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He looked a little startled by her expression. “I just meant—”
Riley turned to face him, eyes furious. “I don’t sell sex. I write about it. There’s a big difference.”
“You know what I meant, Ri.”
“Obviously not,” she said, taking a step forward.
His eyes went wary, and he took a tiny step backward. Smart man.
She hadn’t felt the need to defend her job in years. She figured the people who couldn’t handle it were either prudes or recently blue-balled.
Somehow she didn’t think Sam was either one of those.
“You know, you’re right, Sam. Maybe I should stop selling sex. Maybe I should go stir grain liquor around in a garage, and then refuse to share it with anyone, much less sell it. Maybe live in a perpetual state of it’s not ready?”
His gaze darkened, as their conversation quickly went from casual sparring to heated anger. It inevitably did with them. They’d scratch back and forth, inflicting light surface wounds, until someone swiped too hard and drew blood. Then the other bit back, and, well …
“You don’t know anything about it, Riley.”
“Nobody does,” she muttered, turning back to the house.
When Sam had announced that he was starting his own distillery a few years prior, the McKenna family had done nothing but support him. Unlike his own mother, who’d done nothing but tear him down.
But what had the McKennas gotten for their support and hope for him to succeed?
Stonewalled. That’s what. Other than Liam, and save for one surprise “door-opening” celebration, none of the other McKennas had ever been invited out to the distillery, and not for a lack of fishing for an invitation.
Sam kept saying he was just tweaking it to get it right for tasting, but Riley knