For the Longest Time (10 page)

She hoped.

* * *

It had been a while since he'd felt like an awkward teenager, but standing on the Henrys' front porch shuffling his feet certainly did the trick.

Jake heard muffled voices inside once he rang the bell, a laugh he recognized as Andi's, and an irritated retort from—hell, was that Emma? Of course it was. This didn't feel anything like a garden variety date. It was more like being thrown into some kind of weird time vortex. He was eighteen again, except this time he'd finally gotten the balls to get over himself and go apologize. He saw a slim figure in dark clothes descend the stairs, distorted by the glass. Any second now Sam would open the door, and he could almost believe it would be her seventeen-year-old self looking back at him. She would still have been furious with him, he thought. But it would have been easier to make it right. It would have been—

Damn
.

“Hey.” Sam stepped out the front door, shutting it quickly behind her. Jake drank her in, momentarily at a loss about what to say. At some point he was going to have to get used to the way she looked now. Soon, hopefully, since the sight of her kept knocking him on his ass.

Jake let his gaze drift over her from head to toe. Last night, and even the day at his office, she'd been the sexy professional. Tonight, she was just Sam, and that was even better. She wore black again—that seemed to be a theme with her. Still, he couldn't complain. Everything she wore showcased her figure perfectly, skimming over the lithe curves she'd once hidden. Even her leather jacket left him inordinately preoccupied with how her waist nipped in. Then there was her hair, a mass of pale blond waves that made him wonder how it would feel in his hands. Or how it might look spread beneath her on his bed.

“Nice scarf,” he said, his voice sounding strained. It
was
a nice scarf, he thought. Too bad his attention had been everywhere but. He could pretend, though. The color, at least, had registered.

She wrinkled her nose at the compliment before giving him a quiet “Thanks.” He didn't know what that was about and hoped that, for once, it wasn't him. They stood there on the porch, staring awkwardly at each other while pretending to be perfectly relaxed in the chill evening air. Sam had been easier to read, once. Now all he saw was cool and collected.

He wished he'd brought Loki along. “Cool and collected” seemed to go out the window when there was a kitten on her head. Or when he got close enough to kiss her.

“So,” he said, feeling like a complete idiot.

“So,” she echoed, but with a tiny curve of her mouth and a slight arching of one brow, as if to say,
“Yes, you are a complete idiot.”
Somehow, feeling like they agreed on something helped him to relax a little.

“You look beautiful,” he said. He could see the compliment startled her, but at least it didn't seem unwelcome. Uncomfortable, maybe, but not unwelcome.

“Oh. Thanks.” Her gaze turned more direct then, her composure slipping a little. “You look good, too. Very, ah . . . your coat. It's nice.” Sam closed her eyes and smiled as if to acknowledge the complete absurdity of the situation. When Jake couldn't suppress a chuckle, she laughed too, a soft, breathy, slightly embarrassed sound.

“Well,” Jake said, “I am pretty stylish.”

Sam opened her eyes again, and they were far warmer than when she'd stepped out the door just a few minutes ago. “I can see that. Wore the formal high-tops and everything.”

He looked down at his feet, and at the newish Chuck Taylors that had only recently replaced the ones with the holes in them. They seemed okay. No mud. He looked up, and was treated to a slow, broad smile that lit up her entire face and made her eyes gleam He remembered that smile. And his reaction, a punch of heat that rushed through his system like wildfire, was just the same.

“That's a low blow,” he informed her, determined to stay calm, casual. “I wore my fancy shoes just for you.”

“I bet.” She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “So, I'm sure my mother and sister are in there trying to listen to us. Can we go before this turns into a makeover show? I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Absolutely,” Jake replied. “If we keep it up you're going to notice the hole in my jeans.” He held out his hand, wondering if she'd take it. “Come on. Your chariot awaits.”

Sam studied his hand, her expression guarded, before leaning to the side to look past him. “Why does my chariot look like a muddy pickup truck?”

“It's camouflaged so it doesn't get stolen. If you see any dog hair in there, that's camouflage, too. Just so you know.”

This time she laughed, and Jake didn't bother hiding his grin. For a moment, all the tension and baggage between them had vanished, and they were just two people heading out on a date.

“See?” he said. “Told you we'd find things to talk about.”

Sam widened her eyes, but the smile didn't leave her face as she headed for the truck. “Yes, you did. And I'm a little afraid to find out what's next.”

