Crossing Lines (16 page)

W
hen Sam woke Sunday morning, she had a difficult time getting the fragmented pieces of her brain to mesh together. The sheets were tangled around her body, her ankle throbbed, her muscles were sore from neck to thigh, and her room smelled like sex.

Memories of the previous night seeped into her consciousness and had her grabbing the spare pillow. A deep breath confirmed she wasn’t dreaming; the flannel carried Kevin’s scent, and his deep, male voice rumbled in the distance. He spoke again and Michaela giggled as the mouth-watering aroma of bacon drifted under the closed door.

She rolled over and checked the clock.
Holy shit!
With a start, she jerked upright, then regretted the sudden movement, as all of her muscles snapped to attention, reminding her of the extreme workout they’d received over the past twelve hours. She hadn’t slept until ten o’clock since Michaela was born, but after the sexual marathon she and Kevin ran last night, she was grateful for the rest.

She untangled from the sheets and slung her legs over the side of the bed. Her ankle was an ugly mixture of black and green and swollen, and protested to the nth degree when she tried to settle weight on it. She dropped back down to the bed and sighed. Last evening, Kevin suggested crutches, but she’d refused. The idea of him taking care of her was infinitely more appealing than hobbling around on sticks, but she needed to do something so she could get around at work.

Giving up on walking, she kept her foot suspended and hopped to the dresser where she grabbed a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. She needed a shower before she dressed for the day, but she wanted to speak to Kevin and Michaela and let them know she was awake.

As she hobbled down the hall, the pair’s voices bubbled from the kitchen as they talked like they’d known each other forever. Sam stopped at the doorway and watched Kevin pour batter into the skillet, while Michaela stood on the stool next to him, spatula at the ready.

“Wait until they bubble before you try and turn them,” Kevin said, setting the glass mixing bowl on the counter.

The two of them stood side by side, lost to their own thoughts, waiting for the bubbles to appear. Michael wasn’t an overly tolerant man, and his lack of patience had never been more obvious than when dealing with his daughter. Sam crossed her arms to assuage the pain squeezing her chest as she was again struck with the painful awareness of how much Michy had missed out on, even while living in the same house as her father.

She was also faced with the glaring truth of how badly she misread Kevin at the jobsite. He had patience in spades last night, and now, he seemed perfectly content to stand with Michy like nothing was more important than making pancakes.

The problem was Kevin wasn’t a permanent fixture in their lives and she didn’t want Michaela to get attached, only to have him disappear like her papa and father.

You should follow your own advice, chica. You seem to be getting awfully attached yourself.

“Look, they’re bubbling,” Michy said, a big smile on her face as she pointed to the pancakes and jumped up and down on the chair.

“Whoa,
folletta,
be careful,” he said, wrapping a protective arm around her. “Don’t dump yourself off that chair.”

Michy flashed her too-cute-for-her-own-damned-good grin. “That’s why Mommy doesn’t want me standing in the chairs to fix my own food. She lets me make mud pies outside, but I don’t get to cook inside.”

Kevin’s eyes went wide. “Uh-oh.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “We better not tell her about this.”

“Too late.”

Sam laughed as their heads snapped around, GUILTY stamped all over their expressions. Michy maintained the mouth-wide-open stare, but Kevin quickly recovered. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head toward Michy, his question obvious.

Sam waved off his concern. “You guys can finish.” She met Kevin’s stare and smiled softly. “Thanks for letting me sleep late and for fixing breakfast.”

His wink was intimate and carried the weight of a physical touch. “You’re welcome. I thought maybe you could use the rest.”

“Thanks, Mommy.” Looking at Kevin with wide, adoring eyes, she said, “Now?”

“Yeah,
folletta,
go ahead.”

Michy’s smile grew wide and her chest puffed out proudly. Looking at Sam over her shoulder, she said, “Kevin said I can be the pixie since I’m the littlest.” She turned back to the stove and with deep concentration, stuck her tongue out, and slid the spatula under the pancake.

Kevin held his breath, watching and waiting while she carefully flipped it over. “Good job,” he said, taking a deep breath and smiling proudly as they high-fived. “You’ve gotten good at this. We’re gonna make you the official pancake cooker.” He cut his eyes to Sam. “Once you’re big enough to do it without standing on the chair.”

“Or when you’re with me,” she said.

Kevin’s gaze followed Sam as she hopped to the counter and snagged a piece of bacon. “Not any better today, huh?”

She scrunched up her face in disappointment and shook her head. “I may need to break down and get some crutches.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Like someone suggested yesterday.”

“You don’t need those, Mommy,” Michy said after flipping the second pancake. “Me and Kevin can take care of you.” She turned to him for confirmation. “Right?”

“Yeah, we can probably handle that. At least today”—he shifted his darkening gaze to Sam—“and tonight. But tomorrow you’ll be in school, I’ll be in Riverside, and she has to work. What’s she gonna do without our help?”

Michy thought while she flipped the third pancake, then shrugged. “I guess she needs trutches.”

Sam took a seat at the kitchen table while the dynamic duo finished the pancakes and set the table, serving up crispy bacon and glasses of orange juice. Kevin helped Michy climb into her chair and had just settled in his seat when his phone started vibrating again.

The muscle in his jaw ticked and he gave a slight huff, though Sam had the distinct impression he tried not to show any reaction.

She reached across the table and took his hand as he reached for a piece of bacon. “Someone’s trying awfully hard to get in touch with you. Why don’t you answer?” When he winced and shook his head, she released his hand and leaned back in her chair. “Is it Lizilla?”

He jerked back, shock lighting up his face. “How do you know about her?”

