18

 

Sam was tilling Con’s raised garden beds in a faded flannel shirt and a ragged pair of jeans, a mask on his face as he guided the loud, smoke-belching machine over as much of the surface as possible. The two of them already dumped several loads of compost in the beds beforehand, so the tilling process was mixing the old dirt with new, rich soil in preparation for her spring planting.

She was grateful as hell for his help today. The cough she couldn’t seem to shake had been keeping her up at night, and she was feeling tired. Exhausted, actually. Her joints and bones ached with it. And although he didn’t complain, she knew she was interrupting his sleep too. So if she couldn’t get rid of the cough in another day or two, she was going to have to visit her doctor for the first time in years. For both their sakes.

But not this morning. This morning would be spent outdoors, next to her favorite man in the world, rather than in a dreary, stuffy doctor’s office. If the cold breeze made her shiver, she could simply cuddle up against Sam.

She stifled a cough behind her fist and surveyed the handful of packets in her right hand, shaking them to hear the shushing, rattling sound she loved. The two of them had chosen every one of those seeds together. Sugar snap and snow peas because she liked the way she could eat them raw. Romaine and butterhead lettuce because he—unlike her—enjoyed the occasional salad. A panoply of other herbs and vegetables that appealed to one or both of them.

In the past, she’d always ignored anyone else’s opinions about what she should buy each year. Especially since she knew she was the only one who’d till, sow, weed, and harvest the plants she grew. But this year, Sam would help. He’d said he would, and he always kept his promises.

And he was going to move in with her soon. This garden had become theirs, not just hers. So if he wanted to plant fava beans, fine. She knew he’d provide backup as she dealt with the inevitable swarm of aphids. If he wanted to grow carrots, no problem. She’d never had much success with them in the past, but that didn’t bother her. If carrot seeds made him happy, she’d order them without an argument and gladly work alongside him in the crisp air of early spring.

He’d studied how much space each plant needed and plotted out a little grid on his computer to guide their efforts. Normally, she’d have hand-drawn a map, which took her hours and multiple drafts as she ran out of room too early or forgot one of her crops. His method was so much easier, she could hardly believe it.

But she did believe it. At this point, she believed he could do just about anything.

He could make her intractable migraines vanish, until she only suffered one headache every month, at the tail end of her period.

He could assist her with her siblings. So effectively that she no longer dreaded their calls, and they'd begun to remark on how much more relaxed she sounded.

He could put in a full day at the library and still muster the energy to cook her dinner every night she worked late. Even better, the man fried up potatoes like a motherfucking chef. Jesus, she’d have let him move in for that reason alone.

He could help her library office stay organized. So organized that Tina had actually walked out of it in confusion once, thinking she’d visited the wrong room. Then, when she’d realized the office was indeed Con’s, she’d almost hyperventilated. Since that day, she’d been wearing her smiley face socks on a regular basis, much to Con’s amusement.

He could somehow determine whether or not she needed conversation when she got home. Depending on his conclusion, he either chatted with her or settled her in front of a hockey game. Neither option seemed to bother him.

He could fuck her until she sobbed his name.

He could make her feel safe. Cosseted.

And most surprising of all, he could take a woman who prized her solitude and make her so goddamn happy that she wanted him by her side every day. Every single second.

As far as Con was concerned, Iron Man and Thor could go fuck themselves, because only one true superhero existed in her universe. No wonder Sam wore Marvel tees. At this point, if he drew her aside and informed her he could fly or sprout webs from his wrists, she wouldn’t blink. She’d simply ask how his superhero abilities could be utilized in the bedroom.

And God knew, she appreciated his special hammer.

When she laughed, it prompted a coughing fit that had her doubled over in the garden and gasping for breath. The sound of the tiller ceased, and Sam was suddenly standing next to her. Supporting her. Holding her close and keeping her protected from the chilly wind.

“Are you okay, love?” His eyes rested on her face, warm and concerned.

She nodded, her heart full. “Perfect.”

They’d been together such a short time, but he’d transformed everything about her life. Absolutely everything. She didn’t even want to remember how she’d existed before he’d maneuvered his way past her defenses.

She loved him. So much it almost brought her to her knees.

And she was going to tell him tonight.

***

Amazing how much can change in three months and a week of dating.

The same thought kept circling lazily in her head as they pushed through the Verizon Center crowds to find their seats later that night. She’d gone to dozens of Caps games before. Hundreds, actually. She had season tickets, which very few people knew. Not only because she’d rarely wanted company at those games, but because most of the people whose company she might have welcomed—Helen, Angie, Penny, or Sarah, for example—didn’t particularly enjoy sports. Before Sam, she’d always driven to D.C. and back alone.

As it turned out, though, he didn’t just love playing hockey. He loved watching the games live as much as she did. So they’d managed to wheel and deal with other ticket holders until they could buy him a seat and sit together. He was maybe a little too eager to ramble about stats for her taste, but she could forgive that. Probably a geek thing, she figured.

Cheering for goals and booing bad ref calls was a hell of a lot more entertaining with a partner. As was celebrating each victory with what Sam—employing awful but endearing punnery—called “cunniwingus.” It’d gotten to the point where the sound of the end-of-game buzzer made her wet. God help her if the game went to overtime, because she’d find herself staring at his mouth and that incredible beard more than the on-ice action. Several times recently, they’d pulled off on some highway shoulder while driving back home so he could take the edge off her need, his fingers stroking her clit and pumping her pussy until she shuddered in the darkness of the car.

