Anything but Love

TWELVE

Sam’s morning started like every morning. Waking up alone. Staring at the ceiling. Listening for activity.

Rarely did he hear a sound, mostly because he woke before the kids roused. He’d always been a light sleeper, part of his combat training. Ever since he’d become a single parent, he was even more on guard.

What if Ben or Mina woke up sick or with a nightmare? What if one of them walked in their sleep and fell down the stairs?

In the hour to two before sunrise, his mind turned to the upcoming day. Making sure they were up in time, dressed, fed, and off to school. Mental reminders regarding any homework or upcoming events. Did he need to book a babysitter? Had he agreed to any playdates or sleepovers? What was he making for supper? Did he need to stop by Oslow’s?

Sometimes his mind would slip to the past. How it had been before Paula died. How she’d handled the kids and managed the household with such fricking joy. Sam wasn’t keen on dusting or vacuuming or folding laundry. Paula had tackled domestic chores with a smile. She’d taken pride in their home the way Sam took pride in his carpentry. He missed her infectious laugh, her shitty taste in music, the smell of her fruity shampoo. He missed her touch. Her company.

After two long years of grieving, Sam was ready to move on. He wanted a woman in his bed, in his life. A companion. A lover. A mother for his children.

His mind was set on Rae.

She loved kids. Was great with kids. She already had a comfortable relationship with both Ben and Mina. She was quiet, kind of like Sam, and she was kind. Kind and pretty. She was also loaded. If he thought she was a snob, the money thing would bug him. But he didn’t get that vibe. There was plenty he didn’t know about Rae, but one thing was certain—she had a gentle soul and a good heart. If she gave Sam half a chance, he was certain he could make her happy. Except he’d promised he wouldn’t press.

That was the only reason Sam was on his way to the Rothfield Farm instead of the Pine and Periwinkle. He’d told Rocky he’d meet up with Harper Day. He’d agreed to tour the woman’s house, assess what needed to be done and how much he could do. If he could help his cousin prepare for her wedding by taking the flaky publicist off her hands for a couple of weeks, he figured, what the hell? After multiple tours overseas, Sam was certain his and Rocky’s idea of “bad” were two different things. He’d weathered active combat, he could handle Harper Day.

Just as Sam turned off of 105 onto 236, his cell rang. “Yeah.”

“Are you on your way to Harper’s?” Rocky asked.

“You thought I’d back out?”

“No, but, how long do you think you’ll be?”

“No idea. Why?”

“I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Cupcake Lovers.”

“This about the recipe book?”

“During our talk last night, Rae pitched an idea that could get us back on the fast track. Then again you probably know that since you two have been yakking on the phone the past couple of weeks.”

“Your point?”

“I don’t want to you to get hurt.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Sam—”

“Leave it. What time’s the meeting and where?”

“Moose-a-lotta. Just after closing.”

Ben and Mina spent every other weekend with Paula’s parents. Sam wouldn’t have to worry about returning home at a certain time or preparing dinner or bribing Mina for her nighttime bath with a bottle of Mr. Bubble. Plenty of time to work magic on the old Rothwell house before driving back to Sugar Creek. “I’ll be there.”

“Great. That makes almost everyone.”

“Who bailed?”

“Casey’s out of town until Monday and Luke’s already committed. Can’t blame him,” Rocky said. “It’s Saturday after all. You know Luke.”

So his cousin was bartending at the Shack or showing a woman a good time. Or … he’d taken Sam’s suggestion about leaving the Cupcake Lovers. “See you then,” Sam said.

He disconnected just as he turned onto Swamp Road. Even though the two-lane roadway had been plowed at one point, Sam’s tires rolled over at least three inches of packed snow and ice. Nothing he didn’t manage on a daily basis, but he was accustomed to winters in Vermont. He was wondering how Ms. Day, who’d been living on the sunny West Coast, fared the frosty elements just as he approached the side road that—“Fuck!”

Sam swerved, narrowly missing the car that barreled out of Fox Lane, fishtailed across his path, and rolled on to its side. Adrenaline spiking, he braked and catapulted out of his truck. At least there were no other cars on the road. It could have been worse. Still, who drove that fast on ice when coming up on an intersection?

He assessed the situation while crossing the road. The four-door rested on the passenger side, face down in a snowbank. He had to scale the chassis to get to the driver’s side. He smelled gas. Not necessarily ominous, but no reason to take chances. He wretched open the door and spied a woman curled in a ball and plastered against the passenger window.

