Layover Rules

Chapter Thirteen



I awoke the next morning to my phone ringing. I looked at the clock. 6:23. My first thought was that it was way too early for anyone to be calling. My second thought was that it was a miracle I’d gotten any sleep at all after what Sam had revealed to me before leaving the night before.

Going from Phoenix back to New York and then to San Francisco all in the span of a week, my body’s clock couldn’t have been more screwed up. I rolled toward the night table across the bed, grabbed the phone and saw that it was Alicia calling.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I groaned.

“Yeah. It’s almost 9:30.”

I rolled over and wrapped myself in the comforter. “For you.”

“You’re not on west coast time yet. You’ve only been there two days.”

“I was up very late last night.”

“Oooh, tell.”

I told her everything, including the condom fiasco.

When I was finished she said, “I want your life.”

“Actually,” I said, “you don’t. And you have no idea how much you don’t.”

“Oh, God. What now?”

When I told her about Sam being a victim of Trevor’s scheme, she was speechless, a first for her. Finally, though, she said, “Oh. My. God. What the f*ck?!”

“Yeah, that’s what I keep asking myself. That, and how I should tell him about my relationship with Trevor.”

“Tell him? Why?”

“Because he got ripped off by my ex, Alicia.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but you didn’t do it. Plus, you’re basically just sleeping with him. It’s not like you’re going to end up in anything serious with him, right?”

“Right.”

“Just like you said—have fun, none of the emotional baggage, no expectations…hell, I would jump on that. Literally.”

“I don’t know. It’s just so weird right now. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Though I guess you could tell him,” she said. “Get it out there. You’d feel better. And I’m sure he’ll understand that you weren’t a part of it.”

I was quiet as I thought it over.

Alicia continued, “I actually don’t think you’re doing any harm, either way. Shit. I have to get going. I need to get started on coming up with a menu.”

“What’s the event?”

“Retirement party. Guy who works on Wall Street. Sounds familiar. Hey, maybe I’ll meet my dream—”

“Bye, Alicia,” I interrupted, my voice altered from stretching as I stood.

“I was kidding! Talk to you later. Love you.”

“You too.”



. . . . .



“Just a towel?” Sam said. “I’ll be right over.”

“You wish.”

“Actually, I do. But I couldn’t even if I wanted to. That’s why I’m calling.”

I was in the bathroom, putting my make-up on, and I stopped when he said that. “You have to cancel?”

“No, we’re still on. I’m just going to be a little later than I thought. My lawyer is calling in a few minutes to go over some of the financial documents from those investments I made.”

“Oh…” I didn’t know what to say beyond that.

“Yeah, it sucks. I’m sorry.”

Hearing him apologize for being late due to having to deal with Trevor’s crimes against him tore me apart.

“Don’t be sorry,” I said, “it’s not your fault.”

“Sometimes I wish all this legal stuff wasn’t necessary. I’d like to handle the problem myself. And I’m not even a violent guy. It’s not like it would matter, either, because I’ll never see that money again.”

“Really?”

“The chance of recovery is slim. At least for full recovery. I might get some small percentage back, but it’ll take some luck to get any of it back anytime soon.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m not broke or anything. I’m no financial wizard, but I was smart enough to hire an accountant when I was playing. So I’ll be okay.”

I was relieved to hear that. For a second I’d started to think the reason he was doing the baseball broadcasting was because he had to.

“And there’s the book money, too,” he said. “I got a nice advance on it and when it hit the bestseller list a few weeks ago, sales really soared.”

“That’s great,” I said, the words coming out flatter than I’d intended.

“And you were one of those sales, even though you might not ever read it.”

I sighed. “I promise I’ll get to it.”

“Hey,” he said, “I’m just teasing. But it’s a pretty good book, if I do say so myself.”

“Maybe I should cancel our plans and read all day.”

“Well, it’s not that good...”



. . . . .



Beth called just as I was leaving the hotel to meet Sam outside. She wanted an update on the local store, I gave it to her, then told her I’d be checking out some of our competition most of the day, just to cover myself in case she called the store.

“Send some pictures, especially of anything really innovative. I’ve heard some good things about our competitors in the area, and I’m hoping they aren’t true.”

It wasn’t as though she was trying to verify that I was doing what I said I’d be doing. Sending pictures of the competition was pretty standard. I don’t know why I hadn’t considered that the night before when I agreed to hang out with Sam.

He was walking down the sidewalk just as I hung up with Beth.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. “We only have a few minutes.”

“For what?”

“Just wait and see,” he said.

A few blocks away, we boarded a cable car for a tour of the city. We made it just in time for the first tour of the day, starting at 9 a.m.

I had seen cable cars on on television and in the movies, but I’d never been on one. It was unlike any other vehicle I’d ever experienced, and a perfect way to see some San Francisco highlights.

The bell clanged and we were off, down the middle of the street, with traffic lanes for cars on either side of the tracks. The ride was smooth, but loud, both from the rumbling of the cable car itself, and also from the loudspeaker broadcasting the tour guide’s directions to look this way or that, as we passed various landmarks.

Even at that hour of the morning, the sidewalks were alive with the art of San Francisco—people sitting around playing music on guitars, keyboards, even a large xylophone, their instrument cases open for tips; people dancing solo or in groups, crowds gathering around the most creative ones; mimes performed for smaller audiences; two people were dancing while doing handstands.

I loved New York and still found new things that interested me from time to time, but this was a city like none other I’d experienced—from the people, to the great food, and gorgeous architecture, to…well, just about everything. It would be a nice place to live, I thought, although I’d have to get used to the people shouting about politics, a subject I detested.

Sam asked if I liked Chinese food and when I said yes, he told me he knew just the place.

We made our way to Chinatown, which, to my eye, looked a lot like I would expect a bustling Chinese city to look like. Busy restaurants, shops, and markets lined the streets, all adorned with colorful signs bearing Chinese characters. Paper decorations and banners swayed in the air, suspended across the street by strings that stretched from building to building. Sam had mentioned that it was like entering a completely different culture, and that’s exactly how I felt as I walked around, fascinated.

Our last stop of the day involved taking a bus across the Golden Gate Bridge so we could walk back over it into the city. As long as I’d lived in New York City, I’d never been to the top of the Empire State Building, and I’d certainly never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I had a lifelong fear of heights.

When I mentioned my phobia to Sam he said, “You’re squeezing my hand really tightly.”

“Now you know why.”

“You can do this,” he said. “Trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I squeezed his hand harder, and we started the walk, with Sam to my left, so he was between me and the side of the bridge.

We moved slowly, other couples and groups of tourists passing us.

Halfway across, he stopped. “Look out there.”

My gaze followed to where he was pointing.

“Alcatraz,” he said.

The entire walk took just over twenty minutes, and my fear level remained manageable, so it wasn’t too bad.

When we got to the other side, I said with particularly heavy sarcasm, “I have to tell you, walking on a bridge that’s like a million feet in the air, and stopping to look at what is possibly the world’s most famous prison…so romantic!”

“I thought romance is against the rules,” he said.

I crossed my arms. He had me there.

Sam had to get ready for that night’s broadcast, so we cabbed back to his hotel, where we parted ways. He had to take a shower and get over to the stadium, and I still had to stop in some stores and get pictures to send to Beth. I’d almost forgot about that.

He stepped out of the cab to kiss me goodbye and it was at that moment that I almost spilled the secret, but I quickly caught myself. The time wasn’t right—I didn’t want to ruin a fine day, and Sam looked so happy at the moment.

Plus, I didn’t have to own up to anything. Trevor was in my past, and I intended to keep him there. I hadn’t committed those crimes. I had nothing to do with Trevor’s scheme, and I had no clue it was going on until the rest of the world did, when it hit the news.

Alicia was right. There was nothing serious between us, so not telling Sam wasn’t a serious thing.

Later that night, though, I wanted a second opinion. I called Ross and Steven.

