Stick in the Mud Meets Spontaneity (Meet Your Match, book 3) (16 page)

Her father squeezed the bridge of his nose, as though he felt a headache coming on. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but would you mind translating that into English?”

“I thought you were wise.”

“Not when it comes to gibberish.”

With a sigh, Sam walked back to the table and plopped down, resting her arms on top. “I like Colton. A lot.”

He nodded. “I gathered that much.”

“I want to keep dating him, but I’m worried that if I do, he might make me forget about my goals and keep me here. And I don’t want to forget about my goals. So it’s better to stop dating him now, right? If we keep going out, my life is only going to get more and more complicated, and who wants a complicated life?”

Her dad pushed the large bowl aside and dropped his chin to the top of his clasped fingers. “Honey, no matter what direction you take in your life, there will always be forks in the road. There might even be roundabouts with lots of different options. Sometimes you can see where a road will go without having to drive down it, and other times, it disappears around a bend and you have to go a ways before you know where it’ll take you. Colton sounds like that kind of road. Maybe he’ll be a part of your future and maybe he won’t. You won’t know if you don’t give it a try.”

“But—”

“I’m not saying that you should forget New York. All I’m saying is that even if you give Colton a chance and he becomes more special and—different, was it?—you can still go to New York. Only instead of a destination, maybe it’ll just be a detour on your way back here.”

Sam let her father’s words sink in. As she did, a calm and peaceful feeling settled around her like a large bean bag chair. He was right. So, beautifully right. She pushed her chair back and threw her arms around her father.

“Thanks, Dad.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“So you admit I’m wise.”

“The wisest in the land.” Her gaze rested on the bag of “contraband” on the counter. “And the sneakiest. If you want a good hiding place for that, I’d stash it at the bottom of the China cabinet in that large bowl Aunt Marinda gave Mom for Christmas a few years ago. She hates it and only keeps it around for the occasional times Aunt Marinda comes to town. She’ll never look there.”

Her father smiled. “Looks like I passed on some of that brilliant wisdom to you.”

“Just don’t be surprised if I help myself to your stash on occasion.”

“Only if you promise to leave the Peachie-Os alone.”

“Deal.” She snatched her phone and reopened Colton’s text, ready to respond now.

SAM:
I’m in. But only if you come to dinner first. I’m cooking tonight and lemon meringue might be on the menu.

COLTON:
Sounds risky. Want some help?

SAM: Warning: My parents will be here. Maybe even the Mackies and Granthams. Still want to come?

COLTON:
The more the merrier. The Mackies already love me.

SAM:
As do my parents.

COLTON:
Sweet. Seven down. Two to go.

SAM:
Who’s the seventh?

COLTON:
You… right?

SAM:
Definitely. But you forgot the twins, so four to go. Good luck winning them over. They pull hair, scratch, and steal food.

COLTON:
Bring it. See you soon.

Sam smiled at the phone. She’d only just turned down this road, but the view was already lovely.

Colton rang the doorbell and scuffed his Vans against the doormat. Even though they were a few years old, they still looked almost new. That’s how often he traded in his boots for regular shoes. Samantha had texted him an hour earlier saying that everyone was coming, so come prepared for a pick-up game of kickball or soccer. Cowboy boots and hats didn’t work so well on a playing field, so he’d left both on the passenger seat in his truck, ready to throw on later.

The door opened, and Sam appeared in a breathless frazzle. She wore a green and white polka-dot apron that had been dusted in flour, and there were a few smudges on both of her cheeks—one bright red, the other not so much.

“Wow. You look like a half-ripe tomato after a snowstorm. What happened?”

Her palms flew to her face as though she’d forgotten about the burn. “I fell asleep in the hammock, and—” A beeping sounded from somewhere inside the house, and she turned and ran back the way she’d come, her bare feet leaving a dusty trail across the dark wood floors.

“Come on in,” she called over her shoulder.

Colton followed the path of footprints to the kitchen, where he found Sam standing in front of an open oven, her expression a mixture of confusion and distress. The house smelled like lemons and sugar cookies.

“What happened?” she cried, jabbing a finger at whatever baked inside. “I did everything the website said I should do. I made sure there was no yolk in the egg whites, I whipped it until it was stiff, and it’s not a humid day. It should have worked. Why didn’t it work?”

Colton had no idea. He’d never attempted to make anything involving meringue. But the kitchen already felt like the inside of a barn on a warm summer’s day, and the open oven door wasn’t helping. So he grabbed a flowery hot pad and removed two shriveled pies from the oven, dropping them on top of the counter before slamming the door closed again.

“They’re not supposed to weep or shrink.” Samantha glared at the pies as though they were to blame.

“Weep?”

She pointed to small puddles that looked like melted butter. “That’s called weeping, and it’s a problem.”

Before now, Colton had no idea pies could cry.

“I don’t understand what happened. I followed the instructions perfectly. And I mean
perfectly
. Do you have any idea how long those took me to make?”

Judging from the way the kitchen looked, with various ingredients scattered around and flour everywhere, Colton assumed a long time. He watched her nervously. “Are you going to weep too?”

Her eyes narrowed—at him this time. “No, I’m not going to weep. I’m going to take those stupid pies and throw them at… something.”

“As long as that ‘something’ isn’t me.” He offered a sympathetic smile. “If it makes you feel any better, it smells amazing in here. They probably still taste good.”

Sam leaned against the counter and let out a breath. “This day isn’t going very well. Half of my face is sunburned, the kitchen is a wreck, and now I have no lemon meringue pie for dessert. I promised everyone lemon meringue pie. My dad is going to be so disappointed. It’s one of his favorites.”

