Page 54 of Wicked Me
Paige
SAM DIDN’T CHARGE ATme like a wild animal since two weeks ago when I walked out of the kitchen on him. He was giving me space, which I appreciated, because I needed to work out in my mind this thing called blackmail.
I had no idea what I was even looking for. Rick didn’t appear to know, either. Even if I did find something incriminating, I wasn’t so sure handing it over to someone like Rick would be easy, even with the threat of the pictures of me. I’d grown up with the Clearys, and to stab them in the back like this wasn’t something I could do without it weighing heavily on my conscience, dream library job or not.
And then there was Sam, sweet, always half-naked Sam who had seeped under my skin and sexified my whole damn world. The guy who made breakfast for me every morning, most of which was bacon-related and probably had already taken two years off my lifespan. The guy who read my Lisa Montgomery books without reducing them to book porn. I didn’t want to hurt him, and that wasn’t just the lust talking, either. He was a good person, and I enjoyed his company even when his head wasn’t buried between my thighs, fucking me senseless with the skill of that tongue.
Holy hell,that tongue.
But he’d acted distant these last two weeks, not toward me exactly but like something was bothering him and he didn’t want me to know. Every time he and Riley were in the same room together, they spoke in low voices until I came in and they both snapped their mouths closed.
Not before I heard the name Rose, though. The Cleary kid sister who always had a smile on her face as brilliant as her sunshine-colored pigtails, who often wanted to play yellow bird tag, and who was mysteriously absent from all conversations with me. Curious, yes, but hardly political career ending.
On Friday afternoon when I had just about completed my second full week of my internship, I checked my phone in the staff break room to discover a text from Sam. It was a picture of a house on tall stilts in the middle of the ocean with the words Zombie Apocalypse Genius across the top. He’d likely sent it to all his contacts, not just me, but a fuzzy ball of warmth still swelled inside my chest.
Because I had a real, honest-to-goodness question to ask him, I texted him back.
Geniuses unite! Do you have cowboy boots?
I dropped my phone in my purse, but a soft, muffled ding indicated another text. According to the clock on the wall, I still had four minutes until I had to continue digitizing and translating a beautiful old Spanish photo album, so I checked my phone again.
Are these two thoughts related?his text read.
A ridiculous grin blossomed across my face.HA! No. Going to a cowboy bar tonight with some interns.
Does size matter?
I frowned.Are we still talking about cowboy boots?
Yes.And a second later:Pervert.
I burst into laughter.
“My, my,” Charlotte said, shutting her locker. One side of her head had been freshly buzzed while the other, longer side of her hair spiraled over one shoulder, the purple tips flirting with her sleeved-tattoo. She arched her eyebrows quizzically. “Someone’s making you blush more than Nicole does, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark.” Nicole was darkening the numbered ink on the backs of her hands with a Spongebob pen wrapped around her neck with a cord. The red tint to her cheeks hadn’t faded any since an unfortunate conservation incident a few days ago involving too much bleach and a nineteenth century cartoon.
I shrugged, trying, and probably failing, to be nonchalant about my own facial color. “His name is Sam, and he’s...” I had no idea how to finish that thought, so I shook my head down at his next text.
I don’t have any cowboy boots.
Me:Then why did you ask about size?
Charlotte slammed her locker. “Sam, huh? Why don’t you invite him along tonight?”
“Uh...” I didn’t really have a good reason not to. “Maybe I will.”
“Well, come on.” She nodded toward the door. “We don’t want Janice to give us her evil eye for being late, now do we?”
I quickly stashed my phone in my locker, but glanced at Sam’s last text.
You asked about boots so I thought we were getting personal.;)
Getting personal with Sam. A rush of heat zipped to my center, and I bit my lip on a breathy chuckle. I was pretty sure we had ventured far past getting personal already.
* * *
SAM DIDN’T GO WITHus. He wasn’t home when I got there, so I texted him an invitation. His reply back disappointed me even though it had no reason to.