They put me on speaker and the three of us dissected the issue.

“Jesus, that’s messed up,” Ross said when I finished telling them all the details.

“So, I’m thinking I should tell Sam,” I said.

“Why?” Steven asked.

“Here’s what keeps stopping me,” I said, and ran through all the reasons I shouldn’t be feeling guilty about not telling him.

“Helllooo?” Ross sing-songed. “There’s your answer right there. You didn’t do anything illegal, you didn’t steal his money, you’re not even talking to Trevor anymore—well, I guess no one is, except for his lawyer and his cellmate—so it’s not a big deal. Actually, it isn’t even a small deal. It’s not a deal at all.”

I was feeling better hearing Ross’s words.

Then Steven said, “If it’s such a small deal, maybe she should tell him.”

Great. That really muddied the waters yet again. Though I do have to admit, he had a point. This could go either way.

“Why?” Ross asked Steven. “She’s not dating him. She’s not planning on a long-term relationship. Are you, Blair?”

“No,” I said.

“Well,” Ross said, “you know how I predicted you’d start to feel something for Sam. But if you’re sure, well, there you go. That’s your answer. I wouldn’t even bring it up.”

It still felt selfish, wrong even, to keep it from Sam. But I kept coming back to one simple thought: what difference did it make? There was nothing I could do about the situation. I couldn’t go back in time and make Trevor unsteal Sam’s money, anymore than I could have prevented Trevor from doing it when I was with him.

And if I could go back in time, the one thing I would do differently is that I’d never see Trevor again after meeting him the first time at that art show.



. . . . .



Sam had a book signing the afternoon of my last day in San Francisco, so I left work early and found the store where his event was taking place. I snuck in late, planning to recreate that moment when I heard him in the bookstore in New York City. I wanted to hear his presentation without him knowing I was listening.

This was an independent bookstore, much smaller, quaint. There was a little bell on the door that rang as I entered, and as soon as I heard it I looked around, thankful that I hadn’t drawn attention to myself.

I could hear Sam’s voice in a section of the store blocked off by a row of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was no way for him to have seen me anyway.

Standing there, I thought again that I really should read his book. I wasn’t deliberately avoiding it. It was just something that wasn’t on my current to-do list. I’d get around to it, eventually.

I listened to Sam’s brief talk, during which he told the audience about the injury. He had just hit a ball deep in the right field corner, and was sliding into second base for a double.

“Sometimes I think I heard it before I felt it,” he said. “And sometimes I’m not sure. Maybe all the pain killers did something to my memory of the injury.” He paused. “That was a joke. It’s okay to laugh during a serious story.”

The audience obliged him.

“Not that I’m begging for laughter,” he continued. “I’d never make it as a stand-up comic.”

The people laughed again, and I caught myself smiling at his easy-going way with humor.

He went on to say that laughter helped him get through many tough days after the injury, and that was one of the biggest lessons he’d learned from it.

“They teach you how to slide pretty young,” he said. “I think I learned it in little league, although at that age it’s more of a crash landing than a slide.”

I tried to picture a little Sam hitting the dirt and coming to an abrupt halt in a cloud of dust, nowhere near touching the base.

“So that night, I got the hit, rounded first, and I knew that the two guys on base would score, giving us the lead again. If I made it safely to second base, that would put me in scoring position, and if the next guy hit even a single, I’d score, giving us a two-run lead. So I was determined to make it to second base.”

I found myself lifting my hand to my mouth, picturing the image he was painting, waiting in suspense to find out what happened. Why hadn’t I looked this up before? If only I’d read his book.

“It was looking like a close play, so I knew I’d have to slide. Routine stuff in baseball. I don’t know how many times I’d done it. A few hundred, maybe? Anyway, they later called it a freak accident. Nobody, including the doctors, had seen anything like it in a baseball game before. I slid and hit the base just the wrong way—my foot was flat against it and my whole body stopped immediately. The pressure cracked my fibula and tibia, both bones in the shin.”

