Chapter Nine
There were moments Sheri wasn’t sure whether she wanted to f*ck Sam or be Sam.
That wasn’t entirely true. She pretty much always wanted to f*ck him, which made for a lot of distracted meals and infant bath-times. But she also envied the hell out of him for his natural ease with everything from babies to briskets.
Okay, so the tits shirt had been a little weird, but maybe things were different in foreign countries where Sam had worked. She was hardly one to judge.
She sighed. The whole arrangement seemed so odd sometimes. Here she was on one end of the house changing out of her work clothes in the master bedroom, while Sam played with the boys in their bouncy seats and put the finishing touches on dinner. God, whatever it was smelled delicious. Something smoky, like ribs or barbecue or maybe kalua pork. The last time she’d tried to whip up something like that, she’d—
Hell. She’d never tried to whip up something like that. She frowned and peeled off her blouse, draping it over the back of the flowered chair beside her bed. She glanced down at her cell phone, annoyed to see Jonathan had called again. He’d left two messages this morning, both demanding to sit down and talk face-to-face about reconciliation.
She’d promptly deleted them.
“Hey, Sheri?” Sam yelled from the kitchen. Sheri froze, topless and exposed and—well, yeah, a little excited at the prospect of having any sort of connection with Sam when she wasn’t fully dressed. She considered not responding, just for the thrill of hearing him shout her name again.
“Yes?” she called back, toeing off her kitten-heeled sandals with the dainty straps that had been cutting into her feet all day.
“Take your time getting dressed, okay?” he called. “Like if you want to take a bath or something. Or even a short nap. Or how about I bring you a glass of wine to enjoy while I finish dinner?”
She rolled her eyes, wondering if he wasn’t taking this domestic thing a little too seriously. Maybe she should talk with him about that, she mused as she unzipped her skirt. Or maybe Mac had ordered him to wait on her hand and foot. A girl could get used to that. After so many years with a man whose idea of foreplay was asking her to hold his feet while he did ab crunches, having a generous, competent, domestically inclined man around the house was an incredible treat.
She slipped off her skirt and folded it, draping it over the chair with her blouse. She knew she should hang them both up or set them aside for dry cleaning, but her closet space was abysmal and she didn’t have the energy to hunt down hangers and figure out the proper place for everything. That was something she’d need to address soon, along with all the other maintenance issues on the house.
She turned and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and quickly sucked in her stomach. She didn’t look too bad for a woman who’d given birth seven months ago, but this sure as hell wasn’t the body she used to have. Would Sam mind? What if she’d tried to seduce him last night and he laughed or said he wasn’t interested or—
“Sheri?” he called again, his voice sounding closer than the kitchen this time. “Just stay put and I’ll bring the wine to you, okay?”
Crap, had she remembered to lock the door? She grabbed her robe off the hook by the dresser and tugged it on, her arm tangling in the purple satin. She cinched the belt around her waist and cracked open the door.
Sam stood in the hallway with a sheepish look and a glass of white wine gripped in his big hand. “Here you go. Chardonnay. From the Willamette Valley in Oregon.”
She opened the door a little wider, but didn’t reach for the glass. “Thank you, Sam, but I can come out to the kitchen myself and—”
“No! I mean, just hang out in here.” He thrust the glass at her, and she had no choice but to take it.
“Thank you,” she said, shivering a little at the sight of his powerful, well-muscled form blocking her doorway. “The boys are still doing okay?”
“They’re great! Everything’s under control. Just take your time and enjoy the wine. Relax a little in your room.”
“Sure, fine,” she said, taking a sip of wine to show him she was paying attention.
“Dinner’s—um, not quite ready. I’ll come get you when it is, okay?”
“Okay, okay. You’re the boss.” She felt her cheeks redden. “I mean my brother’s the boss. Not me. I’m not technically your employer, in case there was any question of—”
“Your brother. Got it.” He nodded once, and she took a big gulp of wine. “I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready,” he said again.
“Okay. Thank you for the wine.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and gave her something that looked like an aborted salute.
She waved back and closed the door, setting the wine on top of the dresser.
Well, that was weird.
