Quadruple Duty

“What’d you do to the—”

“Threw in a pinch of salt,” she said without looking up from her list. “Makes it smoother, less bitter. Hey, what’s our contractor’s name again?”

I blinked. It was ballsy, really. She was here for less then twelve hours and she was already using the word ‘our’. And even worse, messing with the coffee! I didn’t know whether to be angry or admire her.

“And what if I didn’t like salt in my coffee?”

“Then I guess you’d be SOL.” Sammara laughed. “Tomorrow I’m bringing us real coffee. Kona beans and a grinder, not this sludge. Now… that contractor?”

She tapped the eraser of her pencil against her full, beautiful lips. They were the kind of lips all men dream about. Perfect for a wide variety of very good things.

I gave her the contractor’s name.

“Thanks hon.”

I sank into my usual chair — which just happened to be near her — and stared outside. The lake was absolutely gorgeous this time of day. It shimmered like white fire.

“So what are you doing today?” Sammara asked.

“Work.”

It was short. Probably way shorter than it needed to be. But it was also the truth. I was leading two consecutive PT’s in an hour, and there were three separate briefings I was in on for around lunch. And after that—

“What about later on?”

“I don’t know Sammara,” I grunted. “I’m not exactly sure yet. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you to dinner.”

I stared at her wordlessly over my coffee. She raised her own mug in silent salute.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah. Just me and you.”

“What about Kyle?” I asked. “Dakota?”

“We had dinner last night,” she shrugged. “Tonight it’s us.”

Us. The word held no meaning to me, any more than the phrase ‘our contractor.’ And yet I was supposed to be trying. I’d somehow gone along, with the rest of our little group, on the outlandish idea that one girl would be easier to satisfy than four.

“Okay,” I said. “Dinner.”

Sammara’s face lit up with a smile. It was pure smile. A refreshingly genuine one, without the hint of an ulterior motive. She seemed to be the only person in my life — at least right now — who didn’t want something from me.

“Better be careful though,” I warned. “I’m an expensive dinner date.”

“Oh really?”

“Yup.”

She chewed her pencil again. “So I should probably bring my piggy-bank?”

“I would if I were you. Either that, or stacks of cash.”

She wrote something down on her list while chuckling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It was weird, having her here. A woman. In our house. Drinking our coffee, making lists of who the hell knew what.