Chapter 13
Penny
Sam and I are still running on post-signing adrenaline, the kind that feels like I’ve had five cups of coffee before bed.
Scores of swooning readers, beaming smiles and selfies galore.
Sam handled it like a natural, except I could tell he was uncomfortable when women tried to flirt with him.
His magnetic, golden-brown eyes and bulging biceps were mentioned on more than one occasion, and all I could think was, “Same, girl. Same.”
“I can’t believe how well that went,” I say as I merge onto the two-lane highway toward Whynot. Sam’s riding home with me, while Derek, much to his dismay, is driving Sam’s truck back. He grumbled about it, but Sam merely pointed out that it was the price he’s paying for Sam’s newfound fame.
“You had people crying with happiness to see you, Sam,” I muse, watching firsthand proof that his stories deeply resonated with those women.
“They were crying because I looked like a fish out of water,” he says dryly.
“They were crying because you made them feel something,” I say gently, side-eyeing him. “Which is a gift. Most men can’t evoke such feeling because they’re not great at managing emotions.”
He shoots me a look, half-amused, half-exhausted. “I’ll have to disagree with you on that. Besides… I’ll have you know, I’m capable of at least three emotions… hunger, sarcasm and panic.”
“Truly incredible,” I tease. “Men everywhere need lessons from you.”
He smiles, leaning back in the seat, his hand finding mine on the console.
It’s a move that’s strange given our recent reconnection and yet feels totally natural, like our digits should have crossed long ago.
“Thanks for being there,” he says, head rolling to look at me.
“I didn’t realize how much I needed you until I looked up and saw you laughing in the corner. ”
“Laughing with you, not at you,” I clarify. “Mostly.”
He chuckles. “Mostly.”
We lapse into comfortable silence as we cross the bridge into town. For a few quiet minutes, everything feels easy.
“You gonna talk to your parents tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I need to. Derek has a newsletter blast going out tomorrow morning and he’s going to hit all the social media channels. I’m out of time.”
“Remember… what you’ve accomplished is incredible and you should be proud.”
“I am,” he says, turning his gaze to me. “Just hope it goes better than I’m picturing.”
My focus cuts from the road to him, and my heart aches a little over the worried expression creasing his forehead as he stares out at the passing scenery. But then his eyes widen in astonishment, and I turn my attention forward.
“What the hell is that?” Sam asks, sitting up straighter.
Because gathered right in front of the courthouse is a group of people walking in a small, circular picket line. They’re waving homemade signs and the leader, Mrs. McCreery, a retired schoolteacher, is shouting something through a megaphone.
I slow the car. “Looks like… a protest?”
Sam squints. “A protest against what? We haven’t had a scandal since Floyd accidentally set fire to his yard last Fourth of July.”
I roll closer to the curb, reading the signs as we approach.
Protect Our Youth—Ban Filth!
Keep Smut Out of Whynot!
Romance Novels Rot the Soul!
I blink. “Are they—? They can’t be—?”
Then I see it.
Right there in red block letters, outlined with glitter for flair:
SAM-PETE ROCHELLE—REPENT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!
“Holy—”
“Fuck,” Sam mutters, cutting me off. “That’s my name.”
“You don’t say,” I deadpan.
He points. “That one literally has my face taped to a devil emoji.”
“Oh, that’s creative,” I say faintly.
“Pull over,” he says, already unbuckling. I hear the anger in his voice.
“Sam, wait—”
“Penny. Pull. Over.”
I do, but my heart’s hammering as he jumps out and strides toward the group of protestors like a man marching into his own intervention.
The crowd parts when they see him. Murmurs ripple down the line. And then, because Whynot loves spectacle, one voice rises above the rest.
“Well, if it isn’t the sinner himself!”
“Fuck,” I drawl under my breath as I rush after him.
Sam’s mom is front and center, clutching a sign that says Books of Lust Have No Place in God’s Town. Her expression is a mix of righteous indignation and maternal betrayal.
“Mama?” Sam says with exasperation. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t you mama me!” she fires back. “Do you know how humiliated your father and I are? How could you write something like this? Dirty books!”
Sam looks irritated, but he holds his composure. “They’re romance novels.”
“They’re filth, Samuel Peter Rochelle!” She cuts a glance at me as I come to stand at his side. “I raised you better than this!”
He blows out a breath of frustration and rakes a hand through his hair. “I was on my way to tell you when I saw this going on in town. Wait a minute… how did you even find out?”
That’s a good question because the only two residents of Whynot who know this about Sam are me and Pap, and I know neither of us would reveal that secret.
Her eyes flash. “Delores Jenkins’s sister Beth Ann was in Raleigh visiting her grandbaby, and she stopped in that bookstore for a latte.
She saw your name on those books and nearly dropped dead when she saw you.
She called Delores, who called Betty Sue, who told Patty at the salon, who told her husband, who told his mama, who called me! ”
Sam blinks. “That’s… impressive.”
She sniffs. “Sin moves fast, son. Faster than gossip, and that’s saying something.”
The old gossip mill.
Not the most reliable way to find out the news, but it’s existed for hundreds of years, I’m sure.
I bite the inside of my cheek to contain my laugh—it would’ve popped out if not for the fatigue I see etched in Sam’s features.
He tries to reason with her. “Mama, I’m not writing anything bad. My stories are about people falling in love. There’s hope, redemption, emotion—”
“There’s fornication,” she hisses.
“There’s consent,” he counters, exasperated. “And context. And—Mama, have you even read one?”
