Page 67 of Maid of Dishonor

“Because what if it’s just a bunch of gambling addicts?” she goes on. “And they’re just gambling away their kids’ college funds or something?” She shakes her head. “I couldn’t be part of that. All right; no Vegas. Missouri is fine.”

I just hum my agreement, surreptitiously turning my head a little so I can sniff her hair. It’s bad; I’m like an addict in need of a fix. Just one more hint of peach to sustain me. One more hit of her sweet tartness to tide me over until I can kick this habit.

“Are you…are you sniffing my hair?” she says, sounding on the verge of laughter.

“Yeah, I am,” I say fervently, grateful that I don’t have to be sneaky anymore. I tilt my head further, pressing my face into her hair. “I’m sorry, does it bother you? You just smell sogood.”

She shakes her head, and when she looks up at me, there’s an odd look on her face; amused, but confused, too. The smile she then flashes me is genuine, but it doesn’t erase the tenseness around her eyes. “I don’t mind, but I’m pretty sure only boyfriends are this obsessed with the way their girlfriends smell, so you might want to tone it down a bit.”

Her voice is light, but her words hit hard. Because she’s right; I am acting like a man obsessed. I don’t honestly know what to say or how to defend myself, so I change the subject instead, surreptitiously giving my rubber band a few snaps while I do.

“Want to check out the telenovelas?”

“Ooh, yes,” she says, her smile widening, becoming more convincing.

I nod, turning my body sideways and reclining a bit, making myself comfortable. I grab the remote and turn the TV on. I flip through until I find the channel we want. My ears are filled with the sounds of dramatic music and rapid Spanish—which neither of us speak—and we watch as a woman in a long dress begins yelling at a man wearing one of those thick, plush bathrobes.

“You stole my robe!” Sam narrates as the woman throws a vase at the man. “And I’ll never forgive you!”

“You stole my dress!” I say as the man starts yelling back. “You know I told you to stay out of my closet!”

Sam giggles, and I give the back of her shirt a little tug until she turns to her side and snuggles up next to me, her head on my shoulder, my arm around her waist. She mimes throwing another vase before bringing her hand to rest on my chest, and then she speaks again as the woman begins following the man as he storms up a fancy flight of stairs.

“Wait, please don’t be angry!” Sam says, because the woman appears to be pleading now. “You know it’s important that I wear a ballgown in the middle of the day while I’m at home doing mundane chores.”

I grin, both at Sam’s words and at the feel of her in my arms. I let my fingers trace over hers, giving in to the desire to take her hand in mine. She lets me, probably thinking nothing of it, while I revel in how soft her skin is, how perfectly her hand fits in mine. And when the man on TV starts yelling again, I speak. “I don’t care what excuses you make. That dress is mine, and it looks better on me. You have—oh,” I say, breaking off, my eyes widening.

Whatever our friends on TV were talking about, it wasn’t dresses and robes, because all of a sudden they’re kissing—very, very passionately. My eyes widen further when the woman begins fumbling with the tie of the robe, and I yank my hand out of Sam’s, hastily feeling around for the remote, locating it under my butt and hitting the power button as quickly as possible. The TV snaps off, and silence descends on the room.

“Wow,” Sam says, sounding just as shocked as I am by the sudden turn in events.

“Yeah,” I croak. “Didn’t see that one coming.” And even though Sam and I have lain like this before, even though it’s not unusual for us to cuddle up sometimes when we watch a movie…it suddenly feels different. I’m aware of her hand over my heart in a way I’m not usually, and I hope she can’t feel the way it’s picking up speed. I’m conscious of howcloseshe is, how soft she feels next to me—

And it suddenly feels prudent to sit up and put a few inches between us. I startle Sam in the process, but she doesn’t say anything as I return to my upright position and then scoot away a bit. My heart is running a stupid marathon, and I’m grateful when Sam stands and moves to the kitchen.

“Want a drink?” she says, sounding completely unaffected.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my own voice just as natural. “Water would be great. Thanks.”

She returns a few seconds later and passes me a glass of water, and though I nod my thanks, I don’t look at her as I drain the whole thing in one go. I also don’t pour some of the water on my hands to splash my face with, even though it might be beneficial, because it feels warm in here.

Sam, on the other hand, seems fine. As cool as a cucumber. It’s a bit of a blow to my ego, although it’s probably for the best; it would be harder to fight these feelings if I knew she felt the same way.

And I’m hit for a second by a startling realization: the idea of me having feelings for Sam seems scary and dangerous, but the idea of Sam having feelings for me? That seems perfect and wonderful and desperately,desperatelydesirable. To hear her say she loves me, to know she wants me just as badly as I want her—

Crap. I think I might be in trouble. The kind of sweet trouble that I force myself not to think about or feel, because—I say the words loudly and firmly to myself—this cannot happen. Sam is my everything. If we dated and then broke up, everything would be ruined.

I check my watch before realizing I’m not wearing it right now; I just look at the freckle on my wrist for a second anyway. Then, still wanting to know the time, I pull out my phone.

“Let’s head over to Maya’s,” I say, tucking it back in my pocket.

Sam nods. “Okay, but what’s the plan?”

I think for a second. “You go in, I’ll pretend to stay in the car talking on the phone or something. When you’re inside, I’ll go around the back and through Maya’s bedroom window.”

Sam gives a snort of laughter. “You can’t go through herwindow. That’s barbaric.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Eating a raw human heart is barbaric. Going through the window is practical. I went to that house all the time growing up, Sam,” I point out. “I’ve snuck in before, and I know for a fact that one of Maya’s windows is easier to get open because it doesn’t latch properly.” Then I frown, thinking of Maya and her baby in a house where her bedroom window is easy to break in. “I’ll have to fix that for her,” I add, still frowning.

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