Rainshadow Road

Eighteen

Sam stared at her for so long, and with such a flabbergasted expression, that Lucy began to feel somewhat indignant.

“You look like you just swallowed one of Renfield’s heartworm pills,” she said.

Tearing his gaze away, Sam raked a hand through his hair, leaving some of the dark brown locks standing on end. He began to pace around the room, each step infused with agitation. “Today’s not a good day to joke about that stuff.”

“Dog medication?”

“Sex.” He said the word as if it was a profanity.

“I wasn’t joking.”

“We can’t have sex.”

“Why not?”

“You know the reasons.”

“Those reasons don’t apply now,” Lucy said earnestly. “Because I’ve thought about it, and … please stop moving around. Will you sit next to me?”

Warily Sam approached and sat on the coffee table, facing her. Bracing his forearms on his spread knees, he gave her a level stare.

“I know your rules,” Lucy said. “No commitment. No jealousy. No future. The only things we exchange are body fluids, not feelings.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Those are the rules. And I’m not doing any of that with you.”

Lucy frowned. “You told me not long ago that if I wanted to have revenge sex, you would do it with me.”

“I had no intention of going through with it. You’re not the kind of woman who can do friends-with-benefits.”

“I am, too.”

“You’re so not, Lucy.” Sam stood and began to pace again. “At the beginning you’ll say you’re fine with casual sex. But that won’t last for long.”

“What if I promise not to get serious?”

“You will anyway.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because my kind of relationship only works when both people are equally shallow. I’m great at shallow. But you would throw the whole thing off balance.”

“Sam. I’ve had bad luck with relationships. Believe me, there is no man on earth I couldn’t live without, including you. But this morning when we were upstairs together … it was the best feeling I’ve had in a long time. And if I’m willing to try things your way, I don’t see why you should have a problem with it.”

Sam had stopped in the middle of the room. He stared at her with baffled annoyance, having clearly run out of arguments.

“No,” he eventually said.

Her brows lifted. “Is that a definitive no, or an I’m-thinking-about-it no?”

“It’s a no-way-in-hell no.”

“But you’ll still have dinner with my parents and me tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Lucy shook her head, dumbfounded. “You’ll have dinner with me and my parents, but you won’t have sex with me?”

“I have to eat,” he said.

* * *

“There’s a simple rule for managing stairs on crutches,” Sam said later in the day, staying close behind Lucy as she approached the front steps of the house. “Up with the good, down with the bad. When you’re going up, always lead with the healthy leg. When you’re going down, lead with the bad leg and the crutches.”

They had just returned from the doctor’s office, where Lucy had been fitted with an Aircast brace. Having never needed to use crutches before, Lucy was discovering they were much more difficult than she had assumed.

“Try not to put any weight on your right leg,” Sam said, watching Lucy’s wobbly progress along the path. “Just swing it through and take a hop with your left.”

“How do you know so much about it?” Lucy asked, puffing with effort.

“I fractured an ankle when I was sixteen. Sports injury.”

“Football?”

“Bird-watching.”

Lucy chuckled. “Bird-watching is not a sport.”

“I was twenty feet up a Douglas fir, trying to get a view of a marbled murrelet. An endangered species that nests in old-growth forests. Naturally I was climbing without rigging. I caught sight of the murrelet chick and got so excited I slipped and fell, hitting just about every branch on the way down.”

“Poor thing,” Lucy said. “But I bet you thought it was worth it.”

“Of course it was.” He watched as she hopped forward on the crutches. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way. You can practice later.”

“No, I can do the stairs. It’s a relief to be moving around again. This means I can go to my studio tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow or the next day,” Sam said. “Don’t push too hard, or you’ll reinjure that leg.”

Lucy’s smile turned quizzical. His mood was difficult to interpret. Ever since her proposition, he’d been back to treating her with the impersonal friendliness of the first two days at Rainshadow Road. But it wasn’t precisely the same. At certain moments she had caught him glancing at her in a way that was both preoccupied and intimate, and she knew somehow that he was thinking about what had happened—or almost happened—between them that morning. And he was thinking about her claim that she would be fine with a no-strings affair. She knew that even though he hadn’t believed her, he wanted to.

By the time Lucy had made it into the house, she was sweaty and tired, but triumphant. She accompanied Sam to the kitchen, where Holly was having an after-school snack and Mark sat on the floor with Renfield.

