Love, Suburban Style (10 page)

Now, however, there’s nothing the least bit charming about the room, even after she flips on the overhead light. The bulb must be low-wattage; its glow is far from cheery.

“So you tried this window?” Sam crosses to the one nearest the door.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t—”

She breaks off, startled, as he effortlessly raises the sash. A cooling breeze instantly fills the room.

Meg gapes. “How did you do that?”

“Magic fingers.” He grins and wiggles them at her.

“But I…”

“You probably loosened it for me. Or maybe it’s less humid now. Let me try this one…” With a slight pull, he opens the other window.

She follows him from room to room, watching in disbelief as he opens one window after another with a mere tug.

Finally, in the back bedroom that’s destined to become her future study, he brushes his palms against each other, turns to her, and announces, “All done.”

“I swear I didn’t make it up,” she says, baffled.

“You mean about the windows being stuck?”

She nods. “I really didn’t.”

“Why would you make it up?”

“I don’t know…”

To play the helpless female role to your big strong man role?

If only he knew her well enough to realize that isn’t her style. To realize that she’s stronger and more independent than ever before.

But he doesn’t know you at all,
she reminds herself.
And you only think you know him. That was so long ago, and all you ever really knew was his image.

Still, she has to admit, the nice guy image is pretty close to the real thing. At least, close to the man Sam Rooney grew up to become.

Hearing footsteps at the foot of the stairs, she realizes with a disappointed pang that Cosette and Geoffrey are back, and her time alone with Sam has come to an end.

“I’m up here, guys,” she calls loudly.

To Sam, she says, “Thanks so much for helping me out. Now that they’re back, I can release you from manual labor duty.”

“Oh, it was no problem.” He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing to rush home to.”

Something in his tone makes her wish she could see his face more clearly, but there isn’t enough light spilling in from the room down the hall.

She wonders why his marriage ended, and where his kids are. They must live with his ex-wife. But she must be here in town or at least nearby, if his son plays on his soccer team.

“I guess they’re not coming up,” Sam says after a moment, and she realizes Cosette and Geoffrey have yet to materialize—or speak.

All is silent below now; she can’t hear them uttering a peep of complaint about the errands, or the rain, or the heat—which is unlike either of them.

“Guys! We’re up here,” she calls, stepping into the hall, then poising to listen.

Not a sound from below.

Frowning, Meg walks into the front bedroom and peers down at the street. Geoffrey’s Prius is nowhere to be seen.

Goose bumps raise the hair on her arms. If Geoffrey and Cosette weren’t downstairs… who was? She didn’t imagine the footsteps.

Did she?

Sam seemed to have heard them, too.

And what about that slamming sound that drew them up here in the first place? What caused—

Hearing a floorboard creak behind her, she cries out and whirls around.

“Shh, it’s only me!” Sam grabs her arms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs.

Her heart is racing wildly.

Because he startled her?

Or because he’s practically hugging her?

His big, reassuring hands are warm, firm on her shoulders. His handsome face—with that tantalizing mouth—is mere inches from her own.

She hasn’t been this close to any man in ages. Over six months.

That’s why her body is reacting to him this way: rippling with need.

Or is it simply because she’s never been this close to Sam Rooney? Well, she sure has imagined it. All that buildup coming to unexpected fruition now, on the heels of fear-spiked adrenaline…

Is it any wonder she’s aching for him to pull her closer, heedless of her resolve to stay away from men like him?

“Old houses make noises, Meg,” he’s saying, “you know? You just have to get used to them.”

She nods, vaguely wondering if he’s trying to convince her, or himself.

Wondering whether he’s going to keep holding her, or let go.

Don’t let go, Sam. Not yet.

“You can’t let this scare you away.”

She nods.

You’re not scaring me, Sam. I’ve been waiting for this for longer than you can imagine.

“The power of suggestion can do strange things to a person, you know?” Sam tells Meg, who is looking up at him with those big eyes of hers: eyes that are the same translucent green of sunlit seawater on a warm afternoon.

“Mmm-hmm.”

He should let go of her. He is well aware of that fact.

But there seems to be a vast chasm between knowing it and doing it.

How long has it been since he’s been this close to a woman?

You know damn well how long.

Sheryl…

He waits to experience some sense of disloyalty to his late wife; oddly, there is none.

Still… he shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be holding her. Because if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to do something they’ll both regret.

Okay, maybe
regret
is the wrong word—because he can’t imagine regretting kissing a desirable woman.

But that would establish a romantic relationship between them right off the bat, and they’re going to have to live next door to each other for years to come…

Unless, of course, she hightails it out of here just as all the previous occupants have.

Which, Sam assures himself despite a pang, would be fine with him. Because he definitely isn’t interested in a relationship. He’s learned his lesson the hardest way possible: when you love, you lose. When you lose…

You’re shattered.

Pulling himself together emotionally—though still mysteriously unable to release his physical hold on her—he picks up his conversational thread. “So you do understand that your mind can play tricks on you, especially in an old house, in the dark?”

She says nothing, just looks up at him. In the yellow glow from the dismal bulb overhead, he can see that she’s wearing a faraway expression that seems somehow to encompass him.

“Meg?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you… uh,
hearing
me?”

“What? Yes!”

“You just seem like you’re a million miles away…”
And taking me there along with you.

She shakes her head a little. “I’m sorry. It’s just a little overwhelming, being back here with you.”

“
Me?
”

“What?”

“Did you say back here with me?”

“Oh. I didn’t mean…” She looks momentarily flustered. “I don’t know what I meant. Forget it.”

He tries. But something shifts, then settles, inside him.

So she’s feeling it, too. Whatever it is that he’s experiencing, being so close to her—it’s not one-sided. He’s certain of that.