Colton opened a few drawers until he found the silverware, then he grabbed a spoon and scooped up a dollop of pie. He blew on it a few times before shoving it into his mouth. The meringue had a decent flavor, but it tasted like the sugar never dissolved, and it stuck to his tongue like melted taffy.

“It’s gritty and sticky too, isn’t it?” she said.

“And tasty.”

“Liar.”

He chuckled and pulled her into a hug, running his fingers up and down her back. Her hair smelled like lemons today. “I happen to know how to make a different kind of pie,” he said.

“Does it involve homemade crust or egg whites? If so, no thanks.”

“It involves one of those pre-made Oreo crusts, mint chocolate chip ice cream, hot fudge topping, and whipped cream.”

She pulled back to look at him. “That sounds good.”

“It is.” His hands continued to travel up and down her arms. “I could run to the store, be back in ten, and have it in your freezer in twenty. What do you think of that?”

“That you’re my knight in shining armor. Where have you been my whole life?”

He smiled, and his thumb removed some flour from the unburned side of her face. He wondered if her lips would taste like lemon too. “Do me a favor, will you? The next time you decide to take a nap outside, put up an umbrella first. This looks like it hurts.”

“It does.” She brushed some flour off the front of his shirt. “Now I’ve made you all dusty. Sorry.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living on a ranch, it’s that I clean up just fine.”

“Yes, you do.” Her gaze rose from his chest to his face. “Very fine.”

It wasn’t the first time a woman had said something like that to him, but coming from Samantha the words sounded honest and sincere, like a genuine compliment imbedded in playful banter.

Unable to resist, Colton gave her a light kiss on the forehead. “Be back in ten.”

He was back in twelve. She informed him of that the moment she opened her door. She still wore the polka-dotted apron, but there was no trace of flour anywhere—not on the floor, not on the kitchen counter, and not on her. It was like she’d wiggled her nose or snapped her fingers and everything went back to its rightful place. The only evidence that lemon meringue pies had been made in this kitchen was the lingering smell.

“How did you clean up so fast?” He set the grocery bags on the counter. “Do you have little mice helpers hidden somewhere?”

She shuddered. “You’re the one with the mice, and from what I could tell, they weren’t very helpful.”

Colton laughed. “No, they weren’t. Still aren’t.”

She shuddered again.

“Is that why you haven’t dropped by since I’ve moved in?”

“No.” She grabbed a bag of what looked like marinated chicken out of the fridge and set it on the counter. “I haven’t dropped by because I haven’t been invited.”

“You don’t need an invitation. You’re family.”

Standing in front of the pantry, she looked over her shoulder. A slight frown marred her expression. “You mean like a sister?”

His lips twitched. “No, not like a sister.”

She nodded and returned to her perusal of the pantry. “Good. Because what I feel for you is definitely not sisterly.”

She said it in a no-big-deal way, like she’d just made a comment about the weather or a Rocky’s game. But Colton suddenly became very interested at the turn this conversation was taking. He moved to stand behind her, letting his hands find her waist. “How do you feel about me, exactly? Motherly?”

Her body stiffened, and her blond curls swayed with the shake of her head.

“Grandmotherly?” he guessed again, leaning over her shoulder so he could see her profile.

“No,” came her breathy reply.

“Then what?”

She turned around, clutching a box of pasta like a shield in front of her heart. In her beautiful green eyes, he saw something he’d never seen on her before—uncertainty. The pasta box rose and fell against her chest.

“I feel… smitten,” she said finally.

Colton’s heart began to pound, harder and harder, and the too-warm kitchen became a tropical paradise. Slowly, he took the pasta and set it on the counter to the side of her. Then he re-captured her waist. The fingers of her right hand closed around the baubles on her silver necklace while her left hand fiddled at her side. His gaze was drawn to the exposed skin at the nape of her neck and her lovely collar bone, then rose to her full lips and striking eyes.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but his heart continued to pound. This wasn’t his first kiss or his second or even his tenth. He wasn’t a novice who didn’t know what to do or where to go from here, and yet he’d never been more petrified to act. This went beyond playful experimentation and into something that really mattered. It felt as though his world teetered above him, wobbling in a precarious hold. One word, one move, one touch and everything would either collapse around him or…

“It’s crazy, right? That I’m nervous.” Samantha’s voice was as shaky as her fingers. “I mean, it’s only been three weeks. We’re still in that having fun, getting-to-know-each-other phase. This shouldn’t feel this big yet—this… monumental, you know? It should still feel light and fun and—”

“Samantha.”

“What?”

“Know what my Daddy always says?”

Her head shook again.

“Never miss a good chance to shut up.”

She swallowed. “I’m shutting up.”

He leaned in slowly and his mouth hovered over hers long enough to smell the lemon on her breath. Then his lips pressed lightly against hers. He tasted something sweet and not sour at all. Her arms wound around his back, pressing against his shoulders, and her body melted against his. The too-warm kitchen became an inferno.

It went against the grain for Colton to move this fast, or to kiss her like this so soon. All his life he’d been taught to tread lightly and carefully. Good things come to those who wait, his father had reminded him over and over again, whenever he’d reached the limit of his patience with an animal, a friend, or his brothers. The night after Colton’s first break-up, his father had said it again, reminding Colton that it had taken two years to woo his wife.

Be patient. Give it a little more time. Just wait. Nothing good comes in a hurry.

And then Samantha zipped into his life, stirring up feelings the way her car stirred up dust on the lane.

It’s too soon! You’re going to regret it!
his thoughts maydayed the warning. But Colton didn’t want to listen. Wasn’t patience about waiting on someone else’s timeline? If a horse was ready to let you ride, you rode. If a brother was begging for a lesson in manners, you taught. And if a girl was ready to be kissed, you complied.