“You’re upright,” Mark said, glancing at Lucy with a brief smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she said with a laugh. “It’s good to be moving around again.”

“Lucy!” Holly hurried over to admire the crutches. “Those are cool! Can I try them?”

“They’re not for playing, sweetheart,” Sam said, bending to kiss his niece. He helped Lucy onto a stool at the wooden worktable, and leaned the crutches next to her. He glanced at Mark, who had pinned Renfield to the floor and was attempting to open his mouth while wearing a pair of heavy-duty gardening gloves. “What are you doing with the dog?”

“I’m trying to give him his third antiseizure pill.”

“He’s only supposed to have one.”

“What I meant was, we’re on the third attempt.” Mark scowled at the stubborn bulldog. “He chewed up the first one and sneezed the powder into my face. The second time I pried his mouth open with a dessert spoon and shoved the pill in. He managed to spit out the pill and eat the spoon.”

“He didn’t really eat the spoon, though,” Holly said. “He coughed it up before it went down.”

Shaking his head, Sam went to the refrigerator, took out a piece of cheese, and handed it to Mark. “Hide the pill in this.”

“He’s lactose intolerant,” Mark said. “It gives him gas.”

“Trust me,” Sam replied, “no one will notice.”

Looking skeptical, Mark shoved the capsule into the cube of cheese, and offered it to Renfield.

The bulldog gobbled down the cheese and plodded out of the kitchen.

“Guess what?” Holly asked Lucy, crouching on the floor to inspect her Aircast brace. “Dad and Maggie are getting married in two months. And I’m going on the honeymoon with them!”

“You finally set the date?” Sam asked Mark.

“We’re doing it in mid-August.” Mark went to the sink to wash his hands. “Maggie wants to get married on a ferry.”

“You’re kidding,” Sam said.

“Nope.” Mark blotted his hands. Turning around, he told Lucy, “A significant portion of our courtship occurred on the Washington State ferry system. It forced Maggie to sit with me until she finally realized how magnetically attractive I was.”

“Must have been a long ride,” Sam said, and ducked a fake jab Mark threw at him. Laughing, he added, “I can’t believe they’ll let you have a wedding ceremony on one of those tubs.”

“Believe it or not, we wouldn’t be the first. But the ceremony won’t be on an active ferry—there’s a retired antique one on Lake Union, with a great view of the city and the Space Needle.”

“That’s romantic,” Lucy said.

“I’m going to be the maid of honor,” Holly said, “and Uncle Sam’s going to be the best man.”

“I am?” Sam asked.

“Who else has such ample story material for the reception speech?” Mark asked. He grinned at his brother. “Will you be my best man, Sam? After all we’ve been through, there’s not even a close second. I actually almost like you.”

“I’ll do it,” Sam said. “But only if you promise to take the dog when you move out.”

“Deal.” They exchanged a brief, back-slapping hug.

As evening approached, Mark and Holly left to pick up Maggie from work and take her out to dinner. “Have fun,” Mark said as he and Holly walked out hand in hand. “Don’t wait up for us, we’re going to be out late.”

“Par-tay!” Holly exclaimed before the door closed.

Lucy and Sam were left alone. Sam kept staring in the direction his brother had gone in, absorbed in some private reflection. Then he glanced at Lucy, and something changed in his face. The silence turned electric.

Sitting on a stool at the kitchen worktable, Lucy asked casually, “What are we having for dinner?”

“Steak, potatoes, and salad.”

“That sounds great. Let me help. Can I chop vegetables for the salad?”

Sam brought a cutting board, a chef’s knife, and raw vegetables and greens. As Lucy chopped cucumber and yellow bell peppers, Sam opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

“No jam jar?” Lucy asked with a faux-wistful expression as Sam gave her a crystal stem filled with dark, glittering Cabernet.

“Not for this wine.” He clinked his glass with hers and made a toast. “To Mark and Maggie.”

“Do you think Alex will mind that you’re going to be the best man?” Lucy asked.

“Not at all. They don’t typically have much to do with each other.”

“Is that because of the age difference?”

“Maybe in part. But it’s really more of a personality issue. Mark’s the typical older brother. When he gets worried about someone, he gets bossy and overbearing, which sends Alex up the wall.”