She glanced back at the door, wondering what he would have done if she’d grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled him into the room. It was a small room, just a few steps to the bed where she could push him back onto the flowered coverlet and—
Sheri frowned at her bed. “Hey, Sam?” she yelled, wondering if he could hear her if he was back in the kitchen again.
“Yeah?” he called back, the bang of the oven door punctuating his sentence.
“Did you make my bed?”
There was a short silence. “Yeah. Did I do it wrong?”
She trailed a finger over her quilt, pretty sure she hadn’t seen such a tightly made bed since the morning her father donned his general’s uniform, rounded up the Patton children, and barked a lesson on the proper way to make a bed to military standards. Hospital corners at precise forty-five-degree angles, sheets so crisp they looked like they’d been ironed, the flowers on the coverlet perfectly aligned with the ones on the pillowcases.
Christ, how long had that taken him?
“You could seriously bounce a quarter off this bed,” she yelled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She pressed her palm into the mattress, thinking a quarter wasn’t what she most wanted to bounce there. The thought of Sam’s big hands smoothing her sheets and squeezing her pillows into submission made her shiver. She loosened the tie on her robe and slid a hand inside, absently stroking her palm up the curve of her rib cage. Her hands were half the size of his, but she trailed her fingers across her breast anyway. She cupped it softly at first, then with a firmer touch.
God, what would it be like to have his hand there instead, stroking the heated flesh, testing the weight of it in his big, work-roughened hands? She circled one finger around her nipple, gasping as a slow flicker of pleasure swelled up from her belly. She shrugged off the robe, letting it fall in a warm, satin puddle at her feet.
She kicked the robe aside, standing there in her bra and panties under the soft flutter of her ceiling fan. Her bedroom window was open just a little, and Sheri breathed in the scent of ocean air and fresh-cut grass as she drew another finger over her breast, thrilled at the way her nipple tightened in response.
She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she should lock the door. What if he came back and discovered her touching herself like this?
Good, she thought. Let him watch.
Let him help.
That was crazy thinking, and she knew she didn’t mean it. She couldn’t really have him. But maybe she could pretend.
Her heart was thudding hard now, and she pressed her whole palm over her nipple, squeezing and circling and making herself dizzy with pleasure.
Smiling to herself, she imagined Sam’s hands roaming over her like this, claiming her. She leaned back against the dresser and caught the wineglass with her free hand, lifting it to her lips. The liquid was cool with a citrusy tang, and she let it slide down her throat as she imagined Sam’s hands traveling her heated flesh, exploring every curve. She set the glass back down and moved her palm over her abdomen, making a few lazy circles there before slipping beneath the waistband of her panties.
It wasn’t hard to picture Sam touching her like that, pushing the warm satin down over her hips. She peeled off her panties and toed them aside, her breath coming faster as one finger slid lower, grazing her most sensitive spot once, twice. She let her fingertip linger right there.
Gasping, she began making slow, delicate circles as she leaned back against the hard wood of the dresser. Her elbow bumped the wineglass, but it didn’t spill. She wasn’t sure she’d care if it did, as she moved her legs apart and used her finger to spread herself open.
Her breath caught again as the cool whisper of the ceiling fan fluttered over her flesh, between her legs. She dipped her finger inside herself, imagining Sam’s hand pressing against her, testing her wetness.
God, she wanted him.
Her nipples were tight and achy against the thin cups of her bra, and Sheri leaned hard on the dresser, letting it hold her weight. She pictured Sam moving down between her legs, his stubbled cheek brushing the inside of her thighs as he dropped to his knees on the carpet, parting her legs with his chin. His breath was warm on her flesh, his tongue probing softly between—
“Sheri?”
She froze. His voice was distant, probably still in the kitchen, but her pulse kicked up anyway.
“Yes?” she called back, her voice high and tight. She should probably lock the door, but she didn’t want to move her hand and—
“Where’s the fire extinguisher?” he called.
“Fire extinguisher?” She blinked, trying to make sense of the words.
“I’m just doing a safety check,” he called. “Wanted to make sure you have the necessary equipment required by building regulations and fire laws and the covenants, codes, and restrictions of the neighborhood association.”
