dots appear. They start, and they stop. Several seconds pass, and then they start up again. This pattern continues for much longer than is necessary for a simple answer, but I find myself sitting there waiting for words to pop up all the same.
And then they do, causing my anger to swell even more.
I wish I could but I’m still occupied. Going out with the boss. I’m not even in town today. When I get back, I’ll call you or text. Love you .
Call or text? Who exactly does this man think I am? Someone he can treat however he wants without consequences?
You know what? I text him. Don’t come see me. I’ll come pick up my things at the apartment. If you aren’t going to prioritize me, let’s end things here.
I stare at my screen and contemplate hitting send. But I remind myself that I’m better than that. So I delete the text, shove my phone back into my pocket with an eye roll, and go back to enjoying the crackling fire in front of me. I lose myself watching the flames dance, fuming in my heart, when Stan settles on the stump next to mine.
“Here,” he says gruffly as he wraps a blanket around my shoulders and catching me off-guard. He brought a blanket down from his house just for me? My anger over George disappears as I settle my gaze on the fine specimen of a man.
“Thank you for the blanket,” I say as I clutch the fabric tighter. “And thanks for taking me out to dinner.”
“I didn’t take you out, nor did I invite you. It was meant to be a father-daughter moment, and you just decide to appear,” he says, but he’s not complaining. The satisfied smile on his face is a dead giveaway.
“You say it like you didn’t want me here.”
“Ruth wanted you here.”
“Did she? And is she the one enjoying the beer I brought?”
He doesn’t answer, just takes a huge swig of the beer.
“That’s what I thought.” I roll my eyes, and he chuckles, staring at the flames.
While we stare at the roaring fire, the lake shimmers in the dark beyond us, and an owl hoots somewhere in the trees over the crackling logs.
“You could have shown up empty-handed, and we’d have been happy to see you,” he says before taking another swig. Somehow, the sound of him swallowing is hyper-masculine.
“You mean Ruth would have been happy to see me.” I nudge him with my elbow, trying to steer this moment back into playful territory. Because there’s something different about his demeanor now.
Ten years ago, Stan’s intensity was awkward. Kind of endearing. Now that intensity is… I don’t know. I can’t handle having his full attention on me without my skin itching. What happened to the playful teenager? As an adult, when I would ask about him, Lucas said he hadn’t changed and still couldn’t take anything seriously.
“No,” he says. “I’d have been happy to see you, too.”
I turn to look at him, but he’s looking at the flames, his face illuminated by their golden glow. His sharp, manly features stand out like a razor. I’m tempted to touch his chin and see if I bleed.
Instead, it’s my turn to take a deep swig of the pale ale I brought from the brewery in town. It’s not especially cold anymore. The heat from the flames has warmed the can, and it’s lost a bit of its fizz. But I swallow that shit like I’m parched in the desert.
“You’re different,” I tell him.
He leans closer, bumping his shoulder against mine. “So are you.”
“Probably a good thing, eh?” I tease, bumping him back. “You didn’t like me much when we were kids, if I remember correctly.”
His lips lift in a smug smile as gazes at the fire he built with his daughter. Then he turns and looks me dead in the eye. “You’re not remembering correctly, Sam.”
Did he have to say that?
I’m only now realizing that our gentle, playful nudges have made us sit close to each other. Now he decides to look at me. The flames reflect in the whites of his eyes, giving his raven eyes a golden effect. A werewolf in human flesh.
And I’m not dumb enough not to notice when someone’s hungry for something more.
I know because right now, I am, too.
We’re moving a little closer this time. There is no risk of being interrupted by Lucas or Selena. We’re on Stan’s side of the property, after all. If he wants me now, nothing’s going to stop him .
I’m not going to stop him. But still…
Control. Self-control, dammit!
“I think she had fun tonight,” I force the words from my otherwise parched throat.
We’re still too close, but neither of us moves to pull away. Instead, I find myself face-to-face with him. I lick my lips. His gaze drops to my chest, and I can’t help pushing it out a little. Then his eyes drop lower to my thighs, and I find myself opening my legs a little.
I’m slightly impatient.
Partially terrified.
Totally wanting.
Stan returns his gaze to my eyes, and I swallow hard again. “Ruth?” His voice is a tad bit raspy, like he’s also parched. Thirsty.
Also wanting.
“Yeah,” I reply. “She ate. She laughed. She talked a bit about music. I think…”
My gaze races over his face, and I wonder again when he got so damn handsome. If he changed bit by bit or if it happened overnight. Or maybe I’m the one who changed.
I hung around with a lot of Lucas’s friends. Hell, I even had crushes on some of them. But with Stan, it was different. The pull to him was less physical. Something deeper. He was alluring to me, a specimen I’d never encountered. He was intellectual and introspective, but there was a debonair quality about him, even as a gangly teenager.
He was challenging. Smart and cutting, and always watching just a little too closely. A mystery wrapped up in an enigma. He was nothing like the boys in this small town or the men in Chicago.
And now? Now he feels like no man I’ve ever met.
“You still here, Sam?” He gives me a nudge, and I realize I trailed off while staring.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, sorry. I think your YouTube videos and short films are a good place for you to strike up conversations with her. She talked a bit about it today when I picked her up. I think she needs to feel like she’s not a burden to you. You can even get her involved in your new film or something. ”
He nods and continues staring at me. My skin does that awful itching thing again, and I wonder if I’m allergic to him. But his proximity doesn’t give me a rash. Just a feeling of dissatisfaction.
I touch my palm to my cheek, and his eyes follow. His closeness apparently gives me a fever, too.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” My words are a whisper.
His gaze meets mine, and this time he’s the one who licks his lips. “Like what?”
“Like… what you’re doing now.” I motion to his face. “You should stop.”
His dark brows drop low on his forehead, two small lines creasing between them like he’s concentrating. “I should, shouldn’t I?”
My fingers press into the can in my hand hard enough that I hear it crinkle. It draws my gaze down. I can’t handle staring at him anymore.
“Are you single?”
The second the words leave my lips, I hate myself for saying them. They’re enough to make him draw away ever so slightly.
I hear the bristling of his stubble against his palm as he scrubs a hand over his mouth. “Yes. Are you?”
I keep my eyes low. My breathing feels labored, like it’s hard to keep from collapsing under the weight of his stare. “I don’t know,” I say.
And it’s true. I’ve spent so long being a people pleaser, avoiding making any waves, that I’m terrified of disappointing the people I care about. Including George But I’m done. I’ve finally come to terms with it. But telling Stan before I tell George would be shitty. Where Stan and my personal life are concerned, vague is better. Safer.
He stands, calmly unfurling his powerful body before stepping right in front of me and bending down to my level. His lips are a breath away. His eyes so deep and searching, I can’t hold his gaze.
Slowly, his hand comes up to grip my ponytail, just like he did the other night. I close my eyes and purse my lips.
I wait for him …
He doesn’t come.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me. And I know he’s wondering how he’s managing to hold himself back. I dart my eyes downwards at his pants.
With one slow tug, he guides my head back so I’m forced to look at him. “Next time you ask me that question, make sure you are.”
Then he turns and walks away. Leaving me reeling even more out of control than I already was.