Breaking Through, page 7
“Oh, yeah, I gotcha.” He chuckled and turned back to the locker, swinging the door open with a creak.
“You know who Superman is, don’t you?” She poked him in the ribs, and he flinched away with a sound that, to his shame, could only be called a squeal.
“Of course, I know who Superman is!”
“What’s that?” Charlotte squeezed in beside him, squinting at the photo stuck to the inside of the metal door.
“Oh, ah...” Colour suffused his cheeks, and he snatched the keys off the shelf and tried to shut the locker before she could make it out.
“Let me see!” She caught the door and nudged him out of the way. “Oh, my God.”
Sam scowled down at her. “It’s an excellent picture. Mom gave it to me.”
Stuck with a wad of blue sticky tack was a print of four teenagers.
Sawyer and Charlotte, about fifteen, squatting beside a fluffy black dog. Petite Sasha, her pale features bright with laughter, stood behind her younger brother, one hand on his shoulder. And Sam, arms crossed, slightly apart from the group. The air of nineteen-year-old superiority he eluded was ruined by the turned-up corner of his mouth and the twinkle in his eyes. Eyes that weren’t looking into the camera but down at the pair hugging the dog.
“Oh, it’s BamBam!” Charlotte reached a finger to touch the dog’s grinning face. “He was the best dog.”
Sam smiled, putting his finger next to hers on the tip of the lolling pink tongue. “I still miss that mutt.”
“You always loved dogs so much. Why don’t you have one?”
Sam sighed. “It wouldn’t be fair.” With a sad shake of his head, he shut the locker door. “I’m never home. That’s no life for a man’s best friend.”
“I guess.” It struck Charlotte suddenly how lonely Sam must be.
“There’s a man in hospice, and he has this dog—” He stopped talking, his eyes clouding, and his face scrunched at whatever he was remembering. “Never mind.”
Charlotte cocked her head but didn’t press him. Whatever he meant to say brought a flash of such sadness to his expressive eyes. Charlotte wasn’t sure she could bear to hear it at the moment.
“Do you remember where my apartment is?” he asked, changing the subject.
She bobbed her head. “I think so.”
He gave her the address anyway. Then he took her hand in his and placed the key on her palm, closing her fingers around it. His hands were warm, slightly rough as they grazed the skin on the back of her hand. The hair along her arms rose, and the memory of his lips on her wrist bubbled to the surface. Charlotte suppressed a shiver. When she glanced up, he was studying her face. Blue eyes darkened as his gaze slid from hers and down, slowly, until they reached her lips.
Heat rose off his lean body in waves. He smelled so distinctly Sam. Spicy deodorant and antiseptic soap with a hint of something more. Something visceral and male. Charlotte’s heart pounded in response.
The column of Sam’s throat worked. The tip of his tongue flicked across his lips, and unconsciously, Charlotte mirrored the action. She moved closer to him as if her body closed the gap without her brain’s permission.
“Code White! ER, available staff, please respond.”
Sam’s entire body flinched. “Shit!” He grabbed the lanyard at his neck and spoke into it rapidly.
“I have to go.” Squeezing her upper arm, he frowned at her, brows drawn in with concern. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” Charlotte’s voice emerged as little more than a doubtful whisper.
Sam spun away. “Make yourself at home and get some rest!” he called as he jogged out of the room.
***
“What the—?” Sam eased the door to his apartment open and slipped inside. Every light in the place was on, and the scent of fresh baking emanated from the kitchen to torment him.
“Chuck?” he whispered, kicking off his shoes. “Are you up?”
No reply came from the living room. Sam’s socked feet whispered across the wood flooring as he crept down the hall. Charlotte was curled up on the couch, sound asleep, wrapped in the blanket from the back of the chair. With a pang, Sam realized he never told her where to find the extra bedding. Shaking his head at his oversight, Sam went up to his room. Visitors were a rarity in his home. Hell, he was barely here.
