Phern gives him a look, but there’s no real bite to it. “Yeah, well. Some people cope with grief by moving to Nashville. I went to grad school.”
The room goes quiet for a beat, the weight of her words settling gently between us.
Sam doesn’t flinch. Just looks at her with something quiet in his eyes. Understanding. Respect. Maybe a little guilt.
And I realize in that moment how much history I’ve stepped into. How deep it runs here. And how easy it would be to fall straight into it, too.
Especially when Sam’s thigh brushes mine and stays there.
We all make small talk, getting to know each other until our drinks are gone.
Phern rinses her mug in the sink and says, “I’m going to read my next chapter and then take a nap.”
Sam says, “A nap sounds great. Perfect weather for it.”
She waves and disappears down the hall.
“Nap?” I echo. “I can’t remember the last time I took a nap.”
“Oh, darlin’, I can promise we won’t be doing much sleepin’ if we go to my room right now.”
Heat rushes through me like a wildfire.
“Is that so?”
“It is.” He moves closer. “Seems there’s some clothing you might need some help getting off.”
“Getting off,” I hum. “What a good idea.”
I hold out my hand and he takes it. Our pace is slow and measured as we walk down the hall toward his room.
“Where is Phern’s room?” I ask as we reach his door.
“Other side of the house.”
“Thank god.”
His lips twitch. “That’s why we have locks, darlin’.”
“Oh, it’s not that.” I step into the room. “I just get real loud in the bedroom.”
Sam’s eyes darken, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet finality that feels louder than thunder.
“Is that so?” he asks, voice rough, amused, and already wrecked.
He presses the lock slowly.
I take a slow step back until my thighs hit the edge of his bed. “It is.”
He watches me for a beat, like he’s deciding just how dangerous he’s about to be. Then he crosses the room, one step at a time, all heat and intent.
“You just gonna stand there sayin’ things like that,” he murmurs, “or are you gonna let me find out for myself?”
I tug off the sweats, letting them fall to the floor.
Lifting the hem of the flannel shirt, I say, “I told you my panties were wrecked.”
His gaze drops and oh, the sound that leaves his throat is somewhere between a groan and a prayer.
