Page 9 of Naughty Secrets

Chapter Seven

SAM

“Natalie.”

I have no idea how I’ve made it to Sticky’s Bar so fast. One minute I was pushing open the damn cattle gate. Now, I’m standing beside Natalie’s table, trying not to wrap my hand around Steadman’s throat.

“Sam.” She stares at me, her eyes wide with shock. “What are you doing here?”

I swallow hard. Words don’t come easily to me anymore, not like they once did when everything I felt came out in the lyrics of song. “You didn’t come home for dinner.”

She deflates, as if somehow with those six words, I’ve let her down. “There was food in the fridge.”

I don’t know how to tell her it’s not really about the food. It’s about her. And how the house was empty and cold without her in it. How the food didn’t have a taste, and my heart didn’t beat, and the air couldn’t reach my lungs when Alexis told me she was here with another man.

No. Not just a man. Steadman.

“Do you want me to order you a meal?”

I don’t miss the sarcasm in her tone, the clipped voice, or the glance she shares with Alexis across the table. Nor did I miss the blush in her cheeks when she shoots Steadman an apologetic smile before she moves to stand. “They have prime rib here. And potatoes. I can tell them not to put gravy on the vegetables.”

“No.” The word comes out so loud she freezes, half in and half out of her seat. “I didn’t come here to eat.”

“You haven’t eaten since sunrise.” Her brow creases in a frown. “You must be starving.”

“No.” I shake my head, struggling to find the words I want to say. How ironic that the poet in me disappears when I need him the most. “I don’t need food. I came to take you home. With me.”

She sinks down in her seat. “I’m not ready to go just yet. I’m having a good time, Sam. It’s been a long time since I had fun.”

I don’t know what kind of fun she is planning to have in a dress that teases with hints of her warm olive skin beneath the lace—was she wearing it at home before she left?—but it won’t involve Steadman, who is watching her intently like a predator about to feast.

“It’s cold.” I unzip the jacket I threw on when I left the farm. “You should cover up for the ride home.”

“I’m not cold, and I’m not leaving.” She makes no move to take the jacket from me.

“Please join us.” Steadman gestures to the empty chair across the table. “I’m Aiden Steadman, by the way.” He holds out his hand—the hand that I imagined touching my wife as he plied her with drinks.

A fierce possessive anger grips me hard, shocking me with its intensity. Natalie isn’t the problem. It is this man. This . . . dentist with his brilliantly white teeth, his unnaturally smooth face, and his challenging stare.

I pull out the chair and position it beside Natalie. Taking a seat, I throw my arm over her shoulders. Natalie shoots me a puzzled glance. Clearly, I have been complacent for too long. Although I never say the words, my feelings haven’t changed. Natalie is mine. She belongs with me. This educated, professional, city slicker, walked-out-of-a-men’s-fashion-magazine bastard across the table saw a beautiful woman hurting, and thought to take advantage because she was alone.

But I’m here now, and no one is touching my girl.

“Sam? Do you want to order something?” Natalie gestures to the waitress who is now standing beside the table.

“What’s he having?” I ask without taking my eyes off Steadman. Some primitive instinct warns me not to look away.

“Scotch,” Alexis says. I make a mental note to thank her for alerting me to the threat. She is a good friend to Natalie—a good friend to us both.

“How many has he had?”

“Three, I think. Maybe four.”

I tip my head at the waitress. “Bring me the bottle.”

“You need to eat something if you’re going to drink that much,” Natalie insists.

I grit my teeth, annoyed both at her lack of faith in my ability to hold my liquor, and the insinuation of weakness. But how does she know how much I can drink? We never go anywhere together, and rarely drink at home.

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