Taking the second pillow off his bed, he reached into the closet and felt around on the shelf. There had to be something. His fingers came across soft cotton, and he pulled the fabric free. It was the quilt his mother made him when he was a baby. All of Alice’s children had one. Bright squares of cloth, with names and dates embroidered across the centre. She had learned to quilt when she was pregnant with Sam. On his blanket, the words were blocky and sprawling. Sasha’s had been an improvement, and Sawyer’s near perfection. Smiling, Sam brought the blanket to his nose. It held the faint scent of dust, but nothing serious. A few shakes to free the motes, and he carried it to the living room, spreading it as best he could over Charlotte without jostling her.
On the kitchen counter, he discovered the source of the delicious aroma. A plate stacked high with round, fat muffins sat on the table. Beside the pile was a folded square of paper. He opened it.
You’re too skinny. Eat some muffins and get some sleep.
P.S. Thank you
Xoxo
“Bossy.” Sam grinned and snagged two from the pile, glancing over his shoulder in the couch’s direction. More than anything, Sam wished he could wake her up. He wanted to share the details of the evening and to hear her laugh. Halfway through the first muffin, Sam realized he’d wandered back into the living room. One hand moved toward her shoulder before he stopped himself. Charlotte mumbled in her sleep and cuddled her face into the satin trim of the quilt. Blue rings of exhaustion extended past the black crescents of her lashes. Silken curls clung to her lips. Sam reached a finger out and slid the hairs back, tucking them behind the curve of her ear. Sucking a deep breath, he backed away from the couch. Watery, dull light from the window danced on the planes of her cheek, emitted by the open curtains. Sam crossed the room and pulled the blinds closed, blanketing the place in the inky darkness.
CHAPTER 12
“Sam, if I’m going to blow your mind with these ribs, I need that slow cooker. You assured me you had one, and I, in all my naivety, trusted you.”
Charlotte stood in Sam’s kitchen, launching into the rant as soon as he stepped through the door, yawning.
“Good morning to you too.” Pausing, he studied her for a moment, attempting to ignore the little thrill of happiness her presence caused. She’d been there for three days, and already it felt natural to come downstairs and find her. Sam stretched his arms over his head, yawning again, so hard his jaw cracked. Then he crossed the room to peek over Charlotte’s shoulder. “You really should wave a wooden spoon at me during this tirade. It would complete the scene.”
She turned to scowl at him. “If I had a wooden spoon in my hand, I’d be beating you over the head with it until I got the slow cooker I was promised.” She took a menacing step toward the utensil jar on the counter.
Sam laughed and held up his hands. “All right, all right. I think it’s in the hall closet, in a box still. I got it as a Christmas gift a few years ago.”
Charlotte stared at him wordlessly until he shifted from foot to foot. Then she turned and left the kitchen, muttering under her breath. Sam went to the counter where Charlotte had been working and picked up the knife, beginning to dice the tomatoes she’d abandoned.
“What the hell is this?” Charlotte’s voice floated down the hall a few moments later.
“What’s what?” Sam set the knife down and wiped tomato juice on a towel. Charlotte’s head popped around the corner.
Smirking, she held up a green leather tunic. “What’s this?”
“Shit!” Sam snatched for it, but Charlotte jumped back.
Sam made another grab for the tunic, but Charlotte dashed away, her grin reflecting in her eyes. “Tell me! Tell me!” she sang, scooting around in circles, keeping the island between them. Sam attempted to dive across, using his height to grab her.
A thoughtful look crossed her face. “Oh, my God. Is there more?” When Sam shook his head hard, she let out a wicked laugh and tossed the garment square into his face before making a break for the hall. Blinded, Sam snaked out an arm in one last attempt, snagging her around the waist. She slithered out of his grip and raced away. Sam heard her rifling around as he untangled himself.
“Hey!” Using the door frame as leverage, he darted after her, slipping across the wood floors. “You brat! You are just as big a brat now as you always were,” he yelled. “Have you never heard of privacy!”
She answered by yanking the rest of his costume, a hooded cloak and rough-spun trousers with a wide belt, complete with sword and sheath, out of the closet.
“This is the best day ever!” She cackled, turning the garments over, running them through her fingers before directing the full power of her smile at him. Sam nearly forgot the crippling force of his embarrassment under its radiance.
“Tell me what you do with these.” She put her hands together beseechingly. “Please, Sam. I’ll never ask anything of you again.”
He considered denying everything. Saying they were an old Halloween costume, or they weren’t his at all. He didn’t.
“I have been known... on the rare occasion that I have the time... to LARP,” he whispered, forcing the words past the nearly overpowering urge to go hide in a hole.
Charlotte blinked at him. “What in the actual hell is LARPing?”
Sam studied the patterns and whorls in the wood flooring. “Live. Action. Role. Play,” he mumbled.
“Is that like... a sexual thing?” Charlotte asked, staring at the clothing in her hands as if considering tossing it to the floor. “Like... furries?”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. “What the hell are furries?” he groaned.
“You know, people who dress up in costumes like stuffed animals and... do stuff.” Turning back to the closet, she laid the costume across a basket and wiped her hands on her jeans. “I mean, each to their own. I don’t judge.”
Sam pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger until stars danced across his vision. “My God, Chuck, do you really think—”
Charlotte held her palms up. “Hey man, it’s always the quiet ones.”
Sam groaned and slid his back down the wall until he sat on the floor. “It’s just for fun. You remember how much I love fantasy novels and history, well—” He gestured toward the costume. “A friend introduced me to it a few years ago. It’s freeing. Allows you to forget who you are and get lost in a fantasy for a bit.”
Chuck stared at him as if he’d sprouted an extra head, but finally, she nodded slowly. “I can see that, I suppose.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. Raising a finger, he brandished it at her. “If you ever tell anyone, especially my brother, Charlotte Baker, I’ll—”
She crossed her arms and scowled, daring him to continue. “You’ll do what, Stevenson?”
One corner of Sam’s lips hitched upward. Slowly, he allowed the grin to spread across his face. “I’ll never put it on for you,” he said.
Chuck’s arms unfurled, and she plastered a sweet smile on her face.
“That’s better.” Sam levered himself off the floor and went to the closet, hanging the costume back in its proper place.
Charlotte let out a noise of protest. “Hey, you said you’d put it on!”
“I said that I would never put it on if you told my family. If I showed you now, what would stop you from running out and telling Carmen?”
“My honour?” she said, her voice hopeful.
Sam snorted. “Ha!”
“Fine, you’re right.” Charlotte threw her hands up in the air. “I’d tell her. I have no honour.”
“Ah! And so you wait.” Gently pushing her out of the way, Sam reached into the depths of the closet, digging around before pulling out a box. “Here’s your slow cooker.”
***
“I’ve got to head to work.” Sam set his napkin down on the table and used his finger to scavenge sauce from along the edge of his dish. “It doesn’t feel right going to work after a meal like that. It’s like... If I don’t sit down and let my digestive tract enjoy it as much as my mouth did, I’m doing your cooking an injustice.”
Charlotte grinned, pushing away from the table. “Since you’re going off to heal and potentially save lives, the food and I will forgive you.”
Sam groaned and rubbed his belly. “I think you give me much too much credit.”
“And I think you give yourself too little.” She stared into his eyes for a moment, daring him to contradict her.
He broke the contact first and stood, picking up his plate. “I’ll clean these up and get changed.”
Charlotte grabbed the other before he could reach across the table for it. “You go change. I’ll do this.” She held out her hand, making a give-it-over motion with her fingers.
Sam scowled, refusing to relinquish the plate. “No way, my ma would have my head if I let you do the dishes after you cooked.”
Charlotte growled, whirling away to take her dish to the sink. Then she turned to him, hands on her hips. “Sam, you’re letting me stay here. You’ve been the most supportive person I could ever ask for through these last few days.” Her voice roughened, and she swallowed. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She turned to the sink, starting the water. For a moment, she kept her back turned to him, drawing a deep breath that shook slightly. “I think that entitles me to spoil you a bit,” she said after a second.
Sam took a step toward her. His arms ached to wrap around her, to protect her. The air seemed to thicken, and he wondered if Charlotte noticed. She must have sensed his gaze because she turned with her brow raised. “Are you okay?”
Sam shook his head, snapping himself from her spell. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat sharply. “I’m great.”
She gave him an odd look, then turned back to the dishes. Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, turned, and left the room.
Ten minutes later, dressed in scrubs and a hoodie, Sam came down from his room to find Chuck standing at the kitchen island with a sponge in her hand while she gazed around, a wistful look on her face. Leaning against the door frame, Sam watched her, perplexed. “Whatcha doin’, Chuck?” he asked after a moment.
With a little shriek, she jumped and spun to face him, her cheeks flushing. “I was looking at it.”
Sam cocked his head. “At what?”
“Your kitchen. Your beautiful, beautiful kitchen.” She sighed, the sort of soft expulsion of air some women emit at the sight of shoes they couldn’t afford.
Sam glanced around, then shrugged. He’d never thought about it too much. It was a good day when he had the time to make a sandwich before going into the living room and falling asleep on the couch. “Yeah, it’s nice, I guess.”
Charlotte cast him a withering glare. “It’s literally my dream kitchen, and you’re squandering it.”
“I’m always gentle when I wipe the counters,” he said, then ducked out the doorway to avoid the sponge she launched at his head.
“Bye, Chuck,” he called as he pulled on his shoes, unable to wipe the grin off his face. “See you in the morning.”
“Goodbye, Samuel,” she called back in a sticky-sweet voice. “Have a lovely night, dear.”
CHAPTER 13
Charlotte climbed the steps to Sam’s loft bedroom with a sense of curious trepidation. He’d told her to come up and use the bathtub whenever she wanted, but it still felt as though she were intruding on Sam’s personal territory. Pausing on the top level, she stared around at the room, mouth ajar.
“Well, of course, it’s beautiful up here too,” she muttered. Sam had left the blackout blinds open, and the inlaid ceiling windows allowed the grey winter light to poke dismally at the room. One wall was painted deep hunter green, and a few pieces of rough, rustic wood furniture gave the place a masculine beauty. She knew Sam would have carefully selected each for a reason. A side table she was sure Sawyer had crafted sat beside a perfectly made king-sized bed with a duvet resembling a cloud.
“What man lives like this?’ she asked the empty room. Glancing around once more, she went into the bathroom.
The en-suite boasted a jetted tub. Charlotte stared at it for a full minute before she started pulling off her clothes. Cranking the knobs, she sat at the edge and then braided her hair while the water level climbed.
The heat sank its teeth into her aches and pains, making her flinch and moan until it submerged her. As the knots eased and released their painful grip on her muscles, Charlotte dropped lower and lower in the tub until only her face peeked from the water.
Floating in the comfortable silence, she could nearly forget the press of reality lurking beyond the bathroom walls. She did her best to leave it at the edge of the porcelain and breathed in the steam, the lingering scent of sandalwood, while knot after knot released itself.
It would have been all too easy to stay that way for the rest of the day. But as the water chilled, the world crept back in. Charlotte sighed and sat up. With great deliberation, she closed her eyes and summoned every issue that plagued her one by one to the forefront.
Her father was healing slowly, but he was improving. The doctors were confident his health would continue to improve. There was no saying what the long-term damage would be yet. The doctors said there would be some, but they should be minimal with luck and healing. Memories of that night caused her heart to pound. Her throat thickened, and for a moment, she allowed herself to feel it all before she pushed it away.
Next was Charles. She liked him well enough but couldn’t seem to get anywhere with him. She realized this was the first time she’d thought of him in days. He called once to check up when he received her tearful message upon arrival at the hospital, but she hadn’t heard from him since. Curiously enough, his lack of attention scarcely bothered her, and she understood why. It all boiled down to Sam. Thoughts of Sam tainted her every interaction with Charles.
