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Charlotte stood from the hard plastic chair and stretched. She needed to move. She needed to breathe before she went crazy in the stale, antiseptic air full of so many beeps and hums. Three days in the room, waiting in an endless limbo, were more than she could handle. A glance at the bed suffused her with guilt. Though he was still pale, her father looked peaceful. His chest rose and fell in a steady, comforting rhythm.
Charlotte bent and pressed a kiss to his wrinkled brow. “I’ll be right back, Papa. Behave yourself, no flirting with the nurses.”
She hurried out of the room before she could change her mind. As she walked down the white halls, she stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders in circles. Vertebrae cracked, and muscles sang out with the stiffness of misuse. The ropes of strain pulled all the way to the base of her skull. Sighing, she resigned herself to do more. Maybe she would see if Carmen was up for a yoga class tonight. She rejected the thought almost instantly.
She was about to step into the cafeteria when the rumble of a familiar laugh stopped her. Charlotte peeked around the corner. Sam stood across the room, one shoulder propped against the wall, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers. At the table in front of him were two nurses in scrubs and an older woman dressed in smart office attire.
“Eventful morning, Sammy?” One nurse, a brunette in her mid-fifties, grinned up at Sam as she sipped her coffee.
“I’ve got to admit,” Sam said, wrinkling his nose. “I thought it was only when you ladies were on shift that Mr. Crawley forgot his gown, but he proved me wrong. It may be eight in the morning, but it was a full moon in that room.”
“That’s really the first time you’ve started your day with an eyeful of pancake butt?”
Sam took a long pull of water, then capped it, smirking. “Before today, only the one in the mirror.”
The women all sniggered. “Darling, scrubs don’t lie. That ain’t no pancake butt.”
Sam’s cheeks went pink, but he laughed.
Charlotte’s mouth went dry. It was like witnessing a Sam she had never met. A Sam in his element, his comfort zone. She realized she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. He always kept a level of his defensive wall up, even with her. The thought made her stomach ache.
“Maybe you should dress as Mr. Crawley for Halloween, Sam.” The brunette gave him an exaggerated wink.
Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Do I need to go fill out a report with HR?” He had one dimple on his cheek that only showed when he smiled a certain way. It was a trait Sam shared with his brother. Charlotte had seen it on Sawyer many times, fewer on Sam. Once, she’d even witnessed the dimple on Dan, the ill-fated time he shaved his goatee. The mark of the Stevenson men.
Someone came around the corner, forcing Charlotte to step into view. One woman sitting by Sam caught her eye.
“Sammy, isn’t that your friend?” The woman stood and beckoned for her to join them. Charlotte drew a deep breath, forcing a smile before walking toward the table.
At her sudden appearance, Sam straightened. He shoved his free hand through his hair and flashed her a sweet smile. “Hey, Chuck. How are you?”
The head of every woman at the table swiveled in his direction. “Chuck?” They parroted.
Sam flapped a hand in at them. “It’s a long story.” Turning his back on them, he stepped closer to Charlotte, tipping his head to study her face. “Is your dad all right?” One hand rose and hovered at her elbow, almost touching her before it dropped back to his side. “Are you all right?”
“Dad is fine, given the circumstances. They say things are looking better, but they still can’t really say for sure.” She paused as the sudden urge to cry caught her by the throat and squeezed.
“And you?” Sam prodded.
“I...” Charlotte swallowed. “I’m just—” Her voice broke, and the breath she drew shook.
Sam’s eyes creased in the corners. The hand rose again, and this time, it cupped her elbow. Heat seeped from his palm and through the material of her sweatshirt, soaking her skin. Sam squeezed gently, as if he could share his strength with her by pressing it through the layers.
“You’re exhausted.”
It seemed like a betrayal to her father to complain about over-tiredness. She settled for a nod.
“Are you driving back today?” Sam asked.
“Yes. I was going to leave in an hour or so. Go home for a bit and try to sleep.”
Using the hand on her arm, Sam drew her away from curious ears. “I want you to go stay at my place.”
“Oh, no, I can’t ask—”
“You’re not, I’m telling you.” His gaze moved over her, assessing her. “I’m not comfortable with you driving alone, upset, and sleep deprived.”
Charlotte blinked at him. She should say no, but he was right. Exhaustion weighed at her limbs, and the prospect of the drive home and the emptiness of her apartment upon arrival yawned before her like a crevasse Charlotte was not ready to face. She took a second to study Sam. His jaw had a stubborn set to it she had seen before, and worry darkened his eyes. There was no use arguing. “All right. Just for a day or so,” she conceded. She didn’t want to be an hour away, not while things were still uncertain about her dad, but she needed to shower and put on clean clothes before they kicked her out for stinking up the place.
Sam slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got a few minutes left on my break. Let’s get my keys.”
“All right,” she repeated, following him out of the cafeteria and down a short hallway to a room lined with lockers. “So, is this your phone booth?” she asked, watching Sam’s long fingers spin a combination on the lock in front of him.
“Hmmm?” He turned to her; one tawny brow raised in question.
“Your phone booth? Where you switch your identities?” When he stared at her blankly, Charlotte smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, Sam.” For the first time in days, laughter bubbled up inside her. “Clark Kent, Superman? Changes in a phone booth...”
“Oh, yeah, I gotcha.” He chuckled and turned back to the locker, swinging the door open with a creak.