Safety first, she thought, and reached over with her free hand to flip the door lock. “It’s under the kitchen sink,” she called. “I think.”
There was another pause, followed by something crashing.
“Got it,” he called. “Just relax, enjoy your wine, all right? I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready. It might be a few more minutes. Just stay there, okay?”
A few more minutes. Okay. She could make the most of those minutes.
She moved her fingers, dipping in and out, then circling again to bring herself back to that frenzied pitch. She closed her eyes, imagining Sam’s hands on her again, his fingers clutching her thighs. She arched against him, twining her fingers in his hair as she drew him closer, urging him on.
“Yes!” she gasped. “Sam.”
“Yeah?” he yelled from the end of the house.
Shit.
“Nothing!” she trilled, panting harder now, praying like hell he didn’t come down here.
Come. Down. Here. Right here.
Oh, God!
Everything exploded behind her eyes as wave after wave of pleasure crashed into her, knocking her back against the dresser. She gasped and writhed, bumping the wineglass with her elbow again as she plunged her finger deeper, feeling his tongue moving into her, his hands on her thighs, his breath hot on her damp flesh.
When her pulse finally slowed and the electric jolts subsided, she held her breath and listened. Had she gasped those last words aloud?
I can tell him I was watching YouTube videos before dinner, she thought.
She peeled herself off the dresser and stood shakily in the center of the room, getting her bearings. She dressed quickly, pulling on a soft yellow T-shirt and a turquoise cotton skirt. She spotted her panties on the floor, but ignored them, stepping around her robe as she moved to the bathroom.
She splashed cool water over her face, feeling flushed and decadent and a little bit naughty. Washing her hands with gardenia soap, she studied her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look too disheveled. Maybe a little flushed, and her hair was a mess of tangled curls. She ran her fingers through it, not bothering with a comb. Her cheeks were pink and glowy, and her eyes had a definite sparkle. She rubbed her lips together, then brushed on a hint of pink gloss as an afterthought.
She stepped out of the bathroom, not bothering with shoes. Unlocking the bedroom door, she hesitated, shivering at the feeling of cool air between her legs.
Maybe she should go back for her panties.
“To hell with it,” she said, and stepped into the hall. Kelli had ordered her to get her mojo back. Maybe going pantyless to dinner after the best orgasm she’d had in a long time was the first step.
She reached back and grabbed the wine off the dresser, taking a small sip before padding down the tiled hall toward the front of the house. She rounded the corner, breathing in the fragrance of smoky meat. Sam must be barbecuing, or maybe he really was making kalua pork. Of course, where would he find time to dig a pit in the backyard and roast a whole pig? The idea was absurd, but then this was Sam. Those arms looked like he dug trenches in his sleep.
She passed through the dining room, the smell of smoke stronger there. She sneezed once, shielding her wine with her forearm. Where the hell was Sam?
She turned the corner to the kitchen, then froze.
“Sam?”
He stood at the rear door, his back to her as he murmured to someone outside. He whirled at the sound of her voice, a guilty expression on his face and two large white bags in his hand.
“Sheri.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I thought you were taking a bath. I—um—”
“That’ll be thirty-two-fifty, mister,” a voice said from the back porch. “Plus tip.”
“Right, right,” Sam said, setting the bags on the counter as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He counted out a few bills, then turned back to the door and handed them to someone outside. “Keep the change.”
He turned back to Sheri, looking sheepish. “There’s been a slight alteration in our dinner plans.”
“Cooking mishap?” She laughed and peered in one of the bags. “Oh, God. Did you order kalua pork and cabbage from that place down the street? That’s my favorite.”
She pulled out one of the Styrofoam boxes and looked up to see Sam’s features flooded with a mix of relief and embarrassment. And maybe a little something else. His eyes flicked to her backside, and she remembered the panties on her bedroom floor. Could he tell she was going commando?
“I, um—yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m used to commercial ovens, and the last place I worked had a convection oven, so the timing is a little off and the temperature must’ve been—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sheri said, waving a hand as she pulled the rest of the boxes out of the bags. “I burn stuff all the time. I like to pretend it’s a culinary technique, but obviously it isn’t. There’s a reason you probably saw more than one fire extinguisher under the sink.”