There was an audible collective gasp from the audience, my own a part of the chorus.

“I saw the blood immediately, but I wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Trainers and the team doc were out there in seconds. They cut my pant leg open and that’s when we all saw the bone sticking out.”

More gasping and groaning….

“I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details. Within a couple of hours I was in surgery, and when I woke up, they had put two rods in my lower leg and my career was over.”

It was a horrifying story, and it took me a few minutes to refocus on Sam’s talk, after I realized he didn’t even limp when he walked. There was no sign of an old injury.

I tuned back in just as he was wrapping up. I recognized the end of it: “You’ll never have another today. And although this today is almost over, don’t waste it.”

The host—I assumed the owner of the bookstore—opened the floor up to questions. Sam took a few from guys about different aspects of baseball, about his injury, and the surgery and recovery that followed.

Then a woman’s voice asking a question: “How in the world are you single? I can’t believe some lucky girl hasn’t snatched you off the market.”

There was laughter from the audience, the kind of uncomfortable amusement that stems from feeling embarrassed for someone.

Sam added to it by saying, “Is that an offer?”

The laughter this time was more about humor than awkwardness, as it had been just seconds before. Sam had turned the mood just like that.

I didn’t feel the least bit jealous. It was clearly a joke. What I did feel was curiosity. Why hadn’t that happened in his life? It wasn’t all that unusual for men in their thirties to be single, but everyone had a story, and Sam and I hadn’t shared our stories yet, because of the Layover Rules.

“Well, I’m on the road a lot, even in the off-season, so there’s very little time for a full social life, let alone dating. It’s really no more interesting than that. Sorry. Oh, and the book signings also take up time, so in a way, you’re to blame.”

That gave the people a good chuckle, and it continued when the next person, a guy, started to ask his question and Sam interrupted with: “Sir, you’re not going to ask me out are you?”

I loved Sam’s sense of humor. He was funny with me, but he was really on his game when in front of a crowd.

A few minutes later, Sam said, “Any other questions?” A slight pause, and then, “Okay then. Thank you very much for coming out.”

The host took the microphone and announced the procedure for the line to have books signed.

At that point, I would have gone to say hello to him, but I thought it might be too obvious to other people that I wasn’t there for the signing. I didn’t want to make the situation awkward for him. So I left, a little smile on my face, knowing that I would soon see him, despite his claim that his busy schedule prevented him from having a social life. Thinking about it in that light made our clandestine hook-ups all the more exciting.

I decided to get take-out from a deli, and on my way I texted Sam: See you later tonight. Just come to my room.

He texted back a few minutes later: I’ll be there by 10. Going to keep you up very late.



. . . . .



I had just sat down with my soup and salad when my parents called. I almost didn’t answer it when I saw the Caller ID. Our last conversation hadn’t gone well and the last thing I wanted was for them to ruin my trip. But I answered it anyway.

When I did, I couldn’t have been more shocked.

“We just spent the last two hours with an FBI agent in our living room,” my mother said. “Blair, you need to tell us just how involved you are in this.”

“They came to your house?”

I felt like I was going to vomit.

“Yes,” my mother said. “What have you done?”

“I’m not involved at all,” I insisted.

“Then why is the FBI asking us where they can find you?”

“I…I don’t know. I mean, obviously it has something to do with Trevor, but I haven’t done anything wrong. What were they asking about?”

My father took over. “They wanted to know what we knew about your possessions, whether you had a car under another name—”

“Oh, my god. No, I don’t have a car. And under another name? What?”

“That’s what they asked about,” my father said. “And money. They wanted to know if we thought you had money, any accounts of yours that we had access to—”

“Oh, my god.”

“And,” my mother said, “they asked us to tell them everything we knew about your relationship with Trevor. Apparently they think…we…” she started to cry.

“What? They think what?” I said.

My father finished for her. “They knew we hadn’t talked to you in a while and they wanted to know if Trevor had paid us to stay away from you.”

I closed my eyes and tried to hold back my emotions, the anger along with the fear like a virtual tornado in my mind, scattering my thoughts, rendering me incapable of comprehending what was happening to my life.

“I’m sorry.” It was all I could manage to say. It was genuine, I didn’t want them to get caught up in this, but my mind quickly switched into self-preservation mode.

Shit.

Had they called my office or, even worse, showed up there? Probably not. Beth would have called me to ask about it. Just what I needed—the FBI snooping around asking questions about me while I’m in the running for a big promotion.

“Did they ask you how to get in touch with me?”

“That was the first thing they asked,” my father said. “We gave them your phone number, but we don’t even have your new address.”

“What about work? Did they ask where I work?”

“No.”

That meant they already knew.

I stood, not sure why, then sat back down. “I have to go.”

My father raised his voice: “Blair, hang on a minute. I’m calling Bob Rantham. It doesn’t matter if you’re innocent. You’re going to need a lawyer. I’ll call you back.”

“Thank you, and I’m so sorry.”



. . . . .



It wasn’t even five minutes after hanging up with my parents that the FBI called me, an Agent Cooper. The conversation was short: he wanted to know where I was; I told him; he asked when I was coming back; I said tomorrow; and we set up a time for me to come to the FBI office in Manhattan for an “interview.” That’s what he called it. An interview. I doubted very much it would feel like any one I’d ever been on.

I called my parents back. My father answered, said he was on the other line with Bob Rantham, and then switched it to a conference call.

I told Mr. Rantham that I’d just spoken with the FBI agent, and that I had already set up a meeting with them.

He said to my father, “Let’s hang up and I’ll call Blair back in a few minutes.”

I gave him my number and he called me almost immediately.

“Sorry for the confusion,” he said. “Your dad’s offered to pay, but you’re my client and I want you to feel free to tell me the truth so I wanted him off the line.”

“Thank you.” Even though I had nothing to hide, I still didn’t want my parents wrapped up in this any more than they already were.

“Now, what time did you set up the interview?”

There it was again. Interview. Somehow it didn’t sound as ominous, now that I had a lawyer. Jesus. Lawyered up, all because of Trevor.

“I leave at six-forty, Pacific time, and I’ll be back in New York by 4 or so, local time. I told him I could be there by five.”

“Give me the agent’s name and contact info, and I’ll call and arrange everything. You and I will need to meet before we go over there.”

“You’re going with me?”

“Absolutely.”

“What do you think they want with me? I mean, am I going to get mixed up in this?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “They would have been on you long before now if they had anything concrete. Actually, I’m not sure what took them so long, but we’ll find out tomorrow. For now, just try to relax and get through your night. I know it’s scary, but I’ve been through this hundreds of times with clients. We’ll get you through it.”

I felt a little more relieved. Actually, a lot more. But not quite enough to relax when Sam arrived.



. . . . .



“I don’t know how much fun I’m going to be tonight,” I told Sam when he got to my room.

“What’s the matter? You look—”

“Like shit, I know.”

He reached for me and took me in his arms. “That’s not what I was thinking. I was going to say you look like you’ve been crying, but you also look angry.”

He had read me perfectly. As I sat there alone in the hotel room after hanging up with Mr. Rantham, I kept the baseball game on, not so much watching the game itself, but listening to Sam’s voice. It was my only form of comfort.

The truth was, I had been crying. But Sam was right—it was as much out of anger and frustration as it was fear or self-pity. I took responsibility for the decision to be with Trevor, so I couldn’t blame him for wasting almost a year of my life. What I could blame him for, though, was the current position I was in. I had done nothing wrong. My being questioned by the FBI was all his fault. I thought I had successfully deleted him from my life, but I didn’t have as much control as I thought I’d regained. F*ck him.

Sam held me close but lifted his head and looked me in the eyes. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” I lied.

“You’re sad and angry at the same time over nothing?”

There was no way I could tell him now. I was already sick to my stomach over it, feeling an enormous amount of guilt from having my parents pulled into Trevor’s vortex of lies.