Her long dark hair covered her face and she was swaddled in a long furry coat. He couldn’t tell if he knew her. She was alone and she wasn’t moving. Heart pounding, he reached in to key off the ignition. “You okay, miss?”

She groaned and stirred. “I think so.” She shoved her hair out of her face—a beautiful, unfamiliar face—and palmed the side of her head. Wincing, she shifted and grappled on the floor then, cell phone in hand, started texting.

What the—

Perched precariously on the upended side of the car, Sam tempered his frustration and stretched out his arm. “Give me your hand.”

“Just a sec.” Focused on her phone, she continued to thumb in a message.

“You better be texting 911.”

“A client. Hold on.”

Leaning in, Sam nabbed the phone and tossed it over his shoulder.

“Are you crazy?”

“I was wondering the same thing about you, lady.” On the other hand, her sky-blue eyes were glazed and her hands were trembling. Maybe she was in shock. Sam swooped in and hauled her out. It wasn’t that far of a drop to the ground, but she squirmed and Sam lost his footing. He shifted, taking the brunt of the fall as they hit the road hard.

Sam lay there a second, more stunned by his reaction to the woman in his arms than the bone-jarring impact. He’d never been much of a talker, but he was speechless. Even though they were both dressed in layers, he was well aware of her curves. And her face. She was gorgeous. Model gorgeous. Like one of those fantasy chicks in the bathing suit issue of Sports Illustrated. Her lush mouth incited a rush of wicked thoughts and a raging hard-on.

Her blue eyes widened and Sam knew she felt the enormity of his desire pressed against her belly. “What are you, a pervert?” she asked while rolling off of him.

Assuming that was a rhetorical question, Sam pushed to his feet and watched as she scrambled around in search of … ah, yes. Her phone. “Let me guess,” he said as anger loosened his tongue. “You were texting while driving.”

“Thank God,” she said while dusting off her screen. “It still works.”

The woman was oblivious. A drop-dead gorgeous flake.

And she’d come straight from the direction of the Rothwell Farm.

Hell.

Frowning, Sam took out his own phone. “Yeah, Leo? Sam McCloud. Need a wrench, maybe a tow. Swamp Road across from Fox Lane. Car flipped in a snowbank. No. No injuries. Thanks.”

Miss Sports Illustrated glanced over and held his gaze. “Sam McCloud? Rocky’s cousin?”

He jerked a thumb behind him. “There’s a stop sign at the end of that road, Ms. Day.”

“I tried to stop but the road was slick and—”

“You were texting.”

“It was important.”

“As important as your life?”

She glared as if he’d just issued the gravest insult. Her phone rang and she shoved back her bountiful hair to press the high-tech cell to her ear.

That’s when Sam noticed the goose egg swelling at her temple. He moved in to inspect the damage just as she started yakking to some guy named Chico.

She slapped at Sam’s hand, trying to push him away, but not losing a conversational beat. “I told you before, Chico, you can’t punch a member of the paparazzi. I know they’re a nuisance, but they’re necessary.”

“You’re bleeding.” It wasn’t bad, but now Sam wondered if she had sustained any other wounds—possible contusions hidden beneath her shaggy red coat. He pulled a wad of tissue from his coat pocket and gently pressed the compress to her small cut. “Hold this in place,” he told her. “I’m taking you home.”

“In a minute,” she said to Sam then went back to admonishing Chico. Some shit about TMZ (whatever that was) making the guy look like a self-righteous asshole.

Sam eyed her car, in the ditch and out of the way of anyone who might drive by. Leo would arrive within the half hour. Meanwhile, it was fricking freezing and Harper Day was bruised and bleeding. Only one way to handle a stubborn, reckless, and injured woman.

Sam hauled her over his shoulder and carried her to his truck.

Meanwhile, she continued to admonish her Hollywood client while simultaneously stroking the dude’s ego. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll spin this crisis by noon. Hold on.” She glanced at Sam with those killer baby blues as he placed her in the cab. “Would you mind going back for my purse?” Holding the tissues to her temple, she flashed a quick smile. “Thanks. You’re a doll. No, not you, Chico. I mean … What? No, I can’t pop over for a drink. I’m out of town. Now listen…”

Everything about this woman rubbed Sam the wrong way. Why the hell he still had a hard-on for her was a mystery. Except she frickin’ oozed sex and Sam hadn’t had any in a long while. Yeah. That was it.

Crossing over to Harper’s upended car, he visualized cooling his dick in the snowdrift while sending a text of his own to Rocky:

YOU OWE ME