For the Longest Time (15 page)

Act natural. Act natural. Not a big deal. Jesus, Samantha, you'll be lucky if he's still awake when you get there.
Except that was bull. He'd be awake, and he'd be waiting.

She called her mother on the way to the grocery store to let her know she'd be back late, then headed to Fresh Pride and hurried in to grab what she needed. It had to be a quick meal to assemble, so pasta seemed the most
likely option. She was no gourmet chef, but she'd cooked often enough in the little apartment in New York, cramped though that sorry excuse for a kitchen had been. She had some ideas.

Ten minutes later, Sam emerged with the seven ingredients she needed and hopped back in the car. She made the quick drive to his house, then parked in the driveway and headed up the steps, hearing Tucker's excited barking from the moment she got out of the car. It seemed like a good idea to tighten her grip on the bag before she rang the doorbell, just in case. There was a bunch of thumping, a grumbled, “Damn it, Tucker,
sit
,” and then the door was opening.

She felt her heart clench as he smiled at her, his pretty eyes reddish and a little puffy, like he'd been rubbing them. Trying to stay awake, she thought, and melted just a little.

“You were serious,” he said, looking at the grocery bag and running a hand through hair that was already standing on end. On him, it was ridiculously appealing. So were the plaid pajama pants he was wearing with an old T-shirt. Everything hung just right on his tall, lean frame. It was enough to make a girl want to start removing those things with her teeth.

Sam shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying to stay focused on something other than Jake's pants. “Yes, well, don't get all excited. This is basically glorified mac and cheese.”

“I can't help it. Real food
is
very exciting.” He stepped aside. “Come on in. Tucker's pretending he has manners.”

She stepped inside and looked at the dog, who was only barely in what could be called a sitting position. His
entire body was wiggling, and he looked like the restraint that being in one place required was just about killing him.

“You have a treat in your hand, don't you?” she asked as she walked by.

“If there's another thing that would make him sit, I'm not aware of it.”

She eyed Tucker, whose attention was completely fixated on Jake's fisted hand. “Just give me a minute to get this stuff on the counter, okay? A running start.”

“I can do that, but you'd better hurry,” Jake said. “He's approaching critical mass.” Tucker was indeed starting to bounce his weight back and forth between his front paws, eyes now darting between Jake's hand and Sam.

“Crap,” Sam said, then dashed away on a hysterical giggle.

She flew down the hall and hung a left into the kitchen, getting the bag onto the counter just in time to hear Jake's “Good boy, Tucker!” Then there was the frantic clicking of nails on the wood floor racing in her direction, so she did the only thing she could think of. She put her back against the counter, crouched down, and braced herself.

“Incoming!” Jake called.

She managed a laugh before the impact sent her sprawling, and then she gave in, filling her hands with Tucker's soft fur and unsure whether it was the dog or Jake's throaty laugh that had taken her breath away.

T
wenty minutes later, Tucker panted happily by Sam's feet while she finished up the sauce for the cooked penne pasta. Jake had vanished without much fuss after she'd kicked him out of the kitchen. He looked like he needed to sit somewhere, and she needed to concentrate on what she was doing so that nothing, including herself, caught on fire.

That was less likely while he was being babysat by the sports channel and she didn't have to wonder whether he was looking at her butt.

The quiet, with nothing but the sounds of Tucker's breathing and the drone of the TV from the other room to break it, gave her some time to decompress. This was one of her favorite go-to recipes—just a little basil, a little garlic powder and black pepper, some heavy cream, half a cup of sun-dried tomatoes (several of which she may or may not have eaten while cooking), and a bag of shredded four cheese blend, and voilà! Sun-dried tomato cream sauce!

She poured it over the pasta in another pot, stirred it up, and then set it down on the stove so she could hunt up plates. After a few minutes of searching, she found them. They were old, probably hand-me-downs from his
mom, and dated, but they would work. Two plates went on the table, along with forks and a pair of mismatched glasses. She didn't even bother looking for napkins, instead just folding a couple of paper towels into something workable.

Some part of her had imagined him as perfect. This was actually sort of refreshing. He was such a
guy
.

“I smell food. Real food. How can this be?”

Her mouth curved up when she turned her head to look at him, standing in the doorway. “Magic. And the use of a couple of pots that I had to clean the dust out of. Sit.”

He obediently wandered over to the table and sat down. Sam grabbed the pot, along with the large spoon she'd found sitting all by its lonesome in a drawer, then walked over to put some of the pasta on each of their plates. By the time she sat back down, Jake just about had his nose in it. He hadn't picked up his fork, though.

“Aren't you going to eat?” she asked.

He raised his eyes to hers, honey gold in the light. Striking eyes, with lashes so dark that he could almost have been wearing mascara. She wondered fleetingly how he would look in guyliner and immediately had to stop thinking about it. He'd look like a pirate. A very bad pirate.

