The girls made it to their grandparents without incident and were delighted to see them. There’s no chance I would admit it to anyone, but each time I watch them run into a big hug from Jenny’s parents, it crushes me a little. It’s another chink in the armor that has already been severely compromised by self-doubt.
Sam has been scarce all weekend, and I have seen very little of her other than the charity ball. The fact that that bothers me chaps my arse a little. Seeing as how Finn’s sexuality has never been a secret in the crowd we run with, there was no confusion when Sam escorted him to the event that they were there as friends only. Thankfully, he views Sam in the same manner a big brother would and easily thwarted the wayward advances thrown her way. And let me tell you, they were plentiful. I blame the bronze-colored dress that melted to her figure like she was a statue dipped in the molten metal.
I’ve never felt jealousy before. It didn’t matter who I was dating or what the situation was. I don’t like it. Graham Taylor of Taylor Enterprises and I are engaged in a stealthy conversation, and while I have his focus, his arm is firmly planted around his wife. His hand splayed on her hip in a show of proprietary. When was the last time I felt possessive of Camilla? I do however understand what that feels like. And it has nothing to do with Camilla. Who, I might add, looks like she just stepped off the runway in a navy Dior dress. But she has a commercialized beauty; Sam’s beauty is more natural. And fuck me, everyone seems to be appreciating it tonight.
It is fortuitous that the Taylors are here tonight, so I took the opportunity to talk with him and his brother Adam about a venture Adam wants to propose to The Foundation, the Taylor’s philanthropic organization. Finn and I are on the board.
As Graham and Adam debate about some issue with the proposal, Finn walks up to introduce Samantha to Emme and Adam’s wife, Jules. I had forgotten—Jules is a fashion designer and Emme is her business partner. Apparently, I glean, they are the ones to blame for the leers Sam has been receiving. It appears the dress Finn purchased for her is a Redden James.
“Our maiden names,” Jules explains to Samantha who is gushing over Jules’ designs.
They chat about the upcoming Fashion Week in New York and the grueling schedule. Jules talks about her show and Samantha says she would love to bring the girls. For them to see women doing powerful things. She also mentions Zinnie has an interest in fashion design.
“Would it be too much to ask that we swing by sometime so Zinnie can get a glimpse of what really goes on behind the scenes?” she asks Jules.
“Since when has Zinnie been interested in fashion?” I bark louder than even I thought was necessary. Six pairs of eyes take me in and I hate that I see pity in them. Samantha smiles politely in an attempt to sidestep the awkwardness I’ve thrown like a wet blanket onto the conversation. But still, how does she know this after not even a total of forty-eight hours with Zinnie? I’ve been with her for five months and couldn’t tell you a single thing she is interested in other than her mobile.
Ever the consummate facilitator, Emme doesn’t miss a beat and shifts the conversation to a funny story about Olivia, her eldest daughter.
The night spiraled from there, and by the time Camilla and I left, I was in a foul mood. Camilla was less than accommodating and asked to be taken home instead of going back to my place, but I needed to fuck. The kind of fuck you feel in your toes. It took some convincing, but she let me come up. She’s not oblivious. She can feel that we are slipping just as I can. Both of us attempting to hold on until we have some normalcy back in our lives. The only problem is our definition of normal seems to mean two different things, where previously it was the same.
I want to let loose and be rough with her but it’s not how we do things, so I hold back. My hands around her slender waist, the tips of my fingers touching. I get us both there, barely, before collapsing onto the bed next to her. Our breath weighted and winded. Neither of us speaking.
A time later, I leave her place.
Sam’s door is closed and the lights are off when I get home. I stand outside of it. The temptation to pound on it and yell at her for no legitimate reason is heavy. I spend the rest of the night alone in my bed.
The following day is consumed by meetings with Brad and IT. There was another hacking attempt. They are happening closer together, each one more aggressive than the last. It’s only a matter of time before we’re unable to stop one that will cause irreparable damage to our company and the ones we partner with.
I schedule a meeting with Reid Beckett to discuss Everett’s business and a second meeting with Elise Donovan. Everywhere I turn her name is mentioned. It’s time to revisit.
Seeing as they are no longer in summer school and don’t have to be in classes on Monday, the girls decided to stay another night at their grandparents. Saying no was on the tip of my tongue when they rang to ask, but I know it’s important for them to spend time together. It’s their tether to Jenny, and I want them to have that for as long as they can.
