Resisting Samantha (Hope Parish Novels Book 10)

By Zoe Dawson

Published by Blue Moon Creative, LLC

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright by Karen Alarie. All rights reserved, including
the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like
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I make every effort to research thoroughly all subject matter, but I’m not infallible. If
you find anything in my novels that I have incorrect, please feel free to let me know.

ISBN: 978-0-9861535-2-5

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Cover Design by Robin Ludwig Designs, Inc.

http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com

I’d like to thank beta readers. Thank you, also, to Faith Freewoman for
her excellent advice and editing skills. A big thank you also to Robin for her
fabulous cover design.

To believing.

CHASE

The half-moon cast a
silvery sheen on the trees, and the mist floated, wispy and white,
across the surface of the black water. The night was filled with a
chorus of cricket trills, deep bullfrog calls, and green frog twang,
with the occasional bird calls and the low hum of mosquitoes.

Imogene’s was
lit up, even after closing. That’s when Samantha Wharton baked
her pies for the next day.

I breathed deep.
There were five pies cooling on the back porch railing that jutted
over a canal-like stretch of bayou. She was sure to have a chocolate
cream, and a lemon meringue, too. She had round screen protectors to
keep out the wildlife, mostly bugs who were drawn to the lights. I
could hear an occasional
zap
when one hit the electric bug swatter.

I knew all about
her pies, especially the eating of them, since I’d been
delivering seafood to her establishment for two years, three months,
two days, seven hours and twenty-four minutes.

The structure sat at
the edge of the Atchafalaya, the deep earth scent of the bayou and
the smell of water mingled with the aroma of cherries, strawberries,
and apple.

Sweet and primal.

Like the need inside
me that I hadn’t been able to cure since I set eyes on her.

Although I was
obscured by the shadow just beyond the stairway that led up to the
back porch and patio, I could see her. I shifted and stuck my hands
in my pockets, unease rippling through me. My life was a jumble of
unfinished and shirked obligations.

She was crying
again, like she sometimes did. I hated to think she was here alone,
feeling blue. That was why I’d often just be passing by, or
hoping for some afterhours pie and conversation. I’d been
interested in her since she arrived and took this rundown mess and
transformed it into something amazing. She even managed to keep the
historical flavor of the place by finding and using dusty, original
elements like the worn blue wood, the pressed tin ceiling, and even
the old cash register.

She brought out
another pie and set it on the railing, then gazed out across the
expanse of water to the dark, emerald green of the bayou, a sheen of
tears developing while she stood there toying with the silver star on
a chain around her neck. I didn’t take my eyes off her as she
stood still, her arms folded protectively around her, the sorrow
palpable. The silent, grieving tears tore at me, raked across my
heart, and drew, not blood, but compassion.

She looked like a
belle, one of the women who would have fit perfectly into my former
life as one of the golden children, the direct descendants of Colonel
Beauregard Sutton. But that life, status, and prison were behind me.

Unlike the belles I
had known, Samantha was down-to-earth and steadfast, Miss
Hospitality, full of warmth and sincerity and sensible qualities…and
fire…and pain…and secrets in her eyes…

I knew nothing
concrete about her. Why she’d come to Suttontowne, and what she
was running from. Our conversations were about the catch of the day,
her orders, and the weather.

Samantha was
running. I recognized it from experience. I saw it every day in the
mirror. Her delicate features were pinched, and I wanted to kiss away
her turmoil, hold her against me, and comfort her as best I could.

But I had my own
demons to wrestle, and dragging her into that mishmash wouldn’t
help either of us find our way through to the other side.

Only a fool would
stand here and ache. I was no fool. I was many things, few of them
admirable, but I was no fool.

Still, I didn’t
move. I stood there and watched while Samantha scrubbed the tears
from her face and fought off the next wave of sorrow. She struggled
to school her breathing into a regular rhythm, and blinked furiously
at the moisture gathering in her eyes as she crouched and wiped up a
drip of fruit pie from the immaculate deck with the hand towel she’d
used to carry the hot pie.

She was a tough
little thing. She thought she was alone, so there was no reason she
couldn’t have curled up in one of the scallop-backed, bronze
patio chairs and let loose. But she struggled to curb her emotions,
fought for control.

Unable to bear
watching her any longer, I cleared my throat and set my foot on the
stair.

Samantha turned
toward the sound, smoothing a hand over the cute apron she wore.
“Chase? Is that you?”

“Yes, ma’am.
I was out for a walk and caught the scent of you baking.”

“It is a nice
night for a walk. Would you like a piece of pie and some coffee?”

She couldn’t
help being neighborly, even though Imogene’s had long since
closed for the day. “I wouldn’t want to impose—”

She waved her hand
and made a soft, negative sound. “Nonsense, Chase,” she
replied with her usual crisp, Yankee diction, “you’re not
imposing.” She smiled and raised a brow. “And if I’m
not mistaken, it seems you tend to come around when I’m baking
apple. Could that be a pattern?” If I hadn’t seen her
crying just a few moments ago, I would have been completely unaware
now of her unhappiness. “What can I get you?”

“Apple would
be great.”

She laughed and it
was as charming as she was. “Apple it is. You take your coffee
black, as I recall.”

I nodded. “You
recall correctly,” I said.

“Have a seat,
and I’ll be right back.”

I settled into one
of the comfortable chairs beneath an umbrella that was strewn with
twinkly lights and wondered what Imogene would think of the way
Samantha had preserved her legacy.

The soft sound of
Cajun folk music started up before Samantha re-emerged with a
decorative wooden tray of coffee and pie. I got to my feet, the
manners of a gentleman ingrained in me from birth by my momma. I took
the tray out of her grasp, our hands touching. She dipped her head
slightly, brushing at a wayward strand of hair and said, softly, “Oh,
thank you.”

I set the tray down
on the table and waited until she was seated before I took my chair.
She had given me a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of the pie, and
it was melting into the gooey apple goodness as the ambient hum of
the June bugs built to a crescendo, then subsided.

“Do you often
walk in the evening?” she asked, her eyes lingering on my mouth
as I took a bite. I didn’t need any encouragement to look at
her lips and think about what it would feel like to kiss her rather
than just stare pathetically at her for hours.

I shrugged, my
answer slow as I hauled my focus away from her mouth. “Sometimes.
It clears my head and relaxes me before I sleep.”

“I would think
that you would be so exhausted by the end of the day, you’d
just collapse. You work hard.” My body leapt in response to her
softly spoken compliment, urging me to do something—anything—about
it. Hard to keep telling myself that resisting her was a good idea.
How could I give anything to her when I still had my past to sort
out? I especially didn’t need the distraction.

The apple and
vanilla blended with the buttery, flaky crust on my tongue as I
swallowed and gave her a wry look. “How do you know I work
hard?”

“Oh, well,
fishing isn’t easy, especially with some of the fare you offer,
like apple snails and crabs.” She took a bite of her own
strawberry pie.

“I take orders
and fill them.” I got totally distracted by a smudge of
strawberry at the corner of her mouth. “Ah…I don’t
fish more than I have to.” She caressed my face with her eyes,
looking for a clue as to why I sounded a bit distracted.

I found myself
leaning closer, breathing in her scent, floral mixed with sweet. I
shouldn’t touch her, but compelled, I was helpless. “You’ve
got some…filling…there,” I said, reaching out and
using my thumb to wipe it away from the corner of her mouth.

She didn’t
flinch or pull away. She could have shifted away, or given some other
signal that she wasn’t enjoying the incidental moment of
intimacy.

Just like I was.

Without thinking, I
brought my thumb to my mouth and sucked off the delicious strawberry.
The taste was much too brief. Damn, she had soft skin, and it would
have been better for my state of mind if I didn’t know that. I
bet her lips would be even softer. My body reacted the way any man’s
would when faced with a beautiful, warm, and soft woman this close. I
got hard.

There was a
breathless quality to her voice that stirred me up as much as the way
she looked at my mouth. “You’re a boutique fisherman,
then.”

“Yes, ma’am,
pinky extended when I’m throwing my nets.” I shifted so
my attention was fully on my pie. And not on how badly I wanted to
sink my hands into her mahogany hair…and my tongue into that
sweet mouth of hers.

She laughed and
something inside me quivered at the captivating sound.

“I call myself
an artisan fisherman. Small-scale, low-tech, low-capital.”

She nodded, her eyes
twinkling. “Much more manly than boutique, huh?” Her
smile turned knowing, and grew wider.

Her humor was
contagious. “Yeah.”

Her eyes danced a
bit. “Do you have a busy schedule for the rest of the week?”

“Off the
charts. Fishing is only part of my business, and Braxton Outlaw needs
eighty pounds of catfish. I also tie flies and take out charters, run
the store. Plenty to do.”

“Sounds like
you need some employees to help you out.”

“I think it’s
going to come to that sooner rather than later.”

I finished the last
bite of my pie and she pushed the crust around on her plate. When she
noticed I was done, she rose. “I’ll take that for you.”
She gathered up the plates and cups to head back to the kitchen.

“Can I help?”

“No, thank
you. I’m about to head home as soon as I get these pies inside.
Thanks for interrupting your walk to have a piece of pie with me.”