He looked into her eyes, the blue appearing darker tonight, which seemed to match her suddenly serious tone. “What is it?”
“This isn’t easy to say.”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
She exhaled and his gaze was drawn to her pink, parted lips. He already knew what she tasted like. He knew how soft her mouth was beneath his, what kind of little sounds she made in the back of her throat when that kiss got out of control. No way was she about to walk away.
Was she?
“I moved here to start over, and I left a whole host of complications behind.” Her eyes glazed with the memory of something that clearly wasn’t good.
Sam narrowed his gaze, but before he could respond, she continued.
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m not looking for anything serious or complicated now,” she said in a soft, apologetic voice. “But—”
He wasn’t looking for serious or complicated either. Still, she had something more to say, and he leaned in close. “But?” he asked.
“I do want something with you.”
He grinned at that, everything in him easing in ways he didn’t completely understand. “Good. Because I definitely want something with you. And after tonight, there won’t be any more obligations getting in the way.”
Many painful hours later, Sam drove Margie home from the fund-raiser. Nicole left earlier, after dancing with more single men than Sam thought Serendipity possessed, and because he had a date, there was nothing he could say or do.
That would end after tonight
.
Margie still lived in her parents’ home, which shared a property line with Faith and Ethan’s house on the hill, both far from Sam’s family’s home on the opposite side of town. But economics had nothing to do with why he’d been ducking her advances for years. There was nothing about her he found appealing, not her personality or her looks from what he could see—and hear—because she hadn’t stopped talking since they left the country club. Luckily, the club was closer to her end of Serendipity, and soon he pulled into her driveway.
“. . . and I think your sister likes me, don’t you?” Margie asked.
Sam blinked, realizing he’d missed most of the one-sided conversation.
“Umm . . . I’m sure she does.” Actually, he figured Erin had as little tolerance for Margie as he had.
“Why don’t you come in for a drink?” She turned in the seat so she faced him, her ample cleavage plumping over her gown.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She waved away his concern, treating him to a whiff of her strong perfume, which he’d already been informed was Givenchy. “If you’re concerned about appearances, I have my own private entrance around back.”
Of course she did. Along with her own stipend, which meant she didn’t have to work. He wasn’t in her social class and her interest in Sam was purely sexual, which was why he didn’t feel bad turning her down. She certainly wouldn’t get her feelings hurt, but that didn’t mean he’d deliberately set out to be cruel.
He gripped the steering wheel in both hands. “That’s not it.”
“Oh, you’re shy!” She reached out a perfectly manicured hand and stroked his arm. “Good thing I’m not,” she whispered in what he supposed was meant to be a seductive voice.
God. He did not want to hurt her feelings any more than he wanted to have this conversation, but the woman couldn’t take a polite hint.
“Margie, I had a nice time tonight, but—”
“Oh, so did I! I always knew if I could persuade you to go out with me you’d see the potential.” She ran her hand down his arm.
He closed his eyes. “I don’t. I mean I just want to be friends.”
“Well, of course, silly. I want that too. Very good friends.” She dropped her hand to his thigh, and Sam jumped so high in his seat his head nearly hit the roof of the car. She made him want to grab for his gun, which he always had on him, he thought, laughing to himself. Though he really wasn’t amused.
He grasped her wrist before she could touch him anywhere else. “I only want to be friends,” he clarified. “I’m sorry, but—”