13. Samantha
Chapter thirteen
Samantha
“I really liked that one,” Ruth says with a yawn after the film ends.
It’s good to see the little girl admire her father’s efforts. We’ve been watching the movies that Stan helped produce or direct, and they have been masterpieces so far. Ruth yawns again, and her dark lashes flutter shut. I smile softly at her, propped up against the opposite arm of the couch.
For all her sarcastic one-liners, nonchalance, and no-nonsense persona, she looks very young right now. I wonder when she last got a hug. The last one I got was from my dad, when I pulled up unexpectedly at my parents’ house. I don’t know if Stan ever hugs her, but it would be weird if he just did it out of the blue. Both of them want to bond, but you can’t force these things.
“Why did you decide to watch the films Stan’s produced all of a sudden?” I ask.
When I envisioned watching Ruth, I pictured something more girls’ night-ish. Instead, what I got was her undivided attention and desire to enjoy her father’s body of work.
“Stan says he wants to watch some new short films with me. A few he’s been working on,” she answers. “I want to make sure I’m familiar with his craft. So I can give good criticism, that is.”
I can’t believe he took my advice.
“Why are you grinning?” she asks .
“I’m just glad that you’re trying to make things work with Stan.”
“I should. I mean, he is my father, after all,” she says, and a sadness comes over her face. “People in school don’t know. Except the teachers, I mean. Everyone else would probably think I’m way too old to be his child. I don’t really care, but still…. some say I might be a kid who wants to milk his wealth.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
She looks at me with disbelief, and I shrug. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t hesitate to use his name to my advantage.”
“You could, too, if you wanted,” she points out, her eyes dancing with amusement.
I giggle. “I don’t think I look young enough to convince people that Stan is my daddy, either.”
“Not that. I mean, Stan would do anything for you,” she explains.
I swallow hard at the statement. She isn’t wrong about that. If I told Stan to jump into a vat of acid to save me, he would. In fact, if Lucas or Alex hadn’t appeared on the front porch when I visited, I know he would have taken me into his house.
He’s always been like that, cool and reserved. But when it came to me, he would go all out.
I touch the pendant on my neck and imagine again how long it must have taken him to find it. I recall how easily he hired me. Bullshit qualifications—he didn’t care about that—he just wanted to help me. That’s why I hate myself around him. Just being near him makes me want to rely on him for everything. I can’t keep doing that to him. He just found out he had a child, for God’s sake. A child who needs him way more than I do.
“Are you going to go back to the city?” Ruth’s question drags me out of my spiral.
“Sorry?”
“Are you going to move back to Chicago?”
“Wow. Most people warm up with simple questions before they hit with the hard-hitting ones.”
“Sucks to be you,” Ruth says with a little shrug .
I can’t decide if that makes me want to laugh or cry, so I prop my head back on the couch and stare up at the wooden beams stretching across the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “I mean, I feel this pressure to live that city life. I’m the first person in my family to go to college. I got an MBA, for crying out loud. Staying here in Rose Haven would have been simple, but I got out. I did the big thing. It feels counterproductive to come back here in some ways.” I pause for a moment. “And yet…”
“And yet?” Ruth echoes.
My lips quirk. This girl should become a journalist with all her hard-hitting questions. “And yet, I love it here. It feels like home. My condo in the city doesn’t. That whole life doesn’t. It feels like I’m locked in a race that I no longer give a flying fuck about winning. One I’m signed up for just to say I took part.”
“What about your boyfriend?” She says the word with a dose of disdain I didn’t see coming.
My mind drifts back to what Stan said to me the other day about being single. Next time you ask me that, make sure you are. I obsessed over that sentence last night. It’s why I stayed up all night, tossing and turning in bed. Trying to convince myself that I have no feelings for Stan .
But now?
I’ve tried looking for proof there’s nothing between us, and all I found was evidence to the contrary. I feel like one of those cartoon characters with stunned eyes and question marks circling above their head.
“George?” I say my boyfriend’s name like it would help.
“Yeah.”
I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. I messaged him today. Told him that if he couldn’t make it out here sooner, I wanted to come back for a visit next weekend. I left out the part about how by “visit,” I meant break up, but apparently, he’s going to be away for work. Again.
I just don’t matter to him. Maybe I never did.
With Stan, all I need to do is sneeze, and he’d appear by my side.