When they arrived home, he’d push her against a wall, yank down her jeans and panties, kick her ankles apart, and lick her until she screamed. His name. Just as he’d promised that first night.

She shivered just thinking about it. And then shivered again, this time harder, because the rink was fucking cold tonight. Much more so than usual. What the hell? Had they decided to run a goddamn cryogenics experiment in the Verizon Center?

The cold air tightened her chest until she couldn’t hold back another coughing fit, this one strong enough to bend her at the waist. His hand immediately came from behind to rest warm against her sternum. Not a sexual touch, but an offering of the support she needed. He kept his hand there all the way to their row. And as soon as they reached the right level and he could move up alongside her, he did.

Thank God for his muscled lumberjack arms. They were the only things keeping her upright while she hacked up a lung and stumbled toward their assigned spots.

He eased her into her seat with a tender solicitude that comforted and irritated her at the same time. His face drawn with concern, he quickly dropped down next to her, pulled her close, and let her catch her breath against his chest.

When he spoke, his lips moved against her hair. “We shouldn’t have come tonight.”

No one other than her best female friends had ever sounded that worried about her. Then again, she’d never allowed another man close enough to encourage solicitousness. But Sam, she’d found, was an irresistible force, and she wasn’t nearly as immovable an object as she’d once imagined.

She burrowed against him, shaking with cold despite her long underwear, thick sweater, and heavy down jacket. “I’m fine. Once I put on my hat and gloves, I’ll warm right up.”

He gave a little grunt of disagreement. “I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

Within seconds, he’d tugged her hat down around her ears and threaded her fingers into the insulated gloves. At the added warmth, her shivering diminished slightly.

“See?” She raised her head to offer a weak smile. “All better.”

“I’m taking you to the doctor tomorrow.” When she started to protest, he simply talked over her. “No arguments, Constance Marie. Next time you’re sick, I’ll know you’re too stubborn to see someone about it when you need to, and I won’t let you put me off for so long.”

“I haven’t been sick in years,” she grumbled. “After the first few months of visiting schools with the Bookmobile, I ran out of new diseases to catch.”

He extracted a wad of clean tissues from his pocket and passed them to her. Dabbing at her runny nose, she sniffed loudly.

“Apparently you missed one.” He pressed a lingering kiss against her temple. “You feel too warm to me, although it’s hard to tell with my cold lips. And if you debate me about going to the doctor tomorrow, I’ll encourage her to give you a shot in your delectable butt.”

She sniffed again. “Prick.”

Despite his enveloping warmth, she moved away to watch the players skate and take shots at their goalie during the pregame warm-up. The colors seemed off tonight, though, and the lights shone so bright they hurt her eyes. Maybe she could close them for a few minutes? Once the game had started and Sam wasn’t paying such close attention to her? She couldn’t do it now. If she did, he’d hustle them both out of the Verizon Center before she knew what was happening.

She wanted to see the game. With him. She wasn’t cutting their time short or depriving him of the experience because she had a stupid cold.

He took her gloved hand in his. “You’ll be the one getting the prick. In your butt, as I explained.”

At that, she couldn’t help but open her eyes—although she didn’t really recall closing them—and laugh. It prompted another coughing fit. The man to her right turned away from her, and she didn’t blame the guy. Sam was right. She should have stayed home, for her own sake and for the good of the people around her.

But they were already at the rink, and she planned to enjoy herself. When she could breathe again, she smiled. “That either came out very wrong or very right.”

He waggled his brows. “Guess which.”

Doing her best not to laugh again, she smacked him weakly on the arm.

The warm-up time ended, and the lights dimmed for the national anthem. The crowd rose and grew quiet, waiting for the spotlighted singer on the ice to begin her performance. In that silence, Con’s unusually heavy breathing became audible. As did a weird new sound in her chest. Why was she crackling?

“Con?” Sam was suddenly supporting her weight, and she was sagging against his side. “Are you having trouble catching your breath?”

She didn’t know the answer to that question or any other at the moment.

Her chest hurt. She couldn’t seem to get enough air. Her limbs were shaking so hard she couldn’t find her balance. And the room was spinning around her in slow, dizzying rotations.

Sam cupped her cheek. “Jesus, you feel hot. Can you even stand?”

Several people shushed him, but he paid no attention. He just waited for a response. And when she didn’t give him one, he nodded, his face blurry and shifting and pale. “Okay. I’m making this decision for you, like it or not. We’re going to the emergency room. Hold on.”

As long as she didn’t have to stay upright, she didn’t give a fuck where she went. So she didn’t protest when he scooped her in his arms like a hero in a stupid girly movie. As he carried her from the rink, she curled against his chest and tried to keep her arms around his neck, even though they kept flopping to her sides. And when he set her down in his car after what seemed like hours and strapped her into the seat, she didn’t open her eyes.

She still knew exactly where he was, though. She always did these days.

When her hand lifted, it landed softly on his bearded cheek. Precisely where she’d intended. His breath hitched, and she felt him lean close and press his hand over hers.

“We need to go, love,” he whispered. “Just rest for a few minutes.”

She let her hand drop, but she still had enough presence of mind to tell him what he needed to know.

“I love you, Sam,” she said.

And that was the last thing she remembered clearly for a long, long time.