“What do you say to them when they argue?”

“When I’m not running for cover, you mean?” Sam asked dryly. “I tell Mark that he’s not going to change Alex or stop him from drinking. That’s up to Alex. And I’ve told Alex that at some point, I’m going to drag his ass to rehab. Not the kind of rehab with celebrities and spa treatments. The kind with an electrified fence, where they give you a scary roommate and make you clean your own toilet.”

“Do you think it would ever get to that point? Where you could convince him to … get help somewhere?”

Sam shook his head. “I think Alex will stay functional enough to avoid ever having to deal with it.” He studied the depths of his wineglass, swirled the deep garnet liquid. “He won’t admit it, but he’s angry at the whole damn world because our family was such a screw job.”

“But you don’t seem to feel that way,” Lucy said quietly. “Angry at the world, I mean.”

Sam shrugged, his gaze turning inward. “I had it a little easier than he did. There was this old couple who lived a couple of houses away from us. They were my escape. They had no kids of their own, and I used to go hang out at their house.” He smiled reminiscently. “Fred would let me take apart an old alarm clock and put it back together again, or show me how to replace the kitchen sink drain pipes. Mary was a teacher. She gave me books to read, helped me with homework sometimes.”

“Are either of them still alive?”

“No, both gone. Mary left me some money to use as part of the down payment for this place. She loved the idea of the vineyard. She used to make blackberry wine in a gallon jug. Godawful sweet stuff.” Sam fell silent, his expression hazed with memories.

Lucy realized that he was trying to make connections for her, explain himself in a way that wasn’t easy. He wasn’t the kind of man who made excuses or apologized for who he was. But on some level he wanted her to understand the person who had been formed by the bitter implosion of his parents’ relationship.

“On my twelfth birthday,” Sam said after a while, “I came home after school and Vick had taken Alex somewhere, and Mark had disappeared. My mother was passed out on the sofa. Dad was drinking something straight from the bottle. Around dinnertime I started to get hungry, but there was nothing to eat. I went to look for Dad, and finally found him sitting in his car in the driveway, shouting some crap about suicide. So I went to Fred and Mary’s house, and stayed for about three days.”

“They must have meant a lot to you.”

“They saved my life.”

“Did you ever tell them that?”

“No. They knew.” Recalling himself to the present, Sam leveled a wary glance at Lucy. She knew that he’d told her more than he had meant to, and he wasn’t certain why, and he regretted it. “Back in a minute,” he said, and went to set the steaks on an outside grill at the back of the house.

* * *

As the steaks cooked on the grill, and a pan of red potatoes roasted in the oven, Lucy told Sam about her parents, and the recent discovery that her father had been married once before he’d married her mother.

“Are you going to ask him about it?”

“I’m curious,” Lucy admitted, “but I’m not sure I want to hear the answers. I know that he loves Mom. But I don’t want him to tell me that he loved someone else more than her.” She traced her fingers over the scarred surface of the worktable. “Dad’s always been distant from the rest of us. Reserved. I think his first wife kept a piece of his heart that he couldn’t give to anyone else after she died. I think he was permanently damaged, but Mom wanted him anyway.”

“Must be hard to compete with someone’s memory,” Sam said.

“Yes. Poor Mom.” Lucy grimaced. “I’m sorry you’ll have to meet them. It’s not fair to you. Waiting on me hand and foot, then having to suffer through a visit from my parents.”

“No problem.”

“You’ll probably like Dad. He tells physics jokes that no one ever gets.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘Why did the chicken cross the road? Because a chicken at rest tends to stay at rest. Chickens in motion tend to cross the road.’” Lucy rolled her eyes as he laughed. “I knew you’d think it was funny. Where do you think we should go for dinner?”

“Duck Soup,” Sam said. It was one of the best restaurants on the island, a vine-covered inn featuring local produce and items from its own kitchen garden, and freshly caught seafood. A whimsical portrait of Groucho Marx hung in the entrance foyer.

“I love that place,” Lucy said. “But Kevin and I had dinner with them there once before.”

“Why does that matter?”

Lucy shrugged, not quite certain why she’d mentioned it.

Sam looked at her steadily. “I’m not worried about being compared to Kevin.”

Lucy felt her color rise. “I wasn’t thinking that,” she said irritably.

After pouring more wine, Sam lifted his glass and said, “Time wounds all heels.”