Maybe I’ve been dragging out the relationship with George longer than necessary, paralyzed by feelings of obligation. After all, you don’t just blow up a long relationship with a decent person without sleeping on it, without being totally sure.
I know I don’t want what he and I have, and there’s no coming back from that. I’m going to look him in the eye, say it to his face, and give him a hug when I end it. I respect him enough for that.
“I’ve overstayed my welcome in his life, as he has in mine,” I say simply.
Ruth smiles and gives a nod of approval. “That’s great. I’m proud of you.”
I wonder if hearing a teenager tell me she’s proud of me says something about my adulting life, but I’ll allow it. Because for all her gruff exterior, Ruth’s a sweet girl.
“Well, even if I move back, your dad’s going to pick you up at school solo. He insists on following me to pick you up at school,” I tease.
She shakes her head as she gets to her feet. “He only insists because you’re being ogled by the pervy dads at school. He doesn’t want any other man to have you.”
With that simple sentence, she leaves me dumbstruck and heads for bed.
***
I feel calloused fingers gently pushing my hair behind my ear. A corduroy pillow, velvety and ribbed, rubs against my cheek, stirring me awake. The smell of egg sandwiches, beer, and sandalwood swirls in my nostrils.
When I pry my eyes open, I’m faced with Stan, looking rugged and heart-stopping as he sits on the coffee table watching me. Broad shoulders strain against his brown leather jacket, and strong thighs fill out a pair of faded blue jeans. Even his stupid, expensive leather boots are still on his feet.
It’s like he saw me lying here when he walked in and came straight for me.
He doesn’t want any other man to have you , Ruth’s voice echoes in my head.
I sit upright. “I swear she fell asleep first before I did.”
“I know,” Stan says. “I checked in on her, and she texted me good night.” He waves his phone at me. “Thank you. ”
I wipe the drool off my face, slightly embarrassed. “How was billiards? Did you get the contractor?”
“I did.” He breaks into a grin, the pearly whites reminiscent of when he’d gloat as a teen after winning some video game tournament.
I’m proud of him. And then… the urge comes back. His open legs, relaxed posture, and toothy grin. I want to accidentally touch his chest again. But I can’t. Not again.
“I… need to check on Ruth,” I say as I get to my feet. “Then I’ll go home.”
“You can stay here, you know? For the night, Miss Knight.”
The cute rhyme thing almost gets me, but I need to be careful. The quiet and the tension between us when we’re alone? I'm not risking it.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” I say and make my way upstairs, careful not to make any noise.
I wince as the floorboards creak beneath me. I let out a sigh of relief when I poke my head into Ruth’s room. With her black sheets and bright red lava lamp, it feels like Dracula’s lair in here.
I pull my hair down and drop the neon-pink scrunchie on her bedside table before taking a moment to watch her. She looks downright sweet when she’s sleeping. I resist the urge to kiss her forehead.
When I turn to leave, I skid to a halt. Stan followed me up here and caught me basically baby-gazing at his sleeping daughter. An expression has fallen over his face that I can’t quite place. It’s… soft. Laced with longing. We exchange no words, but as I pass him, his hand hovers over the small of my back. A whisper of a touch, nothing more.
He trails me down the stairs and goes for my jacket, holding it up with that signature smug look on his face. Right where it belongs. “I’m walking you home,” he whispers roughly.
There’s no may I , there’s no Sam, would you like —it’s just a fact. This is what he’s doing, and I strongly suspect if I told him not to, he’d ignore me and do it, anyway.
So I just shrug and say “okay” before sliding my arms into the sleeves .
We step out into the cool night and turn toward the lake. I could take the main road, but step for step, it’s probably three times as far. Plus, I love to pass by the water. Especially when it’s dark out, like tonight. This is when the soft lapping against the shore is the loudest, and the crescent moon casts a shimmering reflection off the inky water. There is no place in Chicago like this. No water like glass. No water that smells like fresh rain.
“You can leave me here,” I say when we get to the fence line. “I may go hang on the dock for a bit.”
Try to get my bearings.
Stan doesn’t pick up on my need for space. He nods but follows me onto the dock, hands shoved into his jean pockets. I don’t want to admit it, but I like that he followed me. We stand and stare at the lake, and I can’t help comparing the still, healing calmness to the hustle and turmoil that is Chicago. I love it here in Rose Haven.