It isn’t so much what she said, because she didn’t really
say
anything other than to add that seemingly innocuous “with you.”

But the emphasis on the “you” strangely seems to hint that there might have been something between them in the past.

And there definitely wasn’t. He’d remember that.

“You must think I’m crazy.”

“Crazy?” He looks at her. “Why would I think that?”

“A single mom with no real income, leaving behind a whole life and buying a rundown old house in my hometown, trying to duplicate this ideal childhood for my daughter… hell,
I
think I’m crazy. I’ve never even owned a car in my life until last week. How did I get myself into this?”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“You really think so?”

No. I think you’ll get carried away thinking this place really is haunted. Especially since you grew up here and knew all the rumors before you ever moved in.

So you’ll get spooked, and you’ll take off. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. You’ll take your daughter and go back to the city where it’s safe.

And when that happens, I’ll miss you.

Huh?

Where did
that
come from?

How can you miss someone you don’t even know?

“Listen to me,” she says with a taut laugh. “Have you ever met a bigger wimp in your life? One day into my famous fresh start, and I’m already questioning everything about it.”

“I don’t think you’re a wimp. I think the opposite about you. Most people don’t have the guts to pick up and make huge changes when they aren’t satisfied with their lives.”

He realizes that her head is bent, and she’s no longer looking at him…

Then he realizes why.

It’s because he’s…

He’s…

He’s half-stroking, half-massaging, her bare arms!

Mindlessly. Instinctively.

The way a man would touch a woman with whom he was physically involved.

“Sorry.” Mortified, he releases his grip abruptly. “I don’t know why I—”

“No!”

He looks at her in surprise. “No?”

It’s Meg’s turn to look embarrassed. “I mean, you don’t have to…”

She looks flushed.

Hmm.

Is it the heat and humidity, or something else?

He doesn’t have to… what?

Is she trying to say that he doesn’t have to move his hands; that she wants him to go on touching her that way?

Maybe. He can’t figure out how to get her to say it, though, now that she’s stopped talking and started fidgeting uncomfortably, glancing everywhere but at him.

There’s not much else to look at in this empty room, and it doesn’t take long for her to reluctantly meet his gaze again.

“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively.

“Not really. I mean, in general, I am, but right this minute? I’m kind of… mortified.”

“That’s a coincidence,” he says, “because so am I.”

She laughs.

He relaxes a little. “I don’t usually go around grabbing strange women and rubbing their arms. Just so you know.”

“There’s another coincidence,” she returns easily, “because I don’t usually go around letting strange men grab me and rub my arms. Just so
you
know.”

He nods. “Glad to hear it.”

“Then again…”

“Yes?”

“Technically, we’re not strangers. At least, you aren’t to me.”

“So you’ve said. But I can’t believe I never noticed you back in high school.”

“I can’t either. You must have been blind.”

He’s startled; superciliousness seems out of character for her. Then he sees that she didn’t mean it that way—she’s grinning.

“Not because I was drop-dead gorgeous,” she clarifies, “because I
so
wasn’t…”

He finds that hard to believe.

“What I mean is, you must have been blind not to notice me because I constantly detoured past your locker, rode my bike past your house, found reasons to be wherever you were. I threw myself into your path every chance I got, hoping you’d fall madly in love with me.”

His jaw drops.

“I can’t believe I just admitted that,” Meg says, “but what the hell? It was so long ago, and it’s really kind of funny. In a humiliating way. Basically, you had your very own personal stalker, and you were oblivious.”

“So you…?” He shakes his head.

“Yup. I used to have a crush on you, back in school. And just now, when you were… you know… touching me… I mean, for a second there, I felt like I was back there again. A kid with a crush.” She laughs awkwardly. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”

Ridiculous? Is it?

No.

It’s charming, and flattering, and intriguing. That’s what it is.

But not ridiculous.

And, touching her, he felt like anything but an insecure kid. He felt like a man who hasn’t been with a woman in much too long.

“So now,” Meg says in a brisk, case-closed tone, “you know my secret.”

“Right. I just don’t get why you didn’t ever just come up to me and talk to me?”

She looks at him as though he’s just asked her why she never marched naked onto the football field with the band at halftime, carrying an I LOVE SAM ROONEY banner.

“I was shy,” she says with a shrug.

He tilts his head, intrigued. “I thought you were a performer.”

“That’s different.” She tilts her head in the opposite direction. Flirting.

“So you’re saying you can sing onstage in front of thousands of people, but you can’t make the first move with a guy you like?”

“Oh, I can now,” she clarifies. “I just couldn’t back then.”

“Really.” He finds himself folding his arms across his chest.

“Really.” She mimics the posture.

“So these days, you don’t ride your bike around lower Manhattan, hoping to catch a glimpse of your latest Wall Street crush? You actually make a move on him?”

“If I
had
a Wall Street crush, which I wouldn’t—”

“Because?”

“Not my type.”

He wonders if high school physics teachers could possibly be her type.

“And anyway,” she goes on, “I’m on a permanent hiatus from stuff like that.”

“Stuff like… flirting? Dating?”

“Right. All of it,” she says firmly.

He can’t help but wonder what happened to make her say that.

“But if you weren’t on… hiatus… you’d just go right up to someone and let him know you were into him?”

“Yup.”

“What would you say?”

“It’s not what I would say. It’s how I would act. Body language.”

Whoa, it’s getting steamy in here.

He should go.

No, he should stay.

He should definitely stay.

“Okay, then let’s see,” he challenges her.

“See what?”

“What you would do now, if you were into someone, and I was the person you were into.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. Go for it.”

Okay, what the hell are you doing, here?

I’m flirting. And frankly, I’m surprised I remember how.

Well, now that you’ve refreshed your memory, you need to stop.

And go.