Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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Be nice...What a sack of horse shit.
Abby's words echoed as I drove to Sam's house for his seventh week of personal workouts. Be nice. Niceness accomplished nothing. Pregnancy hormones obliterated her common sense.
I paused on the rough brick covering Sam's front porch. The sun beat down and seared my scalp. He couldn't–
Sam cracked the door open and stepped aside. "Hey."
My eyes traveled down Mt. Muscles' white tank top and gray shorts. I frowned at his feet. "What are those?"
"You, of all people, should recognize Crocs." The failed shoe model lifted one heel at a time, which squeaked his black rubber soles on the floor. "They're awful. How do you wear these? My feet are sweating out the holes."
"Keep your personal hygiene problems to yourself." I frowned at his paddleboard-sized feet.
His eyebrows raised at my front entry statue impersonation, and a twinkle flashed in his eyes. "Coming inside, or are you eye-fucking my feet? Didn't know you had a thing for them."
He's teasing. He'd better be teasing, or those Crocs are going right up his–Be nice, Mia. I could be nice. Has his house always smelled this homey? "Yep." My feet were rooted to the spot. "I mean, no feet. Cover those mukluks. Can we talk?"
Not surprisingly, his expression turned into not impressed, and a placating whine slipped out, "Now you want to talk to me?"
"Yes." I forced a smile.
"Fine." Two thick, sinewy forearms strained across his chest. "But not if you're smiling at me like that."
The shadow lines of definition down his forearms were seriously distracting. Raised tributaries parted at the back of his hand. Fuck, those veins continued up his knuckles. He was a nurse's wet dream. Sweat dampened my armpits. Had he always had those? Who turned the furnace on outside? A breathless version of my voice rushed out, "Like what?"
"Like you're plotting my death behind those teeth." A low laugh bounced his shoulders.
My lips relaxed, which widened his grin. Sam's beard was trimmed so short, holy dimples. Sabotaging beats pounded in my chest, and I dipped my chin. The back of my neck was an ant seared under a magnifying glass. Metaphorical smoke rose off my skin. I flicked the pad of my middle finger at my thumb's cuticle. "Look, I'm...sorry, Sam." Fuck, those words stung to admit to my Crocs. More cuticle picks commenced. "I reacted badly and didn't mean to make you feel slighted. What you did with the truck was nice and–"
A rough and warm touch met my cheek. "I'm not bothered by your reaction, Mia." Sam's hand stole my words.
Too much softness clouded his eyes. I could handle his teasing. His frustrations soared my ego. Anger? Bring it. Pity and sympathy twisted my heart. Abby and Michael gave me more than enough of those, to the point there was nothing left to wring out. From him? Big fat nope. "Sam, I–"