As selfish as it may sound, I have to admit that what I wanted was just to be next to Sam.

I sighed and lowered my gaze to his chest. I couldn’t look him in the eyes. “I’m not sad.”

“Then what are you angry about?”

Answering him would require me telling him about Trevor. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Then, I thought of a sort of escape hatch from the conversation. “Actually, you know, I can’t talk about it. It would be against the rules.”

“Which one?”

I let go of him, and he let his hands fall away. I walked over to the table where I grabbed a tissue. “The one about no current personal stuff.” I wiped my eyes and nose, then picked up my soda and sipped from the straw.

“You and your rules.”

“Our rules,” I said. “Not just mine. We agreed on them.”

“I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“Stop,” I said.

What we had between us was good. Just what I wanted and even more importantly just what I needed. Fun. A fling. Learning to fly free again.

The last thing I wanted was to allow something from my past to become a drain on our relationship. Or whatever it was.

“Please don’t,” I added.

He put up his hands as if surrendering. “I’ll stop. You’re right.”

Free. That’s exactly how I’d felt for the last four months, and especially since I’d been spending time with Sam. I just wanted a little more of that tonight. At least before I absolutely had to tell him about Trevor.

I led him over to the bed and we lay together, quietly, for a few minutes.

“I was at your event today.”

He looked surprised, cocking his head to the side a little. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just wanted to hear you talk.”

“And?”

I smiled for the first time that evening. “It was really great.”

“You should read the book,” he said, moving out of the way just in time to dodge my hand swinging for a slap at his shoulder.

“Does it ever hurt? Your leg?”

He shook his head. “No. And the best part is, I can bang it into a coffee table and it hurts less than it would if I had never had the injury.”

He said it with a straight face. I knew he was kidding, though, trying to make me laugh like he always did, but I managed to return the look back at him.

“Come on,” he said, “that was at least a little funny.”

“It was, but I didn’t feel like giving you the satisfaction.” I sat up. “Show it to me.”

“The scar? You’ve never noticed it?”

I reached for his shin. “I’ve always focused on other parts of you.”

He sat up. “It’s not that big—”

“Oh, I think it is.”

He froze, turned his head, smiled, and said, “I’m talking about the scar, Blair.”

I gave him a little laugh.

He grabbed the cuff of his jeans leg, lifted it, and showed me the scar. What there was of it. The surgeons had done a pretty good job of minimizing the damage.

“This is where the bone poked through,” he said, pointing.

I touched the spot and then started feeling his shin, running my finger up and down the faint scar line.

“I can’t imagine…” I said, my voice trailing off.

“I don’t have any other scars, but you’re welcome to examine the rest of me if you’d like.”

I did like the idea, and within seconds I was stripping him of his clothes. Sam lay on his back, head propped up on the pillows. I kissed him, lightly biting his lower lip, before moving down to his chin, neck, chest, sliding down his naked body while I was still fully clothed.

I kept my eyes trained on his face as I took him into my mouth. Sam threw his head back on the pillows and let out a hiss, then immediately looked back down the length of his torso at me.

He reached down and swept my hair out of the way, giving himself a good view of my face and what I was doing. Tucking my hair behind one ear, he pulled his hand away and put it behind his head as he continued to watch.

His lips were slightly parted, mouth slightly open, but after barely more than a minute, he gasped, “I can’t take any more of this.”

Swiftly, he moved, flipping me over, and I found myself lying on my back. Sam unbuttoned and unzipped my slacks. I raised my hips so he could work them down my legs.

There was an urgency to his actions—positioning himself between my legs as he pulled my shirt up; sliding his hands under my back and unclasping my bra with ease; his tongue playfully licking at my lips, and my tongue reaching out for his.

Sam moved his hips just enough to press against me, right on the spot, the motion igniting all of my senses.

If he’d been aiming to tease, it worked. And now it was my turn.

I reached down between us and cupped him.

His eyes widened. “You’re making me feel like a horny college kid again.”

I moved my hand more, caressing him. “Trust me, you don’t feel anything like that.”

