Page 38 of Hearts on the Table
“Probably a salad, too. Wine.”
If any other man had taken me on a non-date and told me we were going back to his house, I’d have assumed the agenda skewed more towards getting naked, rather than cooking dinner. I might not know Sam as well as he knew me, but I knew I could trust him if he said we were only going back to his place to make pasta. I was equally intrigued and disappointed that sex didn’t seem to be on his itinerary today.
“Why? Why the pasta? Why any of this? No filter.” I pointed at him, hooking my finger into his shirt to pull him an inch closer. He was happy to shuffle forward, a soft smile deepening the corner of his lips.
“You like to work out. You love barbecue. We spend all day cooped up in a hospital. I thought you might like to see the sun for a bit.” He slipped his fingers along the skin of my arm. “You might also just want to sit on my couch with a glass of wine. I’m selfish enough to want you to do all that with me.”
Ididwant that. All of it. The sunlight, the pastries, the conversation…to walk along the shore and then sit on the couch with a glass of wine. Even more urgently, I realized I wanted to sit onhiscouch—not just any couch—with a glass of wine. I wanted to recapture that cozy, comfortable feeling I’d gotten the night his family had fed me tacos while the sun went down. It all seemed perfect. With one exception.
“Would you kiss me?” I wasn’t sure if it was a demand or a request, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand this close to him much longer, on a day he’d specifically designed for me, without his lips on mine.
Sam didn’t need to be asked twice. He gripped the bow of my romper where it tied between my shoulder blades, pressing me closer. The difference in our heights was laughable, but between his pulling and my tugging, we ended up exactly where we needed to be. He didn’t tease as he pressed his lips firmly against mine.
When his other hand settled on my bare waist, I gasped. His tongue swept inside. Heat speared through me at the contact and I opened my mouth wider, silently begging him to do it again. He obliged.
He tasted like coffee and sugar and he kissed me like he’d been doing it for decades. Slow and methodical, in a way I didn’t know men were capable of. His hand tightened on the fabric of my romper, twisting. In return, I clawed at his shirt and my fingers cupped his neck, straining to get him closer. His head tilted to take more and the slightest edge of his teeth caught my lower lip.
A low grunt answered my whimper. My hand slipped up his shirt to feel the stacked muscles of his abdomen. He gripped me tighter.
“…Sir?”
It took him a second to pull away. I was halfway up his shirt.
“Thanks.” Sam’s voice was rough. When he turned back to me, he held a tray of food between us, looking sheepish. My chest heaved while my lips tingled. I could still feel the rasp of his beard against my cheek. For a wild moment, I considered tossing the tray to the ground and jumping on him. He’d catch me.
He gave me a warning look, like my plans were clearly visible on my face. They probably were. I felt like my clothes were going to be singed off my body at any moment. He wielded the tray between us. “Meat.”
I laughed and followed him to a picnic table without tackling him. I bit my lip when he sat close enough for our legs to press together. Groaned when the food actually lived up to the hype.
I tried to ignore that voice inside warning that I was treading on dangerous ground, along with the little smile on Sam’s face that seemed to say he knew it, too.
Chapter 15
Lainey
Three days later, I was still smiling. This time, like an idiot over a Tupperware container. Not even Jones’ waffling attempts at flattery and mansplaining could ruin my post-non-date-buzz.
After strolling around the market for a while longer, Sam had taken me back to his place. We’d made pasta and sat on his deck until long after the sun set. He’d pressed a container of leftovers into my hands before I left.
Something about him packing the dressing separately from the salad had made me want to drop the container and attack his face. Instead, we’d stuck to light, teasing touches while we made dinner, and a few chaste kisses that stopped well-short of qualifying as making out. Unfortunately.
I grinned like a fool down at my salad, remembering how the restraint had snapped when he dropped me at my apartment.
“Lainey. One more.”
Thathadqualified as a make-out session, one that only stopped because the doorman knocked on the window of Sam's car to tell us we were blocking the flow of traffic in front of my building.
“What are you smiling about?” Rija set her plate down across from me. Jones, thankfully, beat a hasty retreat.
The lounge was relatively quiet, only a few of us scarfing down food between appointments. Despite our hectic schedules, I’d gotten used to sneaking coffee breaks or finding excuses to talk with Sam around the floor. I was quickly starting to misshim on days like today, when he was stuck in meetings, so I was glad to have Rija’s company. She was a vast improvement over my smarmy fellow.
“Good mood, I guess.” I shrugged. “How’s your day going?”
“Lost a patient this morning.”
“Crap. I’m sorry.” I hesitated for a millisecond before I reached out to touch her arm. “You okay?”
It was a horrible, horrible truth: losing patients never got better. Ever. Some people learned how to shrug it off faster than others, or build up a thick skin, but it was all just coping mechanisms. When you lose someone under your care—which inevitably happens—the grief and the guilt stick with you, whether you pay attention to it or not.
