“Nor would I when I told him I hadn’t been with a man in two years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“A hell of a long time,” she corrected.
“Yeah.” He got to his feet again, the subject matter hitting a bit too close to home in too many ways. He took his plate to the sink and rinsed it.
Scarlet joined him with her dish and then they cleared the rest of the table in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
For Sam, it was troubling to be so candid. To home in on such touchy topics. He didn’t know this woman. Not really. Yet oddly, it seemed as though he did. He connected with her. Wasn’t quite so guarded with her. Maybe that was what truly unsettled him.
Or maybe it was because she felt his pain. Understood it. Lived with her own agony.
If he wanted to take the analysis a step beyond all that, he would concede that it wasn’t just envy that had flared within him when Scarlet had confirmed she’d slept with Michael. Guilt had also edged in on him. Because even though he’d fucked numerous nameless, faceless women during his grieving stages, none of those empty encounters had meant anything to him.
So now the guilt encroached because with Scarlet, not only did he want to make love to her—not fuck her just for physical gratification, but also because he knew that with her it would mean something.
She’d already infiltrated his senses, ignited his desire, touched places inside him that had been off-limits and sealed from the moment Cassidy’s eyelids had dipped and she’d drawn her last sliver of breath.
He’d been shattered.
Time helped to fix some of the broken pieces, yes. People either caved when faced with tragedy or powered through. They might not be the same person they were before. They might even turn on themselves—as Sam had with his sexu
al exploits and Scarlet with her daredevil ways.
He’d never condone his actions. But when the dust settled, what was most critical was what rose from the ashes.
And in all honesty, all Sam had wanted from the day he’d finally shaken off some of the turmoil and emerged from his abyss was to be a better man. To be the man Cassidy had fallen in love with, had trusted with her heart. Had trusted with her baby.
The accident had not been Sam’s fault. A drunk driver had run a red light and T-boned their car. Like Scarlet’s parents, there’d been nothing Sam could do but watch in horror.
Yet because he’d been behind the wheel, he’d heaped a shitload of blame onto himself. Still felt a great deal of it. Knew it would never fully go away.
At the end of the day, however, he knew all Cassidy would want for him was to go on. To tuck the memories away and start living again.
He had no doubt Scarlet’s parents would want the same for her.
Sam understood. Though it was never that easy.
Which was why this complexity of being instantly and vehemently attracted to Scarlet was such a catch-22 for him.
He wanted her.
But he didn’t want to want her.
Because that felt like a betrayal. Even when he logically knew it wasn’t.
He also knew there was no point in stewing over it. She was here to investigate a crime. He had nothing case cracking to contribute. She could ask him all the questions she wanted; he didn’t have any pearls of wisdom to impart. That put them at a stalemate—times two because he wasn’t willing or ready to do anything about the erotic sensations crawling through his veins.
So he stuck to safer territory, asking Scarlet, “Do you want pie? It’s apple with vanilla ice cream and cinnamon.”
“I saved some room.”
“Smart girl.”
When they sat down again—this time in front of the roaring fire—she reminded him, “We were talking about Phil Bert, but I don’t think I got the whole story.”
“Right,” Sam told her. “So Uncle Phil Bert was a horseman and that’s probably why we hit it off so well. Instantly. I spent a lot of time with him, learned a lot about horses, did some jumping, discovered I had a knack for training, and essentially just enjoyed being on his property.”