“He’s late, Ren. Are you sure he’s coming?” Samantha let the curtains slip between her fingers, allowing them to fall closed as she turned back to pace across the living room floor.

“He’s coming, Sam. I called him ten minutes ago, and he said he’s on his way. He’ll be there. Relax.”

“We’re going to hit traffic.”

Laughter came from the receiver. “Lunch time traffic?”

“Be quiet!” She held back a tiny grin and leaned against the wall. “I’ve been dressed for over an hour, I hardly slept, making sure I had everything ready, and his being late really pisses me off. I thought you said he’d changed?”

“He overslept, Sam, he’ll be there. Look, if he isn’t there in thirty minutes, I’ll buy you a coke.”

Samantha closed her eyes. “A rum and coke.”

“Whatever you want,” Renee agreed. “But I have to get back to practice. Can you call me when he gets there?”

Samantha sat down on her couch and clicked on the TV. “Sure. But if he’s not here in an hour I’m leaving without him.”

“Fair enough,” Renee replied. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” Samantha placed her cell beside her on the couch and leaned back to switch the channel to Judge Judy. She’d been so stressed about this morning’s trip that she’d hardly slept at all. She kept having dreams about Tristan. About him hanging by his fingertips on the edge of a cliff and calling her name. “Sammie! Sammie!”

She would try to go to him, but the closer she got, the faster her heart would pound, because she couldn’t make her feet move. Even though she could see he was falling, she couldn’t go to him. She was afraid that if she did, she’d go over the cliff with him.

The dream was dark and disturbing to say the least, but there was so much truth to it. She was afraid of seeing Tristan again. Afraid that seeing him would pull her wild heart right out of her chest. Just like he had in the middle of the lake six years earlier.

* * *

“Just jump, already!”

Samantha stood at the water’s edge, looking down from the dock as Tristan waded in the darkness of the lake below. A shiver raced through her. Not because it was cold—if anything, it was a hotter than usual. She shivered because suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there. She looked back over her shoulder. Toward the cabin where her best friend was still sleeping, sure she was making a huge mistake. But the evening was perfect, the sky crystal clear, displaying a plethora of stars too many to count, and the smells of the wilderness mingled with the scent of freedom.

“How deep is it?” she finally asked, as she dropped her towel to the edge of the dock. Her black bathing suit was simple, nothing too sexy or revealing, though she still had to stop herself from crossing her arms at her chest for more protection. Samantha had a curvaceous body. Large breasts and hips to match, but she was incredibly self-conscious. She’d been aware at an early age that her curves were a distraction. Hyper-aware, even in sixth grade, when the boys started ogling.

“Not deep.” He stood up in the water, indicating it hit him mid-stomach. “Jump, already!”

Before she could talk herself out of it, knowing she’d be much more comfortable shielded by the dark water, she held her breath and jumped out as far as she could manage. But instantly, she started sinking. Her eyes bulged and her arms flailed about in panic. She desperately tried to get back to the surface, but the more she struggled the deeper she sank. She couldn’t get her head above water—not high enough to take a full breath.

Before she knew what was happening, Tristan’s arms wrapped around her belly and he jetted them both toward the surface. He wrapped one arm around her neck, his body like a floatation device, keeping her above water as he swam on his back toward a large fallen branch.

He helped her up to sit, where she coughed and sputtered, the water she’d almost drowned in expelling from her throat and lungs.

“You can’t swim, can you?” he asked, out of breath. “You can’t fucking swim!”

She coughed out the last bit of water, clinging to the branch and pulling in as much air as she could manage. “You lied to me! How did you do that? You were standing, I saw you!”

“There was a branch—” But then he smoothed the wet hair from her cheek and examined her face. “I didn’t know, Sammie. Are you okay?”

She pushed at his chest, startled by his closeness, startled by the fact that she thought he’d be laughing, but he wasn’t. He looked worried, if anything, almost scared.

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. She glanced in the direction of the cabin, barely able to see the light of the front porch. She couldn’t believe she’d come out here. That she’d convinced herself it would be okay, even though the voice in her head had been screaming for her not to do it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, bracing his arms on either side of the branch to pull himself up to sit beside her, making the whole thing shake under his weight.

They were both silent, his eyes fixated on the open water before he spoke again. “Why would you come out here when you don’t know how to swim?”

She clenched her jaw, unable to share the answer that sprung to her mind. Because she was curious. Because she liked the way she felt when he was close to her. “I asked you how deep it was. I trusted you.”

His head tilted slightly to the side and he looked at her. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

He was throwing her words back in her face and she didn’t like it. “’Cause I’m an idiot!” she yelled. She began scooting down the branch, determined to get away from him by any means possible. To get back to the shore, to her best friend, even by the most humiliating way she could think of.

But he lowered himself to the water, blocking her off on the other side. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the cabin. Far away from you.”

“Why? Because of that?” He gestured to the spot where she’d nearly drowned. “Why do you hate me so much, Samantha? You’ve hated me for as long as I can remember, and I don’t know why. What did I ever do to you?”

She stopped moving, too shocked by what he was asking to even look at him. It was true; she’d hated him forever, but the fact that he’d noticed made her heart hurt a little inside. She didn’t know what to say. “I—”

But he stopped her. “You know what, I don’t want to know.” He reached out to tuck the last bits of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, Sam. I really am. If I—” But he stopped, as if not allowing the words to leave his tongue. He looked back up at her, his expression somber and dark. “Forgive me?”

* * *

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Samantha startled out of sleep, the sounds of banging reverberating through the walls and floor. She threw her feet off the side of the couch and sat forward to turn off the television. The pounding came once again. BOOM BOOM BOOM.

The front door.

“Hang on,” she shouted. “I’ll be there in a second!” She grabbed her cell phone off the coffee table, and realized it had been almost an hour since she’d gotten off the phone with Renee. Tristan Montgomery was on the other side of that door, and she had no idea how long he’d been out there.

She pushed hard against the couch, forcing herself to stand, then walked over to the entertainment center to check her reflection in the television screen. “Oh God,” she whispered, taking in the long strands of hair stuck to her face and smoothing them behind her ears. This was the first time she’d seen Tristan in six years, and a red imprint of her couch cushion was etched into her cheek. No. She shook her head at her reflection. It wasn’t the first time. She’d seen him a handful of other times as well. In passing, when he came home for visits from college…but he never seemed to notice her. Never again after that night.

When she finally opened the door a minute later, unsure if he’d left because he was so quiet, she found him resting in the stairwell, his back against the wall, laughing into the receiver of his cell phone. He stood there so casually, it seemed as though he did this every day, as though he hadn’t just been beating down her front door with his bare fists.

“Yeah, I got it.” He smiled. But not to Samantha—he was speaking to whomever was on the phone. “Talk to you later.”

When he finally turned around, he placed his cell phone in his back pocket. “I thought I was going to have to break the door down.” He lifted his shoulders. “Either that or you changed your mind.”

He brushed past her, not waiting for an invitation before stepping into her apartment. “I have to piss. Where’s your bathroom?”

She made a face at his choice of words, but decided quickly against making a comment, and turned swiftly toward the hall. For the next three days, she was stuck with him. Three thousand miles, and she was determined not set off on the wrong foot. “It’s down the hall.”

She wrapped her arms around her belly and walked in the opposite direction toward the window. This was a bad idea, she could feel it in her bones. Renee had said he’d changed, but she thought in a good way. If anything, he was worse! Gruff, callous, entitled. Though maybe a bit rougher. His jeans were a weathered blue, roughed up in the way that was fashionable these days, and his shirt was gray, form fitting, and indicated that he still had the body he was known for in high school. But now he had a scruffy shadow of a beard that matched his messy surfer-boy style.

Though it wasn’t his looks that made Samantha uncomfortable. It was the way he acted—as though he owned the place. As though it was his world, and she just existed in it.

He walked out of the bathroom some time later, wiping his hands on his back pockets, even though she knew she’d hung up a towel that morning.

“Is this your luggage?” he asked, gesturing to her suitcase in the corner of the room.

She nodded, but before she could add that it was only the beginning, he lifted the bag up to his shoulder and headed for the front door.

“Wait!” she shouted, maybe a tad more frantically than she’d intended.

He turned on his heels, his eyes wide open with a “what the hell is wrong with you?” expression.

“The sculpture,” she finally managed to spit out. “I need help getting it downstairs.”

“The sculpture?” he repeated slowly, as though he didn’t quite understand what she was telling him.

She turned on her heels, not bothering to explain, and headed for her studio. “It’s this way.”

A minute later, they stood in the middle of the room, Tristan’s eyes wide, taking in the three foot tall, two foot wide, bubble-wrapped creation. It was the best she could manage given its shape, but she had to admit, wrapped up like this, it did look rather crazy.

“And we’re bringing that with us?” he managed to ask.

“Yes.” She nodded.

He bit his lip, as though trying to make his mind up about something, and shrugged. “Well, okay.” He set her suitcase to the ground, stepped toward and lifted the sculpture a few inches. He quickly set it back down and stepped backward. “Shit. What’s in there? Steel?”

She scrunched up her nose, knowing it was heavy. But seeing that it was too heavy for Tristan made her nervous. How the hell would they get it downstairs? “Here, let’s lean it on its side. I’ll grab one end, you grab the other.”

* * *

“Why on earth would I trust you, Tristan? I know who you are; I’ve seen what you do!”

His eyes narrowed, but he wouldn’t budge from his spot blocking her on the branch. “For someone who doesn’t know me, you sure know a lot.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to know you. I know all the people you’ve hurt, and that’s enough.”

“Like who?”

“Veronica Ward. Jenny Chavez. Sophie Miller. Need I go on?”

“Do you always believe what people tell you, or only when it involves me? I’m curious.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, check your sources, sweetheart.” He pushed back off the branch, causing the whole thing to rock backward and cover her in water.

She held on for dear life, watching him swim away toward the center of the lake, damning herself for coming out here at all. “Are you just going to leave me here?” she screamed.

“I haven’t decided,” he said, stopping ten feet away. “What did they tell you?”