“You know who Superman is, don’t you?” She poked him in the ribs, and he flinched away with a sound that, to his shame, could only be called a squeal.
“Of course, I know who Superman is!”
“What’s that?” Charlotte squeezed in beside him, squinting at the photo stuck to the inside of the metal door.
“Oh, ah...” Colour suffused his cheeks, and he snatched the keys off the shelf and tried to shut the locker before she could make it out.
“Let me see!” She caught the door and nudged him out of the way. “Oh, my God.”
Sam scowled down at her. “It’s an excellent picture. Mom gave it to me.”
Stuck with a wad of blue sticky tack was a print of four teenagers.
Sawyer and Charlotte, about fifteen, squatting beside a fluffy black dog. Petite Sasha, her pale features bright with laughter, stood behind her younger brother, one hand on his shoulder. And Sam, arms crossed, slightly apart from the group. The air of nineteen-year-old superiority he eluded was ruined by the turned-up corner of his mouth and the twinkle in his eyes. Eyes that weren’t looking into the camera but down at the pair hugging the dog.
“Oh, it’s BamBam!” Charlotte reached a finger to touch the dog’s grinning face. “He was the best dog.”
Sam smiled, putting his finger next to hers on the tip of the lolling pink tongue. “I still miss that mutt.”
“You always loved dogs so much. Why don’t you have one?”
Sam sighed. “It wouldn’t be fair.” With a sad shake of his head, he shut the locker door. “I’m never home. That’s no life for a man’s best friend.”
“I guess.” It struck Charlotte suddenly how lonely Sam must be.
“There’s a man in hospice, and he has this dog—” He stopped talking, his eyes clouding, and his face scrunched at whatever he was remembering. “Never mind.”
Charlotte cocked her head but didn’t press him. Whatever he meant to say brought a flash of such sadness to his expressive eyes. Charlotte wasn’t sure she could bear to hear it at the moment.
“Do you remember where my apartment is?” he asked, changing the subject.
She bobbed her head. “I think so.”
He gave her the address anyway. Then he took her hand in his and placed the key on her palm, closing her fingers around it. His hands were warm, slightly rough as they grazed the skin on the back of her hand. The hair along her arms rose, and the memory of his lips on her wrist bubbled to the surface. Charlotte suppressed a shiver. When she glanced up, he was studying her face. Blue eyes darkened as his gaze slid from hers and down, slowly, until they reached her lips.
Heat rose off his lean body in waves. He smelled so distinctly Sam. Spicy deodorant and antiseptic soap with a hint of something more. Something visceral and male. Charlotte’s heart pounded in response.
The column of Sam’s throat worked. The tip of his tongue flicked across his lips, and unconsciously, Charlotte mirrored the action. She moved closer to him as if her body closed the gap without her brain’s permission.
“Code White! ER, available staff, please respond.”
Sam’s entire body flinched. “Shit!” He grabbed the lanyard at his neck and spoke into it rapidly.
“I have to go.” Squeezing her upper arm, he frowned at her, brows drawn in with concern. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” Charlotte’s voice emerged as little more than a doubtful whisper.
Sam spun away. “Make yourself at home and get some rest!” he called as he jogged out of the room.
***
“What the—?” Sam eased the door to his apartment open and slipped inside. Every light in the place was on, and the scent of fresh baking emanated from the kitchen to torment him.
“Chuck?” he whispered, kicking off his shoes. “Are you up?”
No reply came from the living room. Sam’s socked feet whispered across the wood flooring as he crept down the hall. Charlotte was curled up on the couch, sound asleep, wrapped in the blanket from the back of the chair. With a pang, Sam realized he never told her where to find the extra bedding. Shaking his head at his oversight, Sam went up to his room. Visitors were a rarity in his home. Hell, he was barely here.
Taking the second pillow off his bed, he reached into the closet and felt around on the shelf. There had to be something. His fingers came across soft cotton, and he pulled the fabric free. It was the quilt his mother made him when he was a baby. All of Alice’s children had one. Bright squares of cloth, with names and dates embroidered across the centre. She had learned to quilt when she was pregnant with Sam. On his blanket, the words were blocky and sprawling. Sasha’s had been an improvement, and Sawyer’s near perfection. Smiling, Sam brought the blanket to his nose. It held the faint scent of dust, but nothing serious. A few shakes to free the motes, and he carried it to the living room, spreading it as best he could over Charlotte without jostling her.
On the kitchen counter, he discovered the source of the delicious aroma. A plate stacked high with round, fat muffins sat on the table. Beside the pile was a folded square of paper. He opened it.
You’re too skinny. Eat some muffins and get some sleep.
P.S. Thank you
Xoxo
“Bossy.” Sam grinned and snagged two from the pile, glancing over his shoulder in the couch’s direction. More than anything, Sam wished he could wake her up. He wanted to share the details of the evening and to hear her laugh. Halfway through the first muffin, Sam realized he’d wandered back into the living room. One hand moved toward her shoulder before he stopped himself. Charlotte mumbled in her sleep and cuddled her face into the satin trim of the quilt. Blue rings of exhaustion extended past the black crescents of her lashes. Silken curls clung to her lips. Sam reached a finger out and slid the hairs back, tucking them behind the curve of her ear. Sucking a deep breath, he backed away from the couch. Watery, dull light from the window danced on the planes of her cheek, emitted by the open curtains. Sam crossed the room and pulled the blinds closed, blanketing the place in the inky darkness.