“I wondered about that. Still, I’m really sorry. I took the burned roast out to the Dumpster already, and I opened all the windows, but—”
“Seriously, Sam. Don’t worry about it.” She popped the top on one of the takeout containers, plucking out a piece of pork with her fingers. She sighed with pleasure as she slipped it into her mouth. “God, that’s good.”
She chewed blissfully, then licked the tips of her fingers. When she looked back at Sam, he was watching her mouth with a funny expression.
She swallowed, feeling oddly guilty. “Whoops. Guess I should wait for dinnertime? And maybe for silverware.”
He swallowed and reached into the cupboard for plates. “Silverware’s overrated. I’m always up for using my fingers.”
She flushed, resisting the urge to look at his fingers and remember where she’d envisioned them five minutes ago. She turned to rinse her hands at the sink, then dried them on a flowery dish towel. “Seriously, if I had a quarter for every time I’d burned dinner, I’d have enough to buy kalua pork every night of the week for a year.”
He grinned, looking a little less sheepish now. “I thought about ditching the takeout containers and trying to pass this off as my own,” he confessed. “Let me at least make a salad. I’m pretty sure I can do that without burning anything.”
“I can chop veggies,” she offered. “Or set the table. Or—”
“No, just sit. Drink your wine, tell me about your first day at the new job.”
She hesitated, wanting to be useful. But hell, her knees still felt weak, and it was so nice to just sit down and relax, savoring the heady smell of pork and the sight of a muscular man moving around her kitchen.
She dropped into a dining room chair and picked up her wineglass, taking another sip. “There’s not much to tell,” she said. “It was mostly orientation stuff. A lot of rules about dress codes and holidays and sexual harassment policies and stuff.”
“That’ll be handy the next time you show up naked at the office on Easter and decide to sexually harass someone.”
He grabbed a knife off the counter. It was a huge knife—much bigger than Sheri would have chosen—and he handled it with a lot more force than she expected. She studied his fingers, huge and deft around the thick shaft.
She lifted her wineglass again, hoping to hide her flaming cheeks. “Right,” she said into the glass, remembering her conversation with Kelli earlier that afternoon. “No sexual harassment here. No siree.”
Christ, she really needed to Google the laws on employee/supervisor relations. She shouldn’t be thinking this much about sleeping with a guy who lived here as her employee.
Besides, she’d just extricated herself from one bad relationship. Did she really need to risk another one?
She drained the last of her wine and set it down, watching him chop with rough, powerful strokes. It seemed like an odd approach for lettuce, not that she was any sort of expert in the kitchen. He was the one with culinary training, after all. She didn’t recognize the knife, so apparently he traveled with his own kitchen tools.
“You wield that knife like you’re trying to kill someone,” she said. “You look downright lethal.”
He froze in mid-cut, but didn’t look up. “It’s a special technique I learned when I was training at Gonsalves in Japan. It—um—helps keep the lettuce from bruising.”
“I had no idea you could bruise lettuce,” she said, trailing the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass. “Amazing, the things you learn. Are the boys sleeping?”
Shit, a normal mom would have thought to ask long before this. She should probably check on them—
“They bounced themselves to sleep in those little chairs, so I put them in their cribs,” Sam said, dumping the lettuce in a bowl before reaching for a tomato. “Their morning nap was a little earlier than the usual routine, so it seemed smart to slip in another one now.”
“They’re champion nappers. I can’t believe how much they sleep. I think they get it from their father.”
“You spoken with him lately?”
“No,” she said, feeling a pang of guilt about the ignored messages. Technically, she hadn’t spoken with him. Still, the calls were becoming relentless, as were the demands they get back together as a family.
“Sheridan, a responsible parent would want her children to have both a father and a mother,” he’d growled in his last voicemail.
She’d erased the message, wishing she could erase the guilt and worry building in the back of her mind.
She studied Sam, wondering if it bothered him to be caring for another man’s kids. Probably not. He wasn’t like the macho military guys she’d been around. The guys who wouldn’t dream of diapering their own children, let alone someone else’s.
“I can give them their baths later,” he said. “After they wake up.”
“It’s fine if they miss it once in a while, right? I mean, they’re babies. It’s not like they’re going on a date and need to impress anyone. That should be okay, right?”
Sam looked up, then nodded wisely. “Absolutely. That’s what it says in all the childrearing books.”
“I figured. They handled it okay after I left this morning?”
“They did. There was a little crying, but I stopped after about an hour.”
Sheri laughed, soothed by his sense of humor in spite of her guilt pangs over leaving the boys. She had to work—not just to keep a roof over their heads, but for her own sanity. Still, there were moments she feared every choice she made had the potential to damage the boys for life.
Sam dumped the tomato into the bowl, then reached for an avocado. He held it up for a moment, studying it like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Probably considering the proper kind of cut, whether he should do it rondelle or chiffonade or one of those other fancy techniques she’d only read about in cookbooks. She bit her lip, wishing she could be more useful.
“Want me to do it?” she asked, standing up. “I have this cute little avocado cutter my ex-mother-in-law gave me before she realized I was a total disaster in the kitchen.”
“Avocado cutter?”
“It’s silly, but it works.”
She scooted around him, then bent down to rummage through the lower drawer. It took her a moment to find it, and she had to paw through at least a dozen other abandoned kitchen tools she’d bought with the hope of being a better cook.
When she stood up, he was staring with his mouth slightly open.
Whoops. Had she shown off more than her avocado peeler when she’d bent down?
“Here,” she said, plucking the plump avocado from his fingers as she tried to ignore her flaming cheeks. “I can finish this if you want to get the rest of the food plated.”
“Of course,” he said, brushing past her en route to the silverware drawer. The kitchen was small, and Sam was not, so his hard, chiseled frame pressed into her as he moved to grab napkins and silverware.
“Pardon me,” he said, brushing against her as he slipped past on his way to the fridge. “More wine?”
“I’m good for now,” she said, gasping a little as he brushed against her again, electricity sparking everywhere they made contact. She finished slicing the avocado and tossed it into the bowl, then remembered a great vinaigrette she’d grabbed at the grocery store a week ago and shoved in the upper cupboard for when she ran out.
She stretched up to reach it, her T-shirt riding up above the waistband of her skirt as she felt around for the bottle.
“Here, let me,” Sam said, moving behind her to reach over her head. “Which one?”
His body pressed hot and solid against hers, hard in all the right places. She gasped, afraid to move or even breathe, certain she was going to explode with desire or simply melt back against him and beg him to touch her.
“White bottle,” she squeaked. “Brown polka dots.”
He shifted a little, grazing her backside with the fly of his shorts. Was it her imagination, or was there something hard jutting against her tailbone?
“Got it.” He lowered his arm, and Sheri turned, bringing them face-to-face in the cramped little kitchen. His breath ruffled her hair, and she breathed in the scent of kitchen spices and dish soap and hot, delicious man. Sam swallowed, and she watched his Adam’s apple move, watched a flicker of something spark in his eyes.
“Here you go,” he breathed, swallowing again. “Need anything else?”
God, yes.
She took the bottle from him, gripping it hard to keep from grabbing him. “That’s it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, and stepped away.
Heat surged through her as she finished tossing the salad with the dressing, wondering if this was all in her imagination, or if he was feeling it too. God, she hadn’t been this discombobulated by a man for years. Maybe ever. Her whole body buzzed with heat and desire and flat-out lust for the man now folding napkins into place at her dining room table.
She turned and took three steps into the dining area, her hip brushing his arm as she bent to fill his salad bowl. She thought she saw him lift his finger as if to touch the edge of her skirt, and even though she knew it was a bad idea, she grazed him with her breast when she leaned down to retrieve a piece of wayward tomato she’d dropped on the floor.
At last, she settled into her seat, folded her napkin in her lap, and picked up her wineglass. They were seated at opposite ends of the table, their plates brimming with food, their minds brimming with lust.
Or maybe that’s just me, she thought, taking a sip of wine.
Across the table, Sam lifted his glass.
“So,” he began. “Are you trying to drive me insane, or do you genuinely want me to throw you across this table and f*ck you ’til neither of us can stand?”