The kitchen suddenly felt much too warm.

Tucker flopped onto his side in front of the stove, gave a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes.

“The one thing he doesn't do is beg? Your dog is weird, Jake. Not that I'm complaining.”

“Me, either. Not begging is the first thing he and I worked on. He's really good about it, I just wish it hadn't taken up all the available space in that thick head of his.”
He forked up a bite, popped it in his mouth, and chewed slowly.

“Mmm,” he said, closing his eyes.

Sam watched him with wide eyes for a few seconds, then forced her gaze onto her own plate. This is what she got, she thought. This is what she got for not having sex for the last nine months. Okay, ten months. Barely. All Jake had to do was make something like an O face at his food, and her ovaries started the final countdown to explosion.

Maybe eating would fix that. Or maybe she would just stop being hungry and continue wanting to crawl across the table. That was more likely.

“This is awesome,” he said. “Thanks, Sam. This is at least a thousand times better than anything I would have come up with.”

She looked around. “You probably have a cupboard full of canned dinners and junk food, right?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“Tucker probably eats better than you do.” She forked up another bite, then looked around curiously. It was a nice kitchen, really. Maple cabinets, granite countertops. This was an older house, so someone had redone it in the not too distant past. But if it had been Jake, he hadn't gone to a lot of trouble setting it up afterward.

It just felt kind of empty.

“What's the deal with this place, anyway?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you have this nice big house close to downtown. Some recent remodeling. Actually really clean, especially for a guy. But there doesn't seem to be a lot in it. I mean, apart from the couch, the ugly recliner, and that huge TV. I definitely noticed the huge TV.”

“It's a man thing,” Jake said, his face completely serious. “We measure our masculinity by the size of our electronics. Didn't you know that?”

“It's something I've long suspected.” She stabbed several pieces of penne with her fork. “Masculine anthropology is a hobby of mine, you know.”

That made him laugh while she enjoyed the food. She'd done well, she decided. It wasn't gourmet, but it was good.

“I don't know,” he finally said. “It's just me and Tucker here. I liked the place. Figured I'd fill it up eventually. I just haven't had the time yet.”

“How long have you been in it?”

“Little over a year,” he replied, then arched an eyebrow at her look. “What? I work a lot.”

“I just hope you're not sleeping on a mattress on the floor. People who have dusty pots and one serving spoon do things like that,” she said. “And if you have one of those tie-dye blankets hanging on the wall for decoration anywhere in this house, I don't want to see. Ever.”

“Hey, I let my roommate keep that after college. And for your information, I have a perfectly good bed,” Jake said.

Her thoughts spiraled immediately back down into the gutter.
No. It's too soon, and you promised yourself you'd give this some time. Tying him to the bed doesn't fall into that category. Not even a little.

“Well,” she said out loud, “that's something, at least.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Sam started to worry that her thoughts were written all over her face. Especially the impure ones, since they were legion.

“What about you?” he finally said. “You're the one
who had a place in New York. So what was that like? I'm going to assume it was furnished better.”

She stiffened despite his smile. That stupid apartment . . . it made her stomach turn just thinking about it. It wasn't terrible, just tiny. But it had gotten to feel like a cage by the end. Okay, maybe it had actually been like living in one of the outer circles of hell.

“It wasn't that interesting, really.”

Jake looked skeptical. “Oh, come on. I'm the boring one. Small Town Vet Guy. I know everyone and don't go anywhere, remember? So tell me some stories. Or just brag about your furniture. I don't care. I want to hear about it.”

“I never said you were boring.” She'd implied his life was, though, and she knew it. That had mattered substantially less before she'd fallen back into the habit of liking him. The speed with which that had happened was really unnerving. Still, New York was a subject she didn't really want to canvass. Possibly ever.

“You've been in the city since college, right?” His voice softened a little. “You, ah . . . you were really determined to go. I remember. I know you went to NYU.”

“Who told you that? My mom?” she asked with a soft laugh. It had to be her mother. One thing Andi Henry was not shy about was bragging about her girls. It was a surprise when Jake dropped his gaze and shrugged.

“I might have had a look at your Web site once or twice.”

That floored her. All this time, she'd assumed he'd walked away and forgotten about her. Knowing he hadn't was . . . nice. And strange. And sweet.

And it hurt, though not with a sharp pain. This was
more of a dull ache that spoke to an old wound and the passage of a great deal of time.

“Oh,” was all she said. Then she fell silent, poking at her food while she turned this new bit of information over. He'd seen her work, she realized. Like Emma, he'd been watching from afar without her even being aware of it. Watching and, she thought, maybe even silently supporting. There was a strange sort of comfort in that, even if she didn't know quite what to say about it.

“So,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “New York. What is it like, living there? I've always wondered.”

