| |
Sam spruced up. Both the cabin and himself.
He showered, shaved, and found a decent pair of jeans and a lightweight V-neck sweater. Then he made the bed and fluffed the lumpy, orange cushions on the lumpy, brown couch. Even though the cabin was rustic and right out of the eighties, it was clean and a nice cool breeze moved through the screened porch that overlooked the river.
He had coffee made—his way, good and strong—and some cookies he’d bought at the questionable Worm Bucket Bar next door to the Swamp House property. He was ready to write that infernal toast speech.
He was also ready to see Madeline again.
Maddie.
He’d called her that last night, letting it slip out like warm honey, without even thinking. Maybe because, in spite of the awkward way they’d found each other, things felt natural and good with Maddie. When they weren’t second-guessing each step, at least.
He didn’t want to ruin the time he had left here, so he planned to behave himself this afternoon. And he didn’t want to get even more involved with a woman who might still have a thing for the man who’d treated her so badly.
She showed up about ten minutes after he’d made that silent declaration. When she stepped out of her old red pickup truck, all of his good intentions went bad.
She wore a cream-colored, chunky sweater and a big necklace with lots of colorful doodads on it, a flowing floral skirt and nice high-heeled boots. Her hair drew in the sunshine and shot into rich golden-brown threads around her face and shoulders.
Maddie was beautiful.
He wanted to kiss her all over again.
Instead, he stepped off the small front porch where he’d been waiting and smiled as she walked up the battered, rocky walkway to the cabin.
“Hi,” he said, grinning.
“Hi.” She glanced around. “The landlord should redo this dump.”
“What? And ruin all this manly charm?”
“Right.” She shrugged. “I’m not going to mention he-who-won’t-be-named today.”
“Good.” He sure didn’t want to discuss her ex. “I thought we’d sit on the back porch, if it’s not too cold out there.”
“The sunshine will warm us,” she said, her smile shy.
Sam had warmed up the minute she arrived.
He waited for her to walk up the couple of rickety steps to the porch and held the door open for her. “I have coffee and cookies.”
She patted the big tote bag on her arm. “And I have leftover chicken salad sliders from our brunch this morning. Plus, the best breakfast cupcakes you’ll ever eat.”
“We have a feast,” he said, relaxing. Those cookies hadn’t filled him up anyway. “But I think I’m supposed to do some man thing with your dad and Brodie before the rehearsal dinner.”
“You’ll never go hungry while you’re here.”
They went out onto the screened porch and pulled the two old rocking chairs up to a square, weathered table. Maddie dug around in the tote and produced an old plaid tablecloth. Soon they had the food spread out and two cups of coffee poured.
While they ate, she told him all about the brunch. “It was nice to be with my sisters and my mother while none of us had to run around feeding everyone or cleaning up after everyone or just being our usual control-freak selves.”
“Are you all so controlling?” he asked with a smile.
“Pretty much.” She stared out through the bare cottonwood trees to the water. “I think that’s one reason my marriage fell apart.”
Sam couldn’t see that, but he didn’t argue with her. Which she took the wrong way.
She smacked a hand over her mouth. “Bad topic. Forget I said that. No, I’m not as controlling as Melissa. She takes the cake.”
“She does seem a might intense,” Sam said. “Pretty girl but ... kind of scary.”
Maddie studied him with that exotic intent he liked so much. “So, she’s not your type?”
He gave Maddie a look that covered her from head to toe. “No. Not at all. I don’t have a type. Or at least I didn’t.” Then he stared straight into her cat eyes. “Until now.”
She put down the carrot-cake muffin she’d been nibbling. “Look at the time. We need to get this one last task taken care of before the rehearsal dinner tonight.”
“Yep.” Sam finished his own apple strudel muffin. “And then the big event tomorrow. A Valentine’s Day wedding.”
“Yes, I know. It’s sappy and sentimental but then aren’t weddings supposed to be like that?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never made it that far.” He wouldn’t tell her how close he’d come, though.
Her arched eyebrows lifted. “Oh, so you’ve never been so in love that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with someone?”