“Wade told me. He said in the process of helping with his wedding, you’d gotten strapped with a problematic sister of the bride.” She grabbed a pancake from the stack and slathered on a generous portion of butter.

He swallowed a gulp of orange juice and carefully set the glass on the table. “What else did he tell you?”

“That’s about it.” She grinned. “I tried to imagine you in the typical wedding director clothing: sundress, white gloves, maybe a large hat. I couldn’t make the image fly, though.” She cut her pancake and took a bite. “Is that who keeps calling? Who was calling last night?”

He chewed a bite of bacon and took another drink of orange juice. “Yeah.” His voice was low, sad.

“What’s wrong?” She set her fork down and rested her hand on his. “Is there a problem with the wedding?”

“No.” He slipped his hand out from under hers, leaned back in his chair, and pushed his plate away. “There’s no problem with the wedding.” He glanced at Sam before staring out the window, a pained expression crumpling his forehead.

“Don’t you like your pancakes?” Michy’s small voice cut through the tension in the room.

His attention snapped to her and a wide, genuine smile erased the despair straining his features. “I love the pancakes. They’re the best I’ve ever had.” He took a deep breath and pulled his plate to the edge of the table. To Sam, he said, “I’ll call her later. Right now, I have a stack of pancakes to eat.”

* * *

While Sam took a shower and Michaela watched a repeat performance of
Beauty and the Beast,
Kevin stepped out onto the backyard patio with his cell. He wished he’d saved himself a whole lot of stress, guilt, and shame by turning the damned thing off, but he always kept it on in case Marianne needed him.

Last check, he had six missed calls, all from Lizbeth, and three messages. Without bothering to listen to voicemail, he pulled up her number and braced himself for a conversation he had no idea how to handle.

As he watched shadows from the neighbor’s tree dance across the small backyard, he laid out his plan. Hopefully, a brief conversation would satisfy Lizbeth for the remainder of the day, thereby preventing further phone calls. Then, tomorrow morning, he’d go to Riverside and officially end things.

Out of time and options, he leaned against the back wall of Sam’s house and hit call
.

Lizbeth answered on the first ring, panic coloring her voice. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Why haven’t you been answering?”

Kevin banged his head against the back of the house and took a deep breath. Unless he ended the relationship now—and ending a long-term relationship over the phone was cruel by any standards—the only safe way out of this conversation would be to straight-up lie. He hated going that route, but didn’t see any other choice.

He took a deep breath and said, “Sorry, I’ve been tied up. You know, work stuff.” That should put a quick end to the questions. “I haven’t listened to your messages yet. What’s going on?”

He peered around the edge of the house, through the slider, and into the living room, making sure the Beast was still on the job, keeping Michaela entertained.

Admittedly, he also wanted to confirm the living room was free and clear of Sam.

“We have a problem with the caterer and now, on top of everything else, they’re talking about a possible storm.”

He worked his neck in a circle and took a deep breath. “Lizbeth, it’s the middle of September, the peak of hurricane season. We knew going in we faced the risk of a storm, which is why we developed the contingency plan with Kat and Erik and arranged to use their house and guesthouse if necessary. You’re talking two weeks out. The forecasters can’t predict what’s going to happen that far in advance.”

“But they say all the models are calling for a storm to form in the Atlantic.”

Her whine reached jet engine proportions and while he prided himself on being reasonable and patient, kind and understanding, it all dried up and blew away in a flash. He felt like the prospective hurricane roared through his system and ripped his decency to shreds, leaving him without a sliver of compassion.

“Lizbeth, this is absurd. The wedding is in two fucking weeks. How in God’s name do you expect anyone to know what’s going to happen with the weather this far in advance? They can’t even get tomorrow right. We have a contingency plan in place in case the weather gets bad. What the fuck do you want from me?”

He pushed his hands through his hair, shoved off the wall, and turned toward the house… At the same instant, Sam froze with her hand on the glass slider handle. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widened, and she didn’t even appear to be breathing, as if any sudden movement might provoke his wrath upon her too.

Lizbeth sniffed on the other end of the line and he had the sense real tears were being shed. “I know it’s crazy, but I want my baby sister’s wedding to be perfect. Please tell me everything’s all right.”

She might’ve been talking solely about the wedding, but something in her tone made him think she recognized his explosion was about more than caterers and the weather. She obviously needed reassurances for something, but the answer was the same on all accounts, and he couldn’t make her any guarantees.

With his gaze still locked onto Sam’s, he gripped the phone so hard his hand ached. “I need to go right now, but I’m coming to Riverside first thing in the morning. Be available. We need to talk.”

Without waiting for her reply, he disconnected the call and inched his way toward the door. He tried to think about the entire conversation, to remember what he’d said so he could figure out what Sam might’ve overheard. But he was so angry with Lizbeth and furious for getting himself into this situation, he couldn’t settle his mind enough to think.

As he approached the door, Sam stepped to the side, making room for him to enter. The bright sunlight gave her eyes a bluish-green cast, making them even more beautiful than before. They were filled with concern that he didn’t deserve, and he found himself unable to look at her.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly as he slid the door closed.

If anything he said gave the impression Lizbeth was more than a troublesome sister-of-the bride, he had to believe Sam would be looking for space on the wall to hang his head, not showing concern.

Somehow, over the past forty-eight hours, he’d gone from praying for strength to get through two more weeks to praying for the grace of one more day.

Just one more day and he’d be free of his obligation to Lizbeth. He could pursue this thing with Sam without guilt and shame weighing him down, or fear of the truth revealing itself looming over his head.