Lucy brought herself to smile, recognizing the quote by Groucho Marx. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, and raised her own glass.

Over dinner they discussed movies, discovering a shared liking for old black-and-white films. When Lucy confessed that she had never seen The Philadelphia Story with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, Sam insisted that she had to watch it. “It’s a classic screwball comedy. You can’t say you like old movies without having seen it.”

“It’s too bad we can’t watch it tonight,” Lucy said.

“Why can’t we?”

“Do you have it on DVD?”

“No, but I can download it.”

“But that’ll take forever.”

Sam looked smug. “I’ve got a download accelerator that maximizes data delivery by initiating several simultaneous connections from multiple servers. Five minutes, tops.”

“At times you hide your inner geek so well,” Lucy marveled. “And then it just appears like a bolt of lightning.”

After dinner they went to the living room to watch the movie. Lucy was immediately taken with the story of the prickly, cold-natured heiress, her debonair ex-husband, and the cynical newspaper reporter played by Jimmy Stewart. The dialogue was filled with elegant quicksilver humor, every pause and reaction perfectly timed.

As the black-and-white images flickered on the screen, Lucy leaned into Sam’s side, half expecting him to object. The relaxed evening together, the tentative confidences, had created a feeling of intimacy that Sam might not want to encourage. But he put his arm around her, and let her head rest against his shoulder. She sighed, relishing the solid warmth of him next to her, the anchoring weight of his arm. As awareness of him gathered in a slow simmer, it was difficult not to touch him, reach for him.

“You’re not watching the movie,” Sam said.

“Neither are you.”

“What are you thinking about?”

In the silence, the movie dialogue floated like champagne froth.

“It can’t be anything like love, could it?”

“No, no, it can’t be.”

“Would it be inconvenient?”

“Terribly.”

“I was thinking,” Lucy said, “that I’ve never tried a relationship where no one makes any promises. I like that rule. Because if you don’t make promises, you can’t break them.”

“There’s another rule I didn’t tell you about.” Sam’s voice was guarded. His breath stirred the hair on top of her head.

“What is it?”

“Know when to stop. When either of us says it’s time to break it off, the other agrees. No arguments, no discussion.”

Lucy was silent, her stomach leaping as he altered his position on the sofa.

Sam turned to face her, his head silhouetted against a background of flickering ghost-images. The low sound of his voice undercut the muted flurry of words and images from the screen behind him. “Of all the people I’ve never wanted to hurt, Lucy … you’re at the top of the list.”

“I think you’re the first man who’s ever worried about that.” Lucy dared to reach out and touch the side of his face, her fingers shaping gently against his cheek. She felt the subtle flex in his jaw, the forceful beat of his pulse against her fingertips. “Let’s take a chance,” she whispered. “You won’t hurt me, Sam. I won’t let you.”

Taking his time, Sam reached for the controller, fumbled with it, and hit the mute button. The movie continued, light and shadow without sound. His mouth found hers in a long, fluent kiss, exchanging heat for heat, taste for taste. One of his hands went to the nape of her neck, massaging blindly. The excitement deepened into something dark and nameless, a feeling that rose in a slow tide from her toes to the top of her head. It was more than desire … it was a craving so absolute that she would have done anything to satisfy it.

Sam took the hem of her shirt and tugged it upward, stripping the knit fabric away from her. His fingers stroked along the elastic straps of her bra, easing them down her shoulders before moving to the clasp at the back. A shiver ran through her as she felt him work at the tiny hooks. Tossing the garment aside, Sam drew his hands along the sides of her rib cage, sliding upward to cup her naked breasts. He bent over her. With diabolical slowness, he took the tip of her breast in his mouth and held it with his teeth, and stroked with his tongue. She had to bite her lips to keep from begging him to take her right then. He began to tug gently, repeatedly, licking between each pull.

Moaning, Lucy clutched at the back of his T-shirt, trying to tear it off, needing the feel of his skin against her. He paused to strip away the garment, and eased her back until she was stretched out on the sofa. Her injured leg was propped up, her other dangling wantonly to the side.

Lowering over her, Sam sealed his mouth against hers, his kisses rough and voluptuous and sweet. She couldn’t find herself in the sudden blaze of sensation, couldn’t control anything. She answered him, letting herself be caught like a falling star, burning from the inside out.

