Page 29 of Keeping Mr. Sweet

“But it wasn’t?” I hold my breath. I already know the answer. There’s no way a camera crew could have been snuck onto the plane and into the cockpit. I was so stupid to have sex with Luca and that other pilot when he suggested we join the cockpit club. I was so naïve to believe that nobody would pay attention to my last name and make the connection. “I’m such an idiot. I thought he was a nice guy. I didn’t know he was going to do this.”

“I know,” he says. “I don’t blame you. Do you understand? What this asshole has done to you is not your fault. I contacted my lawyer too, told them to send out cease and desists to every site they find it on. It’s probably not enough, but if it stifles people’s ability to watch it, that’s something.”

“Thank you.” I grip his rigid bicep and hold his arm more tightly around me. If only I could believe that would be enough. “I just wish I’d never done it in the first place.”

“I swear, if I ever meet this twisted fuck I’m going to make him suffer.”

“I don’t need that,” I say, though I love the protectiveness he shows. “I just need you.”

“You’ve got me,” he says, his voice changing from pissed off to brittle to warm. “Just don’t run out on me again, okay?”

***

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” Sam asks, appearing in the bathroom door while I do up the strap on my bra. Arms folded against his chest, he doesn’t move from the spot though his gaze rakes my body, causing my skin to break out in goose bumps. Is it wrong that I like when he looks at me like he’s the wolf ready to eat me up? Is it weird that he hasn’t so much as kissed me since the morning we decided we’d see Summer together, though we’ve slept side by side for almost a week? Weirder still, I feel closer than ever to him, despite the lack of sexual contact.

“I had a fight with a fish. The halibut. I can’t get the smell out. Ru tossed the whole thing in the garbage.”

“So that’s why it’s crossed off tonight’s menu.”

“Yes. He cussed me out for it too. Swore up a storm.”

“Did he?”

“He did. Then he bellowed at the guy doing dishes. Is it Joey? Something about a dirty pot and not doing his job right.”

“You know Ru didn’t mean anything by it. Sometimes it’s part of the job. Everyone is a part of a machine and if one person doesn’t pull their weight it can make for a hell of a shift.”

“I get it. I’ve watched you at work enough times to know that you don’t pussy foot around when someone screws up. I know that Ru was just doing the same.”

I catch him watching me in the mirror while I gather my hair up and tie it into a ponytail. His gaze is locked on mine through the mirror, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. My pussy clenches. Same way it always does when he starts thinking about fucking me. I got really good at reading his facial expressions when I was a kid. But I was eighteen the first time I saw this particular look, and I’ll never forget.

“Do you remember the first time you told me you were going to fuck me, Sam?”

“Do you think I could forget?”

“M-maybe.” I hoped not. I couldn’t.

“You were finally feeling better. What? It had to have been six months since you’d come to live with me?” Peeling away from the wall, he prowls toward me. Neither of us waiver as we stare at each other in the glass.

“Seven.” My heart beats riotously, my breaths are small and tight like a wild animal chased until it has nowhere left to run. Sam corners me, and I welcome it.

“Seven then,” he murmurs. His hand captures my ponytail, slides down to the end and then twists right up to the hair tie, so that it looks like he’s carrying a dark rope around his fist. “You were in my kitchen. Which was unusual.”

“Let’s face it. I can’t cook,” I whisper.

“No, you can’t,” he agrees, tugging my head back until I’m resting against his shoulder. His free hand finds my bare belly and covers it. “But you never needed to. I was happy to do it.”

I could combust with how possessive he is. He doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t realize that when he touches me there, I imagine growing big with his child. That I would have given anything to have that once upon a time. That the idea still sets me on fire with the need to have him fill me with his seed.

“You were baking a cake.” He lowers his mouth to my ear, but never breaks eye contact. I can see his lips moving. “Because it was your birthday.”

“Funfetti,” I whisper. “Vanilla with the sprinkles mixed in. I thought it was cute.”

He almost winces. “You thought you were alone.”

“I was.” People make excuses for Robert Durum. They say he’s a workaholic. Or they say he was someone else before the loss of Rachel Durum. I only know that he was devastated to be left with a child he didn’t want instead of the wife he adored. How could I forget when every birthday serves as a reminder that my dad can’t bear to be near me because of a woman I never met? “I was used to planning my own parties and buying my own cake and pretending like I was happy. I bought my own gifts, used to label them from him, you know. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought if I pretended hard enough one day it would happen.”

“You weren’t alone,” he says, not arguing the point but simply making a statement. “You’ve never been alone.”

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