“You’re holding me hostage now?”

He shrugged.

She clenched her jaw. “Fine. If you must know, I’ll tell you. But it’s the same thing every time: you stringing them along, making them think they have a chance with you, then turning around to be a complete dick! And for your information, Tristan, I don’t need to check my sources. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It’s not like it’s a big secret; you display your dirty laundry out for everyone to see!”

He swam toward her, taking only two strokes to cross the distance. His bare chest pressed against her legs, his eyes wide as though he needed her to see him. “You’re wrong. You think just because someone gets hurt that’s my fault? It may sound arrogant, but I can’t prevent a girl from falling in love with me.” He shook his head. “I can’t prevent her from climbing in my bed, loving me. But they only think they love me, Sam. They don’t. Just like you, they hardly know me… They love the idea of me. The fairy tale version that’ll never exist. They convince themselves they love me, and that’s not my fault.”

His arms relaxed a little, but he stayed right there, looking into her eyes, never faltering. “If I’m nice, if I smile the wrong way, or God forbid give them my phone number, I’m suddenly leading them on, and it’s bullshit.”

He pushed off her legs, turning to lean his back on the fallen branch. “Jenny and I kissed one time at a party. We were both drunk and I kissed her.” He looked over. “Does that mean I owe her my future?”

She swallowed. She’d never been spoken to this way before. Yet she’d never thought of it from his perspective either. She didn’t even know any of these girls, but she’d believed everything they’d said without question. She’d believed everything passed around the gossip circles she normally tried to stay out of. But now, hearing his side of things, all he had told her that she’d never considered, she couldn’t even blame him for being angry.

She thought about Steven, about him declaring his love four years ago, after knowing her for two weeks. How he wanted more, even though she’d only been a friend to him. That wasn’t her fault. Yes, you can’t help the people you fall in love with, but you also can’t help the people who fall in love with you. She looked down at her fingers, shaking her head both at the fact she’d judged him unfairly, but also because she agreed with him. “No,” she finally whispered. “You don’t owe her anything.”

His brow lifted as though her admission surprised him, and he turned to face her, studying her, as though wondering if what she said was what she really believed. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and rough, almost a whisper. “Do you forgive me?”

She tilted her head to the side, the corner of her mouth lifting involuntarily because after all that, he’d brought it back full circle. After all that, he wasn’t asking her for the apology he probably deserved. He was asking for her forgiveness. Because he didn’t dwell on who wronged him. He worried more about how he’d wronged her.

“Yes.”

* * *

“Do you want to go first, or should I?”

Samantha’s face was red with exertion, her back already aching under the weight of the sculpture. They’d only just made it into the living room, which meant they still needed to make it down the stairs, through the courtyard, and to the front of the building where his car was parked. “You,” she said on a winded breath. “I’ll follow.”

He nodded quickly, silently agreeing with her decision, and turned around, carefully easing his back into the stairwell. He adjusted his grip on the bubble wrap, lifting the sculpture around a sharp corner like a professional furniture mover, and took the first step backward down the stairs. “Easy now.”

She followed after him, her jaw flexed with the weight pulling at her shoulders. But she wouldn’t let him see her struggle. Not now, not ever. Even it if ripped her arms right out of their sockets.

They shuffled down the steps one at a time, through the courtyard, and to the front of the building. He finally lowered the sculpture to the ground a few feet away, where Samantha released the weight, maybe with a little more oomph than she’d intended, and stepped backward.

She pulled in a few deep breaths before standing, replenishing the oxygen she’d lost on the flight downstairs.

“You’re stronger than you look, Smiles.” He grinned, pulling his keys from his front pocket and hanging them on his finger. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

Samantha straightened, resisting the urge to snatch the keys out of his cocky hand. She looked down the row of cars, inwardly cringing at how much farther they still had to go. “Which one’s yours?”

His lips lifted. He stepped forward shaking his head and unlocked the door to the light blue ’67 Ford Mustang just in front of them.

She vaguely remembered it—from long ago. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“About what?” he asked.

“About that.” She gestured her chin toward the car. “We’re not driving all the way to New York in that—are we?”

He moved to lean his hip against the taillight, and placed a pair of aviator glasses on his face. “That’s the plan, sweetheart. Is that a problem?”

She pressed her lips together at the endearment. “We’re driving over three thousand miles,” she stated. Reasonable. Let’s all be reasonable. “In a car that’s fifty years old?”

“And?”

“Don’t you think it would be wise to take a more reliable form of transportation?”

He shrugged.

Oh, dear God! She turned toward her apartment and wiped her hand over her face. “You know what—here, let me get my car. It’s not very big, but—”

“Greta”—he tapped hard on the back fender of the Mustang—“hasn’t let me down yet.” He popped the trunk, lifting it all the way open. “I’ll ignore the fact that you insulted her.”

Samantha narrowed her eyes, her heart pounding with the need to punch him. “You’re just as sweet as I remember.”

He huffed out a laugh, pulling the glasses from his face, and resting one finger on his bottom lip. “Oh yeah? And what do you remember, Samantha?”