I’ve narrowly managed to avoid Sam for the remainder of the weekend until late into Sunday evening. Camilla wasn’t up for coming over and I didn’t feel like going to her place. I carried in from the Italian restaurant on the corner. Sam’s door is closed but her light is visible and I could hear her music playing softly from the other side. I stand knuckles to the door, poised to invite her to eat and to apologize for my behavior the night before, but I can’t. I have set this hierarchy in place for a reason and I need to stick with it. In a few days’ time, the lines have become too blurred as it is.
Problem is, the girls seem happy for the first time since they came to stay. A desire for their happiness to be due to me and not Sam keeps my knuckles from tapping out an invitation.
I am slurping up pasta noodles when she comes into the dining area, drawing up short when she sees me eating alone. With enough food for three people. God, I’m a heel.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were eating,” she says. A pretty blush colors her cheeks but I don’t know why. “Will you let me know when you have a minute?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” I respond, picking up my dinner plate and walking it to the kitchen counter where even more food is leftover. Normally I would toss what I didn’t eat, but for some reason it seems wasteful tonight. Instead, I put it back in the containers and place them in the refrigerator. I’ll have Maria heat it for lunch tomorrow.
“What can I do for you, Samantha?” I ask with my hip against the marble counter, my arms folded over my chest. She’s barefoot, not even coming up to my shoulder. Her hair is piled into a large knot on the top of her head and, as usual, her face is natural. She’s in Finn’s sweatpants and a tank top that makes it clear she is slightly chilled. The thought makes me hard.
We each start a conversation at the same time.
“I think we need to discuss a uniform.”
“You mentioned there was an envelope with cash?”
“Sorry?” she says, unsure she’s heard me right.
“You first,” I insist.
“You mentioned there was an envelope with cash.”
“Yes.” I don’t offer more, curious to see where this is going. Does it make me an arse that I like for her to be uncomfortable? It certainly gives me an edge. A much-needed edge, because as sure as I’m standing here, this woman is going to be a problem. This is a classic example of why I should always go with my gut. I should have called the agency. Now it’s too late. The girls are invested and that makes this dicey.
“How do I access it?” she asks.
Without answering, I turn and make my way to the study. She follows and I guide her over to a pad on the wall. I lift her hand in mine—ignoring the electricity from just her touch—and place her middle finger against the lighted pane, holding it in place. It turns green and the paneled wall pops open. I pull out a cigar shaped box, open the top, count out a thousand dollars, and hand it to her. “Take this. There’s more here if you need it.”
She frowns before counting out a variety of bills equaling sixty dollars and handing me the rest with a soft “Thank you.” Nothing else. I wanted silence, but not… silence.
I follow her to the butler’s closet by the lift. There’s a row of cubbies along the right, and she’s turned the space on the left into some sort of command center. There’s a desk calendar affixed to the wall and she has pinned up a string with pegs. Attached to each peg is a card with a task and money clipped to it.
“What’s this?” I ask. She jumps slightly not realizing I followed her. “I have the agency sending a new maid out next week. They get paid a weekly wage.”
“That’s great.”
“These are chores for the girls so they can earn spending money,” she explains.
“You understand these girls have a trust fund in the millions, and I can more than afford to care for them until they are of age?”
“That’s not the point.”
“And having them clean the loo is?”
“I don’t think Jenny would want them to be spoiled. The maid will have charge of the house, but the girls will be expected to clean their rooms and bathrooms.”
“And you think a five-year-old can do that?” I challenge mostly because like I said, I’m an arsehole tonight.
“Not on her own,” she agrees, her back to me as she populates the calendar, “which is why I will have to help her.”
“I can’t think of anything worse.” I really can’t.
“Then you my friend,” she turns toward me, “are living a sweet life.”
She’s right. And this is something I have lost sight of recently. Unexpected, her statement triggers the feeling of utter grief at the loss of my best friend. Out of the blue, without warning, it slams into me. My breath hiccups and suddenly the room feels small and confining. I search out the exit in hopes of making it out of here before the emotions I’ve been holding back since the accident show themselves. I would have made it, too, but I must have tripped her Spidey senses because before I reach the door, her cheek presses against my back and her arms wrap around my chest. And…she hugs me. A real hold-me-until-I’m-ready-to-be-let-go hug. Jesus Christ, how long has it been since I’ve had that.
“I’m sorry you lost your friend,” she says delicately. It’s the most I’ve allowed myself to be comforted since the accident, and I have to will my body to step out of her embrace and walk away.