If the alternative was living with her mother again, letting her criticize how she dressed, what she ate, and how she cleaned? What she did and didn’t do with her free time? The endless litany of criticism, the explosive temper…
I don’t know.
God, she really was as cold as her father.
A tear rolled down her mother’s cheek. She cleared her throat hard, dashing the tear away with her fingertips. “Well. I have a lot to think about,” she said woodenly. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a hair appointment, and I can’t be late.”
“Mom—”
The door closed in Ophelia’s face before she could object. She threaded her fingers into her hair, pulling at the roots, reeling at what she’d just done. “I’m such an asshole.”
“She needed to hear it,” Sam said from behind her.
“I could have been nicer about it.”
“No, I don’t think you could have.” He brushed her hair off her neck, massaging loose the tension in her muscles. “If you’d tried, she’d have steamrolled you some more.”
She hung her head, unable to take the absolution he was trying to offer her.
“Come,” he said, tugging at her hand. “We still have a lot of prep to do.”
“Prep?”
CHAPTER 28
Ophelia was comingto understand that Sam had a flare for the dramatic. She watched in horror from the doorway as he sprinkled rose petals over the bed.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered in mortification.
“It’s a special occasion.” Sam grinned at her with wicked satisfaction as he sprinkled a handful of petals over the chair in the corner.
She covered her face with both hands. Her resolve was faltering majorly. When he broke out the roses and the wine, she’d been ready to call it all off again—but then she’d seen the new missed messages on the holopad.
Brandon had congratulated Logan on finally getting ‘the prude’ to cooperate, and Logan had replied with a bunch of laughing emojis. Then Tiffany had texted him, wishing him luck, and he’d told her he couldn’t wait to be back in her arms after. Whatever regrets he’d been having that morning, he’d clearly gotten over them. He’d returned to feeling nothing at all about how he’d strung her along for two years, wringing her dry emotionally and financially.
It had been kindling on the fading spark of her anger.
The oven beeped, announcing that the beef Wellington was done baking. Sam brushed past to tend to his ridiculously opulent ‘farewell’ dinner. She rubbed the back of her neck as she trailed after him.
What if it was really a last meal for Logan? Sam had promised not to murder anyone, but…
Sam set the table with her best china. The side dishes were already steaming on the table—potatoes au gratin and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. Despite everything, the smell of it all had her mouth watering. He had an overpriced bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon chilling in a bucket of ice in the middle of the table, framed by two flickering taper candles.
“You’re nervous,” he noted, turning away from the roast.
“Of course.”
He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. “You have nothing to fear.”
She sank back into him, absorbing that machine warmth that seeped through his synthetic skin. When he held her like this, the anger leeched from her bones. Without it, she just felt weary.
Her eyes drifted over the apartment where she’d spent two years thinking she understood what it was to be loved. After only a handful of days with a machine, it was so clear that she’d never had a clue. He had more humanity than anyone in her life had shown her. Or maybe he had less, and that was what made him so much better.
Tears pricked in her eyes—frustration or anger or sadness, she couldn’t say.
She was about to tell him to forget all of it, to give her the phone so she could tell Logan she didn’t want to see him again, when the lock of the front door turned over.
Sam peeled away from her, falling into that robotic stiffness he reserved for other people.