“Of course not!” she says, horrified. “I don’t fill my head with trash.”
“Maybe you should,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “And his writing is amazing. There’s nothing wrong with fiction about two consenting adults who choose to have a loving, intimate relationship.”
Because honestly… that’s probably where Sam and I are headed, if evidenced by the way he’s kissed me so far.
Sam whips me a look like Please don’t, but I just shrug.
His mom gasps and clutches her chest. “Oh, I am praying for you both.”
“You tell him, Nancy.”
“Your father’s at home lying down,” she continues dramatically. “His blood pressure shot right up. The man nearly fainted when he heard!”
“I’m sure he’ll pull through,” Sam says dryly.
“Don’t get smart with me, young man! You need to put a stop to this foolishness immediately.”
I can tell the last of Sam’s patience has worn thin. “Mama… this is my career. This is what I do for a living. I can’t stop and I don’t want to stop.”
She snorts. “What kind of career could you ever make writing trashy books?”
“They’re not trashy,” he grits through his teeth. “But to answer your question, the type of career that enabled me to build a two-million-dollar house out on Haws Run Road.”
Shock registers on his mother’s face and her mouth sags. It’s then that I notice all the other protestors have gone quiet, moved in close, and are listening. The minute Sam reveals his house, their heads all tilt toward one another, hands over their mouths so whispers can’t be heard.
His mama doubles down though. “I maintain that’s not a real job. Profiting off filth.”
Sam groans softly. “It’s a real job. I pay taxes.”
Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the crowd. “What in the name of sweet tea and thunder’s goin’ on here?”
Floyd Barbour comes striding across the square like he’s leading a cavalry charge. He’s wearing his trademark overalls but weirdly, he’s sporting a sweatband pink as bubblegum around his forehead with matching ones at his wrist. I spy a yoga mat under one arm and a determined look in his eye.
Sam’s mama points at her son and tells Floyd, “My son decided he wants to be a romance writer, and we cannot tolerate such a drift away from our Christian conservative values.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Floyd says. “Whynot’s gossip network runs faster than broadband and twice as loud. If NASA ever needs to transmit data to Mars, they should just hire the men and women of this town and give them a group text.” Floyd turns to Sam. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks, Floyd.” Sam returns a smile.
“Ban filth! Ban filth!” the small crowd of ladies starts to chant.
“Unbelievable,” Floyd mutters. “I go to puppy yoga for one hour and I come back to find y’all tryin’ to exorcise romance outta Whynot?”
“It’s not just romance books,” a lady calls from the rear. “We’re going to petition the city council to ban a long list of books that are an affront to God.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but Floyd seems more incensed. He plants himself next to Sam, puffing up like a bantam rooster. “You folks better back off. You’re talkin’ about a good man here. He’s not corruptin’ anyone. He’s out there makin’ a livin’ and puttin’ Whynot on the map!”
Sam looks touched but wary. “Thanks, Floyd, but—”
“Don’t you worry about this,” Floyd says, adjusting his sweatband. “I’ll handle things.”
Sam’s brow furrows. “Handle what exactly?”
Floyd just grins. “You’ll see. I’ve got an idea, but I need to talk to Morri about it.”
“What kind of idea?” I ask, because Floyd’s done some bananas-crazy stuff before.
He glares at the women who’ve gone back to marching in a circle. “Operation Literary Liberation’s about to begin.”
He stomps off down Main Street like he’s heading to war, Floyd shouting something about “strategic signage” and “borrowin’ the karaoke speaker from Chesty’s.”
Sam sighs. “That cannot end well.”
I laugh, looping my arm through his. “Let ’em. They’ll probably scare half these people straight.”
He looks at me, still dazed. “This day has gone completely off the rails.”
“Welcome to Whynot,” I say.
He glances toward the picketers still chanting faintly in the background, his mama leading the pack.
“I’ve gotta go talk to my parents some more.
I can’t leave it like this.” He then glances across the square to Millie’s Bed-and-Breakfast, nodding toward his truck sitting there.
“I’ll check in with Derek first, then head to my parents’ place.
Maybe by then they’ll have calmed down a bit. ”
“That’s a good idea.” I glance at my watch, noting I really need to get over to the diner and check on things. I rise on my toes and kiss Sam, soft but sure. “You’ve earned this. You’ve hidden long enough.”
To my surprise, Sam’s arms go around my waist, and he pulls me in tight. I can see the ladies watching us as they wave their signs in the air.
I turn, smile sweetly, and call, “Romance novels are not the devil’s breeding ground!”
The entire crowd goes still.
Then, for good measure, I add, “They’re just good for the circulation!”
Sam groans, laughing as he buries his face in my neck and squeezes me. “You’re gonna get us run out of town.”
“Maybe.” I grin, pulling away from him. “But at least we’ll go viral.”
I start walking backward toward my car, keeping my gaze on him because he looks too good to walk away from.
And the way he’s staring at me makes me feel lighter than I’ve ever felt before.
I remember that buzzy feeling when I got my job offer and moved to DC.
I walked the streets feeling like nothing could hold me down.
This feels even better.
Just looking at this man makes me feel that way, and it intrigues as much as it worries me. I’m concerned that I’ve never felt this way about another man and yet, I don’t want to turn away from it.
Sam points at me. “What time are you going to be done at the diner?”
I continue my backward walk. “Close to nine.”
“Come by my place? I’ll have a good bottle of wine, and we’ll celebrate my coming out.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and when he winks at me, I have to turn away or else I’ll die from the euphoria of it all.