Page 31 of Wrecked

Sam glares at me, clearly annoyed. “That was uncalled for.”

I block everything out—the music, the crowd, the whining brute—and focus on Sam, who instantly stills. I nod toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

His eyes narrow on me. “Where to?”

“My place.”

His eyes widen. “The penthouse?”

“Yes. I have the place to myself tonight. I want you to come home with me.”

“Why?” he challenges. “Why all of a sudden are you talking to me? It’s been ages.”

I figure honesty is the best policy here. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you, Sam. I want you.”

“Hey!” The brute tries, and fails, to push his way between us. “I found him first!”

“No, you really didn’t.” I reach for Sam’s hand, and when he doesn’t protest, I pull him to me and right there, on a crowded dance floor, I throw caution to the wind and kiss him.

After we share a hungry kiss, he pulls back, looking startled. “Are you going to ditch me again?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No way in hell.”

I guess that’s good enough for him. “Okay, let’s go.” Sam links our fingers and pulls me toward the exit.

Once we’re outside, where it’s not so loud, I back Sam against a wall. With one hand, I grip his waistband, and with the other, I grip his jaw. “I screwed up before, and I’m sorry.” I lean in to kiss him, more gently this time. He tastes like coconut and rum. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

“Just two.” He chuckles. “They’re called Blue Balls. Kind of fitting, huh? Since you were the one who bailed on me.”

I release his jaw and slip my hand to the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Sam.” I kiss him again. “No more blue balls, I promise. Please come home with me. I want you in my bed.”

Sam groans. “I’m probably going to regret this, but okay.”

* * *

I follow Sam back to the apartment building. We park in the garage and take the private elevator up to the penthouse together. The elevator opens into the foyer.

“Wow.” Sam whistles. “Nice digs.”

The floor is a checkerboard made up of black and white tiles. In the center of the room is a large mahogany table holding a cut-glass vase filled with long-stemmed fresh-cut flowers. Hanging high over the table is a vintage crystal chandelier.

I shrug. “I can’t complain.”

Sam follows me to a door that opens up into the actual penthouse. The view opens up into a huge space that contains a living room with a fireplace to the left, then a bar, a massive dining table that seats a small army, and finally my pride and joy—a custom-designed kitchen. The walls making up the entire exterior of this open space are glass, providing a million-dollar panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. Make that several million. Right now, well after dark, the city is lit up.

Sam walks into the space and makes a beeline for the bar. “This is—wow.”

“Shane and his brothers salvaged the bar when it was shutting down. It was one of their favorite places to hang out, and they couldn’t bear to see it demolished. So they bought the bar and the fixtures and rebuilt it here.”

He walks the length of the dining table. “You guys must have a lot of friends over.”

“Shane has a big family and a lot of friends. We fill this table, and then some, pretty often.”

Lastly, he tours the kitchen. “This must be your domain.”

“Why do you say that?” He’s right, of course. The kitchen is my territory.

“You made me dinner and cookies. Obviously, you like to cook.”