Page 282 of A Matter of Time

“I gotta go.”

“No,” he whined. “You promised you’d stay here with me forever.”

I chuckled, pulling on the second boot. “I never said any such thing.”

The noise he made in return was half whimper, half moan.

“Sam,” I said softly before standing up, pulling on my shirt, realizing it was useless since I could no longer button it. “Shit. I need a sweater or a T-shirt or something.”

“I need to get my gun,” he grumbled, opening his eyes wide to try and wake up. “A bullet will slow you down some.”

“Sam,” I repeated his name as I walked past him back to his bedroom. “Dylan’s in labor, she needs me.”

I was alone for several moments before I heard him fumbling around behind me. When I turned to look at him, he had his underwear and jeans back on.

“What’re you doing?”

“What?” he grunted, scowling at me.

“You’re not going anywhere. Go back to bed.”

“Tell me again who called.”

“My friend Dylan, my partner—she’s in labor, and it sounds like maybe she’s having a bit of a meltdown,” I explained, continuing to rifle through the drawers in his armoire. “I need to get over there and help her poor sweet husband before he has a meltdown too and they’re both scarred for life.”

“Dylan called or her husband?”

“Her husband.”

“Okay.”

I found a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and held it up. “Whose is this?”

“It’s Jen’s or Rachel’s.” He yawned, smiling slowly. “They were here a lot while I was gone.”

I arched a brow at him.

“Not like that,” he snapped at me. “Jen doesn’t bring guys here anymore.”

“As far as you know.”

“Screw you, J,” he said with mock anger before he suddenly gave a snort of laughter. “Did you see the front of that shirt, baby?”

The word Diva was large and airbrushed on in pink metallic ink, but I would have to deal with it; there was nothing else in Sam Kage’s closet that was going to work. He was six-four, I was five-nine; he was a mountain of hard, heavy muscle, I was lithe and lean, and none of his clothes were going to fit me. It was this or nothing, because my dress shirt no longer had buttons.

“Maybe next time you won’t ruin my clothes,” I complained.

“Sorry.” He shrugged, but he obviously wasn’t.

I yanked the tag off, turned it inside out, and pulled it on. It clung to me, but it covered me, and under my jacket, no one would notice. “Okay,” I said, raking my fingers through my hair a few times. “I gotta go. I’ll call ya.”

“The fuck you will,” he snapped at me. “Just wait; I’m going with you.”

“No, Sam, you can’t do that. Dylan hates you—you bein’ there won’t help.”

“It’ll help.”

“No, it really won’t.”