“That's not fear. That's breathless anticipation. I get that a lot, you know.”

He worried for a split second that she'd hear arrogance instead of a joke, but Sam's soft laugh said he didn't need to.

“I bet,” she said. “Running away will definitely make you short of breath.”

“Ouch.”

“You take hostage pictures of my cat, this is what you get,” she replied.

They walked through the grass together to the driveway, not quite close enough to touch. He could smell her perfume, light and sensual, winding through the autumn air. Jake got the door for her, noting the look she slid him before getting in. Some of what he saw was pure curiosity—she still didn't understand what they were doing here. Neither did he, really, so that didn't bother him. But the rest of what he caught in those striking eyes of hers threatened to make him hot in ways that were going to wind up really embarrassing if he let his mind wander too much.

Don't screw up
, he told himself as he headed around to the driver's side. Sam didn't trust him, but she was still stuck with him for the next few hours. Not ideal, but not nothing, either. And he was good at working with what he had.

The problem was, he didn't know what exactly he
did
have here.

He just hoped he had enough time to figure it out before Sam decided it wasn't enough and walked away, out of his life. This time for good.

H
e took her to a place she'd never heard of, Beltane Blues, which was housed in a building with weathered clapboard siding down on Lammas Street, a block from where the rocky cove gave way to a stretch of sandy beach.

“Wasn't this Geno's?” she asked, frowning as she looked around. It smelled fantastic, but nothing like pizza. Jake came around the side of the truck, and she had to take a moment to remind herself that, yes, she was actually here with him. For all her teasing about his sneakers, he couldn't have looked more mouthwatering tonight if he'd tried. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and with his collar turned up by the breeze there was something darkly romantic about his looks. She'd always thought so, despite his all-American boy existence. Which made her glad all over again that he had no idea how many pictures she'd once drawn of him doing various darkly romantic things.

She felt the heat trying to creep into her cheeks. Some of the work had been pretty good, at least for her age. But even thinking about it made her feel like more of a Napoleon Dynamite than a Vincent Van Gogh.

He was a veterinarian, not a dark prince. And that
was fine, Sam thought. But . . . the way he turned his head to look at her in the fading light, the last of the sun glittering in his eyes and turning them to gold, made any regrets she'd had about drawing him so many times with swords and armor—or just breeches—vanish. He'd been a perfect subject for a young girl's fantasy.

And though she'd grown past that, long ago realizing that abstract landscapes were really more her thing, she had to pat herself on the back for her taste. The man had great bone structure.

“Yeah, it used to be Geno's,” Jake said, looking up at the building himself. It was nothing fancy, but Sam knew from long experience that the best places usually weren't. “Trey Abernathy bought it about three years ago, kicked the roaches out of the kitchen, and turned it into something pretty cool.”

“Huh,” Sam said. Apart from the touristy things in the Cove, like the historic little downtown and, of course, the Witch Tree, “cool” wasn't a word she would really have applied to anything here. She was skeptical, but she liked the old-fashioned neon sign, cursive letters lit electric blue. There was also the fact that her stomach was now growling piteously.

She turned her head to find Jake watching her intently. “I see I managed to surprise you already. Score one for me.”

She didn't really have an answer for that, so she just gave him a disgruntled look and headed for the door. He was beside her in an instant, and every brush of his arm against hers sent tiny shocks sparking through her. Her entire body felt tense, alert in ways it hadn't been in longer than she cared to remember. It was good to feel awake this way again. She just knew she was going to
have to watch it, or she'd wind up climbing Jake like a tree. Of course, he might like that. . . .

Not even going there. Friendly dinner, Sam. Friendly, fully clothed, not at all sexual dinner!

Jake opened the door for her, and they stepped inside the dimly lit restaurant.

“Oh,” Sam said before she could stop herself. Nothing about the outside had prepared her for the interior. She'd been thinking something New England-y, like everything else around here—kitschy and cute, with some lighthouses or boat gear. Instead, she saw dark, gleaming wood floors, brick walls, a scatter of square and round tables with intriguingly mismatched chairs, and an eye-catching assortment of instruments and art hung on the walls. A long bar occupied most of one wall, and there was a raised platform at the far end of the room. The barstools had leopard print seats, and there were ornate candlesticks with burning candles scattered about the room. The soft, bluesy wail of a guitar wound through the comfortable din of conversation.