Somewhere deep inside, she felt a part of herself she'd locked up tight begin to crack and crumble away. There were a bunch of things she didn't like to remember behind that barrier, but before she could shore it up, a little of the truth escaped.

“It was big. And noisy. And really amazing,” she said. “There's always someplace to go, something to do. When you live right in the city, like I did, it's easy to forget that anything exists outside of it. There's just so
much
, you know? It feels like the center of the universe.” She remembered how she'd felt at first, like everything she'd ever wanted was right there, just waiting for her to grab it. The city had pulsed with life, and she was a part of it. Finally a part of something bigger than herself.

It might have been an illusion, but it had been nice while it lasted.

Jake was nodding. “I've been to New York a couple of times. Loved visiting, but I have to be honest: I don't think I could live there. Times Square was nuts.”

Sam tried to smile, though it felt brittle. “Yeah, it's nuts because that's where the tourists go. It's a huge city, but I wouldn't call Times Square normal. You do have to
be okay with living basically on top of thousands of other people, but . . . it can still be pretty lonely.”

“Seriously? How can it be lonely when you can't hear yourself think?” he asked.

“Oh, you'd be surprised. After I was there a while, I figured out that crowds are some of the loneliest places you can be.”

“Is that why you stopped painting?” he asked. There wasn't even a hint of mockery in his words. Still, this was the last thing she wanted to discuss with him, or with anyone. Not even now, when she finally had a little bit of hope that she hadn't lost everything.
Especially
not now. Last night, she'd tapped into some part of herself she'd thought had vanished. Whether she could do it again was completely up in the air. And though she knew it was silly, she couldn't help but be afraid that she would jinx it just by acknowledging it.

The cool light of morning had shown her a partially finished painting that might just be good. Really good. But until it was done—until she was sure—it was only for her.

“I don't want to talk about it,” she said. The words were quick, automatic. To her they seemed innocuous enough. But she caught the flash of irritation on Jake's face before he looked away. Her hand tightened on her fork. It was so frustrating. How could she explain her issues to him when she didn't really understand all of them herself? She took a breath and tried again.

“Look, it's just a hard thing to talk about. I can't paint right now.”

“Can't?”

She wet her lips. “I have no idea what you want me to say. I can't. I don't. I don't because I can't. Does it really matter?” It didn't to her. The block mattered. So did
finding the mental dynamite to fix it. Not just a little, but all the way.

Jake heaved a sigh, and it rippled right through her. “Sure, it matters. I'm trying to get to know you, Sam. You're not making it easy.”

“That's not true.” Sam wrinkled her nose. “We've talked plenty. What am I making difficult?”

Jake's plate was clean, and he carefully set his fork down beside it. “You joke around with me, and you listen to me. Actually, I never realized how much listening to me you did back then. But I try to get beneath the surface and you put the brakes on. It's like everything before you came back is off limits.”

“Because it's not important,” she replied, forcing herself to keep her eyes locked with his. Maybe—maybe—he had a valid point. Joking and listening were comfortable. Talking about herself? Not so much. But poking at her wasn't going to get him what he wanted.

Jake stared at her, aghast. “How is it not important? Where you worked, people you knew, things you did, why you even came back . . . you're putting a huge part of yourself out of reach from the get-go. I don't even know what I'm allowed to ask you about. The weather?”

“Why are you so nosy?”

“Why are you so prickly?” he shot back.

Sam's voice rose. “Why can't you just be happy I'm here?”

Jake's rose accordingly. “Why can't you be happy I'm interested?”

She threw up her hands and let out a furious growl. “Stop pushing me! God! Were you always like this? You didn't give a damn what I thought about before, so why do you now?”

“That's bullshit,” Jake said flatly. “The difference is that before, I didn't have to ask. I might have done a lot of the talking, but you told me things. About how you wanted out, how much your art meant to you, how you were never going to try as hard as Emma had to fit in. You didn't understand your mom. You missed your dad.”

Sam stared at him, momentarily startled into silence. “I . . .”

“You thought I wasn't paying attention,” Jake said. “I might have been a typical self-absorbed teenager, but I heard every word you said, Sam. So don't tell me that I don't get to hear the rest of the story.”

“I thought we were starting over,” she said, knowing how defensive she sounded. She didn't know what to do with the intensity she saw looking back at her. The real Jake was turning out to be much different from the one she'd been constructing in her mind all this time. The hurt had colored her memories until she had forgotten how much he really
had
listened. Not only that, but he'd remembered.

“We
are
starting over,” Jake said. “I just want to know where you're starting from.”

She could tell him to piss off and walk away, she knew. But all that was going to do was add to her pile of regrets. She had to learn to deal with all this baggage before it spilled all over everything here and made it impossible to dig out. But sitting here with Jake was a start, she thought. It could be a start, if she let it. Especially when he was looking at her like he didn't know whether to kiss her or shout at her. She took a deep breath. Sighed. And spoke.