“Do you think you’ll go back?” He rocks on his feet as he says it.
“Ruth asked me the same thing tonight.”
“Yeah? What did you tell her?”
“That this feels like home.”
“The job is yours for as long as you want it.”
I grin up at him. “Until I drive you crazy enough that you lose it and fire me.”
He snorts. “Do your worst, Miss Knight. That reminds me, we should make it more official. I’ll file that resume and you can send me your references. Then no one can ever say you got a handout.”
I freeze. References . Why had I not thought of references? I want to hug Stan for knowing me so well, knowing I’d never want to be perceived as getting a handout. I know he loves to jump to help me, but he’d never do anything that would make me feel indebted.
But right now, I want to pull the tiny hairs at the back of his neck for reminding me that my references are royally fucked.
I mean, Maxwell promised to give me a good reference, but I don’t know if he’s still there. He looked pretty miserable the last time I saw him, when he fired me. Maybe it was the last straw, and Henry has gotten rid of him.
My breathing speeds up as my anxiety rises. Again, I’m forced to think about a split second in time, an unwanted advance that should be easy to get over. But I’m not over it. I hear that sharp intake of breath echo in my ears and am transported to that conference room all over again.
“You all right?”
I hear the concern in his voice. Usually, I’d want to do everything in my power to avoid this kind of attention, to smooth things over and not be a problem for anyone. But maybe it’s too quiet, maybe I’m too tired, maybe I trust Stan more than I ever realized, and that’s why I’ve never felt the need to be perfect for him.
So I respond with a quiet “No.”
“Speak,” is all he says as he turns his body to face me, eager and battle-ready.
His stance makes all the memories of his protectiveness come back. He’s always been like this. And I keep showing him more reasons to be like this. Haven’t I used his kindness to my advantage one too many times?
“I was harassed…” I don’t even get the words out completely, and I can literally feel Stan’s anger radiating from him in waves.
“Who?” The question is simple and straight to the point, but I’m terrified. I know what Stan is capable of. I want to stop talking, but this… this is how I expected George to react. How I wanted him to react.
I recount my experience to Stan. How I was too dumb, trying to speak up against Henry’s harassment. How it cost me my dream job.
Stan doesn’t say anything as he listens, not blinking even as the tears start streaming from my eyes. Unlike George, he doesn’t give me pretty words that paper over the incident and do nothing to make it better. Instead, he reaches for me gruffly and tugs me against his chest. One strong arm clamps over my shoulders, and the other wraps around the back of my head like he’s shielding me. For the second time tonight, I feel his fingers in my hair. For the second time tonight, I take a deep inhale of his heady, masculine scent. For the second time tonight, tears fall. I don’t stop myself from nuzzling against his chest, his cotton shirt soaking up my tears.
“I’m a mess,” I blubber. “My life is a mess. I got fired. I’ve spent two years of my life with a perfectly decent man, and I don’t know how to tell him I’m not in love with him anymore. I’m living in my cousin’s guesthouse and cooking on a hot plate. I eat chips every day. I’m wondering how I can survive if I run out of the hush money I was paid. I feel guilty all the time for abandoning my life, for running away, for failing. And I’m so tired, Stan. I’m so fucking tired.”
His stubble prickles at my scalp as he presses a kiss to my hair and nuzzles his cheek on the top of my head. “Just rest for a minute, then, Sam. I got you. Rest easy, for my sake.”
His words only make me cry harder.
“No one should ever have made you feel like it’s your job to rise above this,” he continues, his voice firm. “You’re allowed to process however you need to.”
Then he lifts my face to gaze at him. He’s smiling, but there’s nothing but wrath in his eyes. “I’ll take care of everything. Just rest. You know I always do.”
“Don’t do anything, Stan. Telling you is enough for me,” I plead. “I haven’t told Lucas or my parents. Not even my boyfriend.”
“It’s safe with me,” he says and embraces me again, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead.
Then he lets me go and walks me to my door like a perfect gentleman. And when I crawl into bed, I don’t replay any of his words. With that secret off my chest, safe in Stan’s capable hands, I finally relax, melt into the bed, and sleep like the dead. Because as much as I don’t need a knight in shining armor to defend my honor, I’m relieved I have one who feels compelled to do so.