Page 42 of In a Pinch

Neither Cal nor Liv have ever mentioned his place, or if they even come here. It makes me sad for him, being isolated and alone. I was raised in a house of laughter and siblings who would go to war with me. Shit, since I’ve moved here, I have at least one of them checking on me, making sure I’m still alive and that people are being nice to me.

When he puts the car in park, I lose the internal battle with the question that’s been burning through my mind. But I want to tread lightly here. “Sam, can I ask you a question?”

“Always.” A smile tugs on my lips.Always. I like that.

“You probably won’t want to talk about it, but why don’t you talk to Cal and Liv? Your dad, I totally understand. I, too, will be avoiding him as much as possible. But, I doubt I’m allowed back in his house.”

“You aren’t missing much.” He shakes his head and stares blankly in front of him for a second, as if gathering his thoughts. “Uh, I don’t really have an answer. To me, it always felt like they were on my dad’s side. No one was in my corner when I decided to do my own thing.” He starts fidgeting with his hands and drops his head, and my heart restricts a bit. I have to fight the urge to reach out and console him.

“They weren’t embarrassed, but no one but my mom said anything. Cal ended up following in Dad’s steps. So, I just assumed he is an extension of him.” His head pops back up and he adjusts his neck. “Liv is the hardest for me. Cal and I were close growing up, but Liv was always the caretaker. I guess we just drifted apart once I stopped coming over. It’s easier having the distance than being shamed for doing what I love, I guess.” He shrugs and my heart breaks for him a little more in this moment.

My hand finds his arm and I give him a comforting rub. “If it’s any consolation, I think they miss you. And Cal is nothing like your dad. If you need someone in your corner, you’ve got me.”

He clenches his jaw and brushes his lips together. “Thank you. That means a lot. Now, let’s get you fed.” He reaches his hand over and taps my thigh a couple times. Having his hand that close to my lady bits sends a bit of a zing through me. Apparently, she doesn’t know that we’re trying to have a heart-to-heart conversation here.

Catching the hint that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, I drop it. In the time it takes me to gather my thoughts, he’s already around the car and opening my door. Leading meto the exposed staircase, his arm brushes mine, and I feel a little rush. I wonder if he feels the electricity. Or maybe I am more buzzed than I originally thought.

The open air nips at my bare legs through the outdoor stairway as he walks me to the third door on this floor. “This is the one.”

One step in, and my jaw drops. Moonlight is reflecting off the dark floors, but even with the little amount of light, I can still see this place is gorgeous. It has stained, concrete floors, giving it a masculine vibe, and higher ceilings than I would have guessed from the outside. But my favorite part of all is the large, glass window across the space in the living room. It takes up the whole wall, allowing the moonlight to pour through it.

His arm wraps around the back of my body to scoot me out of the way, but I stay rooted in place, half from my gawking, half from not knowing where anything is here. He takes a step forward and flicks on the light. The kitchen sprawls over the majority of the space, the living room just past the large island.

“I love these counter tops,” I say, mindlessly running my hand over the smooth and sealed wood. The countertops bring light into the space with their blonde wood color.

The whole space is filled with black and wood finishes. His one, lone accent wall is the only pop of color: a muted cream. Not really a color, but it’s something. While it isn’t me, it is beautifully put together. It screams bachelor, but in a classy way. The only thing it needs is some character. Maybe pictures on the wall, or a throw pillow or two to break up all the shades of gray. Even without all those things, it’s cozy.

He reaches his hand behind him and nervously scratches the back of his head. “It isn’t much. Everyone tells me it looks like a dungeon.”

Raising my hand to place it on my chest, I say, “In my humble opinion, it is not a dungeon.” My head moves from side to side. “A bit dark and moody, but it’s beautiful. You have good taste.You could use a pop or two of color, but it is very you.” Smiling, I look over at him, hoping to ease the tension that’s all too visible in his shoulders. It makes me wonder who the last girl he brought here was. And that makes me feel things I shouldn’t. Like raging jealousy.

He looks taken aback. “You think I’m moody?”

Pointing to him, I say, “You might be the sassiest human being I’ve ever met in my life.” Turning my finger around, I pop my index finger back at myself. “And that’s coming from me.”

He lets out a half laugh. “I don’t think I have ever been called sassy.”

“Well, I’m glad to have the honors.” I pretend to bow. “Trust me, if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.”

Sam starts pulling things out of the cupboards: a pot, I’m guessing for frying; oil; potatoes; and all sorts of fancy kitchen gadgets. Waiting to be assigned a job, I hop up on the island. The stove, fridge, and most of his workspace seem to be on the other side. So, this seems to be the most out of the way option while he gets everything ready.

Standing in front of his fridge, he pauses and turns to me. “Do you want your milkshake before fries or with fries?”

“During, for sure. I like to dunk them in it.” His eyes linger on me as I sit on his counter, and the look in them sets my body aflame. His eyes make their way back to mine and he gives me a soft smile before getting back to the task.

He seems to get lost for a while, between rinsing the potatoes, drying them off, and getting the oil heated. I watch his back as he cooks. He’s about the height of Cal, but has a little more width to his shoulders. He moves so gracefully around the kitchen. I noticed it before at Flambé, but here, I’m much more comfortable and I get to be a spectator.

As he chops the potatoes, I get lost in a trance to the point that, when he finally does speak, I all but fall off the counter from being startled.

“I never asked the other day, what do you like to bake?”

“Um, I really like it all. Anything sweet, just don’t expect it to be pretty. But I would say my specialty is cinnamon rolls.”

He pauses for a second and the look on his face seems too serious for what we’re talking about. I can’t figure out why.

He fixes his features and laughs to himself. “Cinnamon rolls, damn. I should have made this a trade deal—cinnamon roll for french fries.”

“I make them all the time. I will bring you some next time I whip them up.” Starting to feel a bit bad that he is doing all the work, I look around the kitchen, trying to find myself a job. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

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