BY LATE JUNE, the Bishop family has had me to dinner four times. I’ve taken a liking to beach clambakes more than I would have imagined, and April and I have perfected making a fire pit out of hot rocks.
April is from Nebraska and only moved out here a few years ago, and Micah finds it very funny that the two girls with little oceanside experience dig a better clambake pit than his own kids. It’s easy to see how someone could have the Bishops as a second family, the way that Sam’s friend Costa did. They give generously and love unconditionally. For people like me, who are essentially alone, being taken in and embraced is so foreign and so needed.
Then, there is Sam himself. We can’t seem to get enough of each other. Since that day on the dock, we’ve been inseparable. When boundaries fall and truths come out, it can bring a closeness that is unshakable. Despite our emotional intensity, we haven’t slept together. In fact, we haven’t done more than kiss. I think that it’s because of how strongly we feel for each other—how quickly that connection hit us—that we’ve almost been scared to take our physical relationship further as though it would be too much. As extensive and heated as our kissing and groping has been, we’ve always let it wind down in a way that feels natural.
I don’t know. Maybe we feel an obligation not to jump into bed after revealing so much to each other. Sam let me in on something very painful, and I think it’s hard for him to trust that I still see him ashim, not as a monster responsible for a child’s death.
So, really, I guess that I’m not sure why we haven’t slept together, but I’m over whatever has been holding us back.
Right now, Sam is in my kitchen, finally cooking that risotto dinner that got delayed. I’m in my bedroom, fussing over what to wear. More specifically, what I want him to rip off me because I cannot take this much longer. I go with a deep purple-and-black push-up bra and underwear set. There’s a hint of lace—just enough to avoid being slutty, but enough that I’m going to get him to cave on this whole holding-out thing. That was fine and probably smart, but now, it’s time. I pull on a loose top and straight-leg pants, both of which should take about three seconds to remove.
I step through the doors and outside to the deck to take in the view. I could never grow tired of overlooking the ocean.
Sam’s garden of circle plots catches my eye, and I smile at the flowers that he’s planted—dahlias and calla lilies, I think. The soil is dark, and I can tell he must have just watered them today. I squint. The grass around them though is nearly dead, which is quite odd.
The salty air gusts cause me to shiver, but for a few minutes more, I stay on the deck, searching the wooded area by the house, as I compulsively rub the bracelet that remains on my wrist. Again, I sense that I’m being watched. I think it’s my phobia over my mother finding me. Not that she would ever do something as undignified as to hide out in shrubbery, but still, I’m allowed to be paranoid. An obsessive part of me needs to check and recheck the area outside the house until I’m sure she’s not there.
I finally go back into my room, and I shut and bolt the doors. I back out of my bedroom, afraid to turn my eyes, and try to shake off the spooked feeling. When I get to the living room, I’m already feeling better. Each time I walk in here, I see the furniture that Sam brought up a few weeks back. He angled the giant chaise toward the fireplace, set the lamp that I love next to it, and placed a tall bookshelf just off the kitchen area. Every item in here feels like home.
I brush my fingers over the main wall and smile. Sam has insisted that I let him repaint the apartment, but I can’t decide on a color, so every day, he slaps a splotch of a new paint shade for me to assess. There are fifteen up right now, and I still haven’t decided. But he has the patience of a saint, and maybe I’m reticent to choose because I’m growing rather fond of the paint-sample routine. I stop though. Something new is on the wall that he must have done while I was getting ready. I run my fingers over the paint colors as I read what Sam has written under each sample.
Every single paint swatch isforme,becauseof me.
I catch myself resting a hand over my heart, and I practically roll my eyes at how much I’m swooning. I don’t care though. I keep tracing his words with my fingers, stunned by what he’s done. How deeply he knows me and cares for me is so evident on this wall. Not to mention, it’s just freaking adorable.
My feelings for him border on overwhelming. He’s the first person I’ve been involved with romantically who lifts me up instead of smashing me to the ground. Sam has a gentleness and loyalty about him that is irresistible, and I’m proud of myself for responding to such a healthy relationship. It means thatI’mgetting healthy. Maybe I’ll never be able to explain what propelled me to Maine, and my impulsivity and urgent need to see him again defy explanation, but from the first moment when I saw Sam in that hospital stairwell, my draw to him was powerful and eternal and impossible to deny.
I glance to the open kitchen and take him in—his broad shoulders, the start of a summer tan on his forearms, his hair again falling into his face and hiding those gorgeous eyes. The way he concentrates on what he’s doing, the way he can focus, arouses me.
Sam glances at me and quirks a smile.
After I’ve read and reread everything he’s written five times, I drop my hand and go to him. I come up behind his tall frame, and my arms encircle his chest. “Bishop—” I start.
“I love when you call me that. You’re the only person who does.”
There’s a shyness and sweetness in his voice that I adore.
I nuzzle my face against his back.
“Okay, so the basic risotto is done, and this is where we flavor it. We’re doing lobster, caramelized onions, parmesan, fresh basil, and a hit of heavy cream.”
“Bishop,” I say again. This time, I press against him and ease my hands down to his stomach.
“Yes?” By the tone in his voice, I know he’s smiling. He empties small bowls with ingredients and stirs the rice mixture.
I’m sure this dish he’s slaved over will be really amazing. But lifting his shirt from under his belt is more enticing, so I do that. I also slip my fingers under the waistline of his jeans. And because I can’t stand not to, I inch a hand lower. He’s definitely hard.
Sam shuts off the stove and turns to me. “Stella.”
“The wall…” The words to thank him escape me.
He steps in and twirls a finger through one of my curls. “You have trouble with colors. I was just helping.”
He leans in and kisses me, and it only takes a second before we are both breathing hard. I can feel the shift in our passion tonight. The urgency is upped, the need for each other demanding and no longer able to be delayed.
As we fumble toward the bedroom, he walks behind me and keeps his hold on my waist. Once there, I lean back into Sam while his hands roam over the front of my shirt, and I catch my breath when he slowly travels his fingers over my breasts. His mouth is on my neck, his lips and tongue wetting my skin as his kisses grow more aggressive.
A wonderful shiver rips through me when his hands start to move under my shirt and over my stomach. There’s no way that I’ll be able to stand for very long, so I turn to face him and wrap my arms around his neck. When he grabs my ass and pulls me against him, I can’t help but let out a sound. It’s probably in the whimper category, but I don’t care.