He got up, his good mood shifting. “I was that in love once. But ... it didn’t work out.”
He didn’t turn to see her reaction to that admission, but he heard a lot of shuffling behind him. Then he heard her boots tapping toward him.
“Want to tell me about that?”
“No.”
He turned back to the table. “Now let’s write a sappy, sentimental toast to Brodie and Michelle. I do have a life to get back to, you know.”
“Yes, I do know,” she said, a trace of hurt in her words. “And I wouldn’t want to keep you from it.”
Smooth move, Sam.
Now, what kind of uncaring comeback could he produce to take back that rude remark?
Madeline ignored the pang inside her heart.
Sam only wanted to finish this task and get back to his laid-back life of running a seaside store and café. He obviously needed to be as far away from the real world as possible. And as far away from her as possible.
And yet, he seemed so down to earth and realistic, it was hard to imagine him going off the grid. Or deliberately being rude. His comment hadn’t been that horrible, but the point had been made, loud and clear.
Someone had hurt him so badly that he was afraid to try again. Same as her, she reasoned. So they could both leave this weekend behind knowing they’d done the right thing.
As in, walking away without any impulsive regrets.
So she cleared the table and got out her trusty notepad.
“Let’s write.”
“We’re writing?”
He looked shell-shocked and uncomfortable.
Of course a man who held his feelings as tightly coiled as a tangled fishing line would balk at writing anything with feelings.
“Look, you just need to wish the happy couple a good life,” she said. “It’s simple.”
“Is that really so simple?” he countered. “I mean, they’ve both been through so much. Brodie is so in love with your sister. I worry that if things go wrong he’ll fall, and fall hard.”
Ah, there was that, then. He couldn’t show his feelings, but he could worry about his friend getting hurt.
“Nice of you to want to protect him,” Madeline said. “But ... nothing like that is going to happen. Michelle loves him so much. He helped her through the worst time of her life, even when the rest of us couldn’t help her. I think they have a really strong bond.”
“Write that down,” he suggested, looking relieved.
She jotted notes. “Now, you can also talk about what a good friend Brodie is and how you know he’ll be a great husband.”
“But what if he’s not a great husband? I mean, he is a good friend, but Brodie can get moody. What if he hurts her feelings?”
Madeline cleared her throat, amused and touched by his genuine concern. “Women tend to learn how to deal with callous remarks,” she retorted. “Women know that behind every mean-spirited remark is a real truth that needs to come out.”
He stared at her, confusion coloring his adorable eyes. “So women just wait for men to confess to everything and open up?”
“Yes. We wait and we wait and we wait.”
She sent along a pointed look with that conclusion.
“Oh, so this is the part where a woman expects a man to open up and tell her all about the past that left him scarred and burned?”
“Yes, this is that part. Women need to hear things like that. So I’m thinking my sister can handle Brodie’s moods.”
He sat staring at the notepad, his mind working on that explanation. Did he not see that she was practically begging him to tell her about the past that had left him scarred and burned?
“What else should I say in my toast?”
Madeline looked up from her notes. Sam’s eyes held hers, so many unspoken things passing between them and flowing away on an undercurrent that rivaled the river below.
“You go with your gut,” she said. “When you were in the service, doing whatever dark, secret things you did, did you ever write home?”
He started fidgeting. “What’s that got to do with this?”
“I’m not trying to pry,” she said. “But ... those feelings, those words you wrote on the page, they were from your heart, right?”
He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t write home much. Not too many people wanted to hear from me.”
Madeline lost her heart.
What did she say to that gentle admission?
She leaned over and touched a hand to his arm, the dusting of hair on his skin warm to her touch. “Sam, Michelle and Brodie want to hear from you. They ... care about you. That’s why Brodie wanted you to stand with him at his wedding. You’ve been a good friend to him for a long time. He trusts you. Just talk to them the way you did each time they came into the Surf Shack.”
“Okay.” He nodded and got up and leaned over the railing, his hands pressing at the splintered wood. “Okay. I can do that.” Then he pivoted and pinned her with a questioning stare. “So ... do you trust me?”