“Sam. Your mouth is open.”

She snapped it shut, immediately embarrassed. Jake seemed amused, at least.

“Well?” he asked.

“I feel like I just walked into an alternate universe ruled by Aerosmith,” she said. “But . . . it kind of works for me.” She looked around again. “I hate to say this, but you've actually brought me someplace cool.”

“Told you. Wait until you hear the band,” Jake replied. He was looking awfully pleased with himself. “Believe it or not, this is an honest-to-God blues bar on weekends.”

“Huh,” Sam said again. What else could she say? Putting a blues bar in the Cove wasn't something that would
ever have crossed her mind. And if someone had told her there was a need for that sort of thing here, she would have laughed. Yet here they were, and the place was bustling.

A hostess got them seated with a couple of menus and hurried off, leaving them comfortably ensconced at a corner table. Sam quietly perused the menu until their server had taken their drink orders. She was no longer just hungry; she was starving . . . and if the food on the menu was even half as good as it sounded, this place was a gem.

“So what do you think?” Jake asked. Sam arched an eyebrow.

“What do I think of what? The place? I told you, so far I like it. Pretty sure I've gained five pounds just looking at the menu.”

“If you order a salad I may actually hold your cat hostage. Just so you know. This is like a temple of fried food. Eating healthy things here would be sacrilege.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “If you must know, I would probably eat cardboard if it was breaded and fried, so you don't need to worry. None of the grease gods will be angered in the ordering of my dinner.”

Jake chuckled. “Just making sure, since I want to do the bacon cheesy fries for an appetizer and I'd rather not have a heart attack on the way home from eating them all myself.”

Her mouth watered, partly from the description and partly from the way the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he grinned. It was a sorry fact that she had little willpower against either. Sam sighed and tossed her menu on the table in front of her.

“Sold. And just so you know, I'm going to hold this
against you when I get on the scale tomorrow.” Especially since the burger she'd decided on was covered in even more bacon and barbecue sauce. “They even have fried pickles here. And hush puppies,” she groaned. “I'm in so much trouble.”

“They do lunch and takeout,” Jake replied. “So, yes, you are. Maybe you should come running with me. It helps with the guilt.”

“Running,” Sam repeated. Did she look like she did that sort of thing? She wasn't usually mistaken for an athlete—her preferred footwear wasn't built for speed.

“Sure,” Jake replied, so relaxed he might have been talking about the weather instead of pressing her to spend more time with him.
Already
. Her heart skipped along unevenly in her chest, and she was in serious danger of simply blurting out something stupid like,
“Okay!”
That would have been bad on a number of levels, the greatest of which was probably that she didn't run. Or in fact do much of anything aerobic if she could help it.

Their server arrived at that moment, sparing Sam from having to answer immediately. They ordered the appetizer and their burgers, and then Jake surprised her by adding on both fried pickles and a basket of hush puppies to the order. She stared at him in fascinated horror as the server walked away.

“We're never going to eat all that!”

He shrugged. “That's what take-home boxes are for.”

“Well . . .” This was the part of Jake she'd forgotten about, mainly because she hadn't dealt with much of it personally. He was as stubborn as a mule. It was one of the things that had made him an excellent lacrosse player. It was also, she realized, what had gotten her here tonight. She exhaled loudly through her nose.

“I'm paying for half of this,” she said.

“Nope.”

Just like that, her wishes were dismissed. Sam fought the urge to bare her teeth at him. “Don't argue with me, Jake. I told you this wasn't a date, and I'm not treating it like one.”

It wiped the smile off his face, but none of the stubbornness from his eyes. “I'm not arguing with you. I invited you. I'm paying. It's not a big deal, Sam.”

She bristled, glaring at him helplessly. That was the root of the problem, she supposed, right there. To him, this was all no big deal. Everything was so easy for him. Getting her into his office, getting her here, buying dinner. Life. Some part of her knew the amount of anger she felt was outsize, but she didn't feel like fighting it. It wasn't just him. It was everything she didn't seem to have any control over. Which was . . . well, everything.

“Fine,” Sam said flatly. “Whatever.”

Jake looked at her for a moment. Then he said, “Is that something they teach you in New York?”

“What?”

“The amount of ‘fuck you' implied in the word ‘whatever.' Because that's seriously impressive.”

