“That’s a sexist statement if I’ve ever heard one.”
She shrugged.
“I’d be glad to pull over if you feel sick.”
“I don’t. And I don’t usually get sick. Friday was an aberration.”
“You hold your liquor better on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday?”
“Damn it,” she muttered and swung her head toward him to argue, only to wince at the sharp pain that shot across her forehead. Reversing direction, she turned as far from him as she could within the confines of the car, burrowed into her coat, and concentrated on willing the pain away.
Nothing further was said during the drive to Providence. She put on a pair of sunglasses, and even then she kept her eyes closed against the day’s bright light. She realized that they had reached their destination when Sam stopped the car.
She wasn’t sure what to expect. When Savannah had mentioned a condo on the waterfront, she pictured Drew Wyker’s place in Manhattan. It was an ultramodern high rise, made of steel and glass.
Sam’s place was nothing like that. It was more of a garden apartment, rising only two flights, with glass, but no steel in sight. It was Cape Cod style, with cedar shingles stained gray and sparkling white trim. There looked to be a dozen or so units in the complex.
“New?” Susan asked as Sam guided her to the front door.
“Brand new. I’ve only been here a few months.”
“It has charm.”
Opening the door to a small foyer, he led her directly through to the living room. Seeing the bricked walls, the broad expanse of glass, and the cushiony sofa from which one could view the river, she realized there was charm inside the place, too—charm, if very little furniture.
“Like I said,” Sam explained when he caught her looking around, “I’ve just moved in. I haven’t had much time to order things. And I’m not even sure what to order. I’m not a decorator.” Taking her coat, he gestured toward the sofa. “Please.”
It wasn’t so much his use of that word as the look on his face that touched Susan. She could have sworn that he was uncertain of himself. Cocksure Sam Craig was unsure of himself.
It helped.
Slipping onto the sofa, she eased off her sneakers and curled her legs under her. After a minute of sitting straight, she lowered her head to the sofa’s arm. Behind her, Sam rummaged in the kitchen, but she didn’t have the inclination at that moment to see what he was doing. Nor did she have the inclination to ask for a tour. Her head was still throbbing. Her eyes hurt. Sleep was the easiest, most noble escape.
She awoke some time later to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon. Before she could do more than drop her feet to the floor and sit up, Sam was lowering plates of food to the small area rug that lay between the sofa and the tall window of glass that overlooked the river.
Without a word, he went back to the kitchen, returning this time with a pitcher of orange juice and a stack of dishes, silverware, and glasses. After he arranged everything to his satisfaction, he sat back on his heels.
“Breakfast is served.”
Susan was still feeling groggy. “What time is it?”
He glanced at his slim black watch. It was different from the practical one he had worn when he was working, just as the plaid shirt he now wore was a step up from the old, faded sweatshirt. He still didn’t look conventional; his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and his shirttails hung out over jeans that, while clean, were torn at the knee. But he had obviously made an effort to dress, and, muzzy as she was, she noticed.
“It’s nearly two-thirty,” he told her.
She lifted her chin in acknowledgment, relieved to find that the pain in her head had eased. “This must be brunch, then.”
“Isn’t it a little late for that, too?”
“No,” she said and took the plate he offered. It was filled with an assortment of breakfast goodies. “It’s Sunday. Anything goes.”
“Tell me about Saturday.”
“Coffee first.”
He poured her a cup. Carefully, she set the plate down beside her on the sofa, took the cup, and held it between her hands. She sipped it slowly, savoring its strength. As the caffeine seeped into her system, the fuzzy feeling faded.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sam alternated between eating and watching her. He could hardly believe that she was in his home, and that she had entered it without a condescending quip. Though he adored the place, she was obviously used to far larger and more elaborate surroundings. He didn’t need large, and he didn’t want elaborate.