He sat up, reached for his jeans on the edge of the bed, retrieved a condom from his pocket, raised it to his mouth, bit the corner of it, and tore the package open with his free hand.

His other hand was between my legs, his thumb making little circles, keeping me primed.

The last time, we had both been overeager, the two of us like a flash of unrestrained yearning, but this time we were slower, more deliberate.

As he rubbed against me, teasingly, Sam lowered his head, paying special attention to one nipple and then the other. I watched as he worked it to a peak with his tongue and some light teeth action, then pulled it between his lips and let it pop free from his mouth.

I pulled him close to me, forcing the solid angles of his body against the soft curves of mine.

I arched my back as he slipped inside. A high-pitched sound escaped from my mouth, and Sam let out another hissing noise.

His mouth pressed against mine, our heads alternating from side to side, as fierce a kiss as I’d ever had.

I locked my legs around his waist, tilting my hips up, feeling all of him, deep.

He pulled back just enough to say, “You’re gonna spoil me, Blair.”

I smiled against his mouth as he kissed me.



. . . . .



Later, as we lay naked under the sheets, Sam said, “If you were looking, what would you be looking for?”

“Right now? My underwear.”

Sam put his hand to his throat. “I think it might I might have accidentally swallowed them.”

I playfully punched him on his shoulder. He didn’t recoil. My fist seemed to just bounce off of him.

Smiling, he said, “Come on. Answer the question.”

“In terms of a relationship or a guy?”

He shrugged. “Either. Both. Or don’t answer. Up to you.”

“Why wouldn’t I answer?”

“I don’t want to get too personal and have you think I’m prying.”

“This isn’t too personal,” I said. “We’re just talking hypothetically. That’s all. Right? Just talking?”

“Talking.”

“Okay then.” I gathered my thoughts for a minute. “I’d like to find a guy who likes long walks on the beach, picnics in the park, holding hands in the moonlight, and especially a guy who would rather spend his weekends pushing kids on the swing set instead of watching sports…”

I had to stop torturing him. His facial expression was more than I could take anymore.

“I’m kidding,” I said.

He let out a sigh. “Thank God. All of that sounds horribly boring.”

“Okay, being serious for a minute…” I thought about it and honestly couldn’t come up with anything. “You go.”

“I asked you first.”

I looked around the room, then back at him. “I had to check and make sure I wasn’t in a school cafeteria, back in sixth grade. ‘I asked you first’? Really?”

“Fine,” he said, a crooked grin turning up one side of his mouth. “My ideal woman?”

I nodded.

“Let’s see. For starters, nice boobs are a must.”

“Sam.”

“Sorry. Okay, in all seriousness. I’d like to meet someone who values laughter and comfort and peace above everything else.”

I tilted my head to one side. “I thought you were going to be serious, not give me some kind of line.”

He looked surprised. “I am being serious.”

“Okay,” I said, immediately thinking how he had no idea that he might never have peace with me. I didn’t know what the future held for me in terms of the fallout from Trevor’s crimes, especially now that the FBI wanted to “interview” me. Not that I was thinking of a future with Sam. We had clearly defined boundaries and there was nothing that made me think we’d break them.

He entwined his fingers through mine. “You don’t sound like you believe me. After what I went through, trust me, that’s all I want.”

I nodded, no longer just giving him the benefit of the doubt, but truly believing him.

“So,” he said, “now that I answered, it’s your turn.”

I hoped he would return the favor and believe me when I answered, truthfully, “I don’t know.”

“That’s a cop out.”

“No, it’s really not. I have my reasons. I just don’t want anything serious, so there’s no list of what I want.”

It must have been something in the way I looked at him when I said it, because he backed off immediately, saying, “I can respect that. It wasn’t fair that I had to go first, but hey, it’s done and now you know.” He smiled.

We barely spoke after that, only when Sam asked me if I minded if he turned the TV on. He settled on watching Jimmy Fallon. I don’t remember much of it, because I fell asleep in Sam’s arms.