Dimly she heard him murmur that they should stop for a second, they needed to use some kind of protection. She gasped out a few words to make him understand that it wasn’t necessary, she was on the pill to regulate her cycle, and he said he was still going to take her upstairs because their first time shouldn’t be on the sofa. But they kept kissing compulsively, ravenously, and Sam reached down to open her shorts. He yanked them over her hips, taking her underwear with them, the air cool against the blaze of her skin.

Lucy had gone weak with need, wanting him to touch her, kiss her, do anything, but the panties and shorts had caught on the Aircast brace, and he had paused to untangle them. “Leave them,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t stop.” She gave him a red-faced scowl as he persisted in trying to unloop the underwear elastic from the brace clasp. “Sam—”

Her impatience drew a muffled laugh from him. He reached for her, sliding his arm beneath her neck. His mouth came to hers in a searching kiss, licking deep, pausing to tug at her upper lip and then her lower one. “Is this what you want?” he asked, his hand sliding between her shaking thighs. He teased her aching flesh open, caressing with light, voluble circles until she’d gone utterly wet. Her head fell back over his arm, and he kissed her throat and breathed hotly against her skin as he let his fingers enter her.

She writhed and hitched upward awkwardly, her leg encumbered by the brace. He murmured softly against her ear … be still, let him do it, don’t strain … but she couldn’t help lifting into the pleasure.

Gasping, she pulled him closer in a desperate wordless plea for more, her hands groping over the hard-muscled surface of his back. His skin was smooth and tough and silky, the slope of his shoulder so enticing that she dug the crescent of her teeth lightly into the sturdy muscle, a love-bite that made him shudder.

He reached between them to fumble with the fastening of his jeans. She couldn’t move, could only wait helplessly as he pressed into her with a low, heavy slide. She felt herself tighten, relax, tighten again. He went deeper. Inarticulate sounds rose in her throat. There weren’t words for what she needed, for what was happening to her. His hand withdrew and slid up to her breast, damp fingertips clamping gently on the hard peak.

Through the thunder of her heartbeat, she heard him whisper for her to take him, let him inside. As she strained and clung to him, she felt his hand sliding beneath her bottom to angle her higher. He thrust again, the slippery-hot friction making her cry out as if in pain.

Sam froze, looking down at her, his eyes unearthly blue in the shadows. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered.

“No. No…” Flooded with desire, steaming, Lucy gripped his hips, urging him more tightly against her. “Please don’t stop.”

Sam began a deliberate rhythm, making her squirm and arch as if she were on a torture rack.

She rocked upward in silent demand, but there was no altering his slow and relentless pace. The tension coiled, her inner muscles clenching against the delicious invading hardness. His thrusts canted deeper, and she moaned every time he drove inward. It was all too much, the big, driving body over hers, the teasing brush of his chest hair against her nipples, the strong hand urging her hips upward into every measured lunge. She felt the pleasure break into ecstatic spasms. Sam caught her sobs with his mouth, and pushed deep, letting her shuddering body work him, drain him.

For a while, neither of them moved or spoke, only breathed in labored gusts.

Circling her arms around his neck, she kissed his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. “Sam,” she said drowsily, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Thank you.”

“Yes.” He sounded dazed.

“That was amazing.”

“Yes.”

Close to his ear, she added, “And just to make you feel safe … I don’t love you.”

Judging from the rustle of laughter in his chest, that had been the right thing to say. Sam leaned over her, his lips grazing her smiling mouth. “I don’t love you too.”

* * *

When Sam was able to move, he gathered up their discarded clothes and took Lucy upstairs. They lay together on the wide bed, conversation temporarily banked like coals beneath a layer of cool ash.

Sam felt a thrill of unease, as if his body knew he’d made a mistake even though his brain kept coming up with all the reasons why he hadn’t. Lucy was a grown woman, able to make her own decisions. He hadn’t misled her, hadn’t presented himself in any light other than what he was. She seemed happy with the situation, and God knew he was satisfied, replete, in a way he’d never known before.

Maybe that was the problem. It had been too good. It had been different. The question of why it was like this with Lucy was something he should think about. Later.

The outline of her body in the semidarkness was slightly blurred like the penumbra of shadow in a painting. Moonlight from the window brought a faint luminosity to her skin, as if she was a magical creature from a fairy tale. Sam gazed at her in fascination, running his hand along her hip and flank.