Sam took a deep breath, licked her lips, and then braced her hands on the table. “Okay,” she said. “Look, let's just forget this. It was a bad idea.” She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and wished she'd driven herself. Stupid mistake on her part. She started to rise, but Jake rose with her and caught her hand in his. The shock of contact, his warm skin against hers, stopped her long enough to listen.

“No, Jesus. I'm sorry, Sam. Just . . . sit, okay? If you want to split the bill we can. Whatever you're
comfortable with. I was just trying to be a gentleman. Especially since I pushed you into coming. I figured it was the least I could do. Just . . . stay. Please.”

Sam looked at him, those pretty eyes of his big and earnest, and felt like an ass for being so prickly. It was a reaction she had a hard time turning off with him, even though he hadn't done anything to deserve it. Yet. She just kept expecting him to. She sighed and sank back into her seat. Jake's hand lingered a moment longer before he pulled it away. Her skin tingled where it had been.

“Sorry,” she muttered, shoving a hand through her hair. “For the implied ‘fuck you,' I mean. I know you were trying to be polite. I just—”

“You expect me to be a jerk. I get it.” Their server appeared to deliver their drinks, and Jake took a sip of his beer. Sam slid a finger down the side of hers, tracing a path through the condensation and avoiding his gaze. She'd expected the elephant in the room to be an issue at some point. She just hadn't expected it to wander over and sit on the table quite so soon.

“That's part of it,” she admitted.

“If you hate me that much,” he finally said, “why did you come?”

She looked up at him, startled by the bluntness of the question. She was even more startled by the hurt in his eyes. “I don't hate you,” she said. This was the second time she'd felt like she'd actually landed a blow. She guessed she ought to feel triumphant, but she couldn't muster anything beyond guilt. It provoked an answer she might not have been inclined to give him otherwise.

“Honestly? I don't know what to make of you, Jake. A week ago, I wasn't thinking about doing anything but getting out of the city and leaving that mess behind. I
figured I would see you, but I didn't think it would be anything more than a few seconds of embarrassment every now and then.” She shifted uncomfortably.

“I hurt you,” he said. So direct, just as he'd been in his office the other day. It was still unexpected. Though that wasn't saying much, since she'd expected nothing.

“Yes, you hurt me,” Sam replied, her voice taking on the edge it always did when she was pushed into dealing with something she would rather have ignored. “We were kids. It was forever ago.”

“And it left a hell of a mark. We might as well get this out in the open, Sam, because I'd really like to see you again, and you being pissed off at me on a permanent basis makes that a lot less likely to happen.”

“I'm not—”

“Yeah, you are. So how do I turn that off? You tell me.” He interrupted her smoothly. They stared at each other while their server cheerfully slid their appetizers onto the table, unaware that she'd wandered into the middle of a discussion that was more like a minefield. Once she'd gone, Sam grabbed a fried pickle chip, dipped it in the dressing that had come in a cup on the side, and popped it in her mouth. It was delicious, and afforded her a few seconds to figure out what she wanted to say.

“Okay,” she finally said.
You can do this. After all this time, you might as well. And it makes more sense than dumping the fries over his head and storming out, since he's at least trying, for once.
“Here's the thing. Despite whatever you may think, I don't hate you. I would rather hate you, but I don't. In fact, I came tonight because you've been annoyingly likable every time I've seen you since I came home. I don't really know what to do with that.”

Jake swirled a hush puppy in the honey it had arrived with. “Well, you could just accept that you like me and go with it.”

He made it sound so easy. Like she shouldn't worry at all about her heart being reduced to a pile of smoking rubble.
Again
. “Sure. I could do that. And then you can pretend you don't know me when we run into your buddies. You can even tell them I'm still a . . . what did you tell them that day? That I was just some creepy little stalker? Pretty sure those are the words I heard when I was walking away. It would be just like old times.”

He winced, but this time she didn't feel any guilt at all. Maybe he didn't remember that day very well. Why should he? She'd been little more than a blip on his radar, one of a lot of girls who'd adored him. Not having been an athlete or a cheerleader had made her interesting to him at the time, briefly, but not enough to subvert the pecking order. She should never have let him in . . . but that was one thing she could forgive her younger self for. He'd seemed so genuinely fascinated by her work, by the one thing that kept her sane in that school. And then he'd just seemed fascinated by
her
. She hadn't stood a chance.