Chapter 11

Blair

I jerked on the cord for the umpteenth time and the generator’s diesel engine purred, then cut out, yet again. “Fucking fucker. You asshole!” The words sputtered from my lips, directed at the machine as much as they were at the woman upstairs.

She’d planted the seeds of doubt in my mind. The first time I’d had sex with a man, and my mother had crashed my painting time and subsequently introduced all those stupid fears I’d held about Samson into the front of my mind.

He was a hooker. He was my first time. Thank god, I was on fucking birth control. My mother had forced me onto the stuff at the first sign of acne in my teenage years and had the cheek to insinuate I’d need it for other reasons soon enough.

“Bitch dick!” I tugged the cord again.

The generator remained silent. The two black fans on its side gave me an expression of sheer petulance. It said, “And fuck you, too. Freeze, little artist. Maybe starve afterward. That’s what you get for bedding an escort.”

I aimed a kick at the machine, let my foot fly, and yelped. Oh, yeah, socks had been a bad choice. I clutched my toe – ahem, broken toe – and hopped around on one foot. “Biiiiiiiitch,” I hissed and did the one-legged shimmy.

None of this would’ve happened if my mother had just kept her thoughts to herself. Or if I’d just kept it in my pants.

How was I supposed to do that around him? Samson was divine. He made my heart skip twenty fucking beats in a row. All the solid determination to be nothing like my mother had flown right out the window and I’d fallen into bed with him.

Now what?

I stumbled back, still hopping and keening, muttering under my breath, and slammed into the wall.

Except, the wall had arms.

“Whoa there.” And those arms were strong and wrapped around my waist. His cologne flooded the space and erased the pain for a second. My stomach sank. “What happened? Why are you dancing around? You’re like the Footloose guy without the acrobatics.”

“Hilarious,” I snapped and put my foot down, gingerly. It held out. Apparently, my throbbing toe had borne the brunt of the damage.

I limped out of his grasp and back to the generator without looking over my shoulder at him.

“What’s up?” Samson asked and joined me.

“Nothing. Just trying to get the power up and running,” I said, through gritted teeth. What was wrong? I’d handed him my pussy on a platter, and after this weekend, I’d never see him again.

“Blair,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No. There’s nothing wrong, and even if there was something wrong, you can’t just force it out of me. It doesn’t work like that,” I said and grabbed the cable again. I tugged but the engine ignored me.

Samson laid a hand on my arm, and I looked up at him, at last.

Dim light from the lantern I’d set on the work bench softened his features and played across the cotton shirt he’d chosen this morning, the coat he’d thrown over it. He was so real, so here in the moment, and so in my space.

I dropped my arm, and the cord snapped back into the side of the generator. “What do you want, Samson?”

“To help you,” he said, then looked back at the door that led into the house. “And to get away from your mother. She’s… interesting.”

“I don’t want to know,” I replied. “I don’t want to talk about my mother or anything else. I need a cup of coffee and a long hot bath, and that’s not going to happen if I stand here, flapping my lips.”

“Jesus, what crawled up your asshole and made a nest?”

“Excuse me?” I fisted my hips, planted my feet. “That’s super fucking rude.”

“So is acting the way you’re acting now,” he replied and cocked his head back, looking at me over his nose. “Bottling that shit up won’t help you, Blair. You’re freaked about what happened last night.”

It was as if he’d punched me in the gut. I didn’t need this. “It doesn’t matter what I feel or think. You’re here because I hired you for a job, and that’s all that matters. Are you thinking about reneging on our deal?”

Please don’t. I can’t do this without you.

Samson didn’t answer me right away. He sniffed and thumbed the underside of his nose, then flicked his gaze toward the generator and back to me.

“Well?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Blair. I know you need help.”

I bristled. It wasn’t a lie – I did need the help – but it was the way he said it. As if I couldn’t possibly find another fiancé or man to help me out of this situation. Do you hear yourself right now? A man to help you? You’re worse than your mother.

I grappled with the generator’s cord, tensed my muscles, and hauled it upward. Prrt-buuurk. Nothing. Nada. A big bag of dicks. “Ass,” I said and lifted my foot again. My toe throbbed, and I put it back down again.

“Here, let me do that,” Samson said and reached for the cord.

I smacked the back of his hand. “No, thank you, I don’t need any help.”

Samson grabbed my wrist and held it fast. “Stop it,” he said. “Stop being impossible. I’m trying to be here for you, girl, and you’re acting like a spoiled, rich bitch.”

“I’m a what now?”

“I didn’t say you were one, just that you’re acting like one,” he replied. “Look, I get it. I get that you’re upset you lost your virginity to someone like me. You think it was part of the deal, right? That I fucked you because you’re paying me.”

“Oh, god, shut up!” I hissed and craned my neck, peeping at the door. Empty but no guarantee my nosy mother wasn’t on the other side, eavesdropping.

“Well, that’s not the case. I told you, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do,” he continued. “And I want you.”

“Stop,” I grunted. “I don’t want to talk about this now. Or anything. This is a deal, and that’s that.” I ripped my wrist from his grasp and focused on the generator again. His gaze scraped the side of my face, demanded attention, but I refused to give it to him.

“You need to learn to open up, Blair,” he said.

“That’s rich,” I snapped. “I don’t know shit about you, yet I’m the one who has to open up. Funny. Spare me your advice, and trust me when I say I don’t need to open up to you or anyone else. And I certainly don’t need your help.”

I pulled the cord again, and the generator gave another profound burst of flatulence, which was just as useful as the real-life counterpart.

Samson reached past me, grabbed the cord, and pulled. One sharp tug, and the generator purred to life and filled the garage with a sonorous growl. My fake fiancé shook his head at me, then walked off, back stiff, steps sure, still brimming that same arrogance he’d had on the day we’d met. He didn’t look back.

An ecstatic shout rang from indoors. Mom, over the moon about the prospect of coffee.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. He wasn’t right, was he? I didn’t have to open up to anyone, least of all him. He was a hire. He was… everything you never knew you wanted.

“Ugh.” I pinched my nose harder.

“Blair, darling!” My mother’s voice echoed in the concrete friggin’ tomb of a garage. “Blair, you got it working. You genius! We can have coffee, now.”

I dropped my hand and managed a tight smile, which tugged behind my ears. “Great,” I said.

“Come on, honey. We’ll have some coffee, and you can have a plate of eggs.” She’d changed into one of her ‘around the house’ dresses – a skimpy number that shoved out the expanse of her chest – and paired it with a fur coat.

“I’ll be right in,” I said.

She tottered off. “Yoohoo, Samson, darling! Come to the kitchen and have a cup of Joe. We’re back in business.”

Her voice faded under the roar from the generator. The smell of diesel choked me, and I walked to the exit, then up the stairs to the hall. Christmas had never seemed this bleak. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it.

My mother’s frantic chatter and the click of cups and plates traveled through the house. “Oh, it’s wonderful. Now, we can trim the tree!”

Samson’s reply was a rumble of noise, indiscriminate.

I lifted my left hand and the engagement ring glinted on my finger. Fake, worth nothing, just like this weekend if I didn’t pull this off.

I plastered on a smile and pushed myself from the door. This engagement wasn’t going to sell itself.