“What happens at the end?” Lucy whispered.

“The end of what?”

“The movie. Which guy does Katharine Hepburn marry?”

“I’m not going to spoil it for you.”

“I like spoilers.”

Sam played with her hair, letting rivers of dark silk spill through his fingers. “Tell me what you think happens.”

“I think she ends up with Jimmy Stewart.”

“Why?”

“Well, she and Cary Grant were married once and they got divorced. So it’s doomed.”

Sam smiled at her prosaic tone. “What a little cynic.”

“Marrying someone for the second time never works. Look at Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. Or Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson. And you can’t call me a cynic—you don’t even believe in marrying someone the first time.”

“I believe in it for some people.” He continued to sift his fingers through her hair. “But it’s more romantic not to get married.”

Lucy lifted up on an elbow, looking down at him. “Why do you think that?”

“Without marriage, you’re only together for the good times. The best part of the relationship. And then when it goes bad, you cut loose and move on. No ugly memories, no soul-killing divorce.”

Lucy was silent, considering. “There’s a flaw in your reasoning.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Sam smiled and pulled her beneath him. Bending over her breast, he licked at the stiffening peak and used his thumb to rub in the moisture. Her skin was like pale silk, impossibly smooth against his fingertips. The textures of her body fascinated him, everything soft and yielding and sleek. And the scent of her—flowery, cottony, with the erotic hints of salt and musk—aroused a hot clamor in his blood. He moved over her, dragging his mouth in a slow path along her body, savoring the taste of her. As he moved lower, her limbs trembled beneath his hands. He felt her hands caress his hair, the back of his neck, the touch of her cool fingers making him instantly hard. He followed the feminine scent to where it was deeper, more enticing, and Lucy made an agitated sound, her legs spreading easily.

She whimpered as he nuzzled into the softness between her thighs, licking into the silk and heat, the flavor of her erotic and drugging. He toyed with her, stroking, sucking lightly, until she pushed herself at him with a sob. Catching every throb and pulse, he urged her through sensation into softness, until she was relaxed and still beneath him.

Rising, he covered her with his body and sank into the luscious wet depths, thrusting slowly to savor the feel of her. Her nails slid over his back, a delicate electrifying clawing that provoked him into heavier, deeper drives. The release surged without warning, full-bodied and severe, spreading over every inch of skin from his scalp to the soles of his feet.

Winded and stunned, Sam collapsed to his side when it was over. Lucy snuggled next to him. He closed his eyes, struggling to moderate his breathing. His limbs felt unbelievably heavy. He had known pleasure before, but never with this intensity, this profusion. Exhaustion settled over him, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Just like this … in his own bed … with Lucy beside him.

But that last thought snapped his eyes open.

He never slept with someone after having sex, which was one of the reasons he preferred it to happen at the woman’s place rather than his. Far easier to be the one to leave. On a couple of occasions in the past, Sam had actually gone so far as to load a protesting woman into his car and take her home. The idea of spending an entire night with a woman had always filled him with an aversion bordering on panic.

Forcing himself to leave the bed, he went to take a shower. After putting on a robe, he brought a hot washcloth to the bed and took care of Lucy, and drew the covers up to her shoulders. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured, pressing a brief kiss to her lips.

“Where are you going?”

“The roll-away bed.”

“Stay with me.” Lucy flipped back a corner of the bedclothes invitingly.

Sam shook his head. “I might hurt your leg … roll on it or something…”

“Are you kidding?” A sleepy smile curved her lips. “This brace is indestructible. You could drive your truck over it.”

Sam took a long moment to reply, alarmed by his own desire to actually climb back into bed with her. “I like to sleep alone.”

“Oh.” Lucy’s voice was deliberately casual. “You never spend the night with a woman.”

“No.”

“That’s absolutely fine,” she said.

“Good.” Sam cleared his throat, feeling inept. Oafish. “You know it’s nothing personal, right?”

Her gentle laugh curled through the air. “Good night, Sam. I had a great time. Thank you.”

Sam thought it was probably the first time a woman had ever thanked him for having sex with her. “The pleasure was all mine.” And he went to the other room with the same uneasiness he’d felt before.

Something had changed inside him, and God help him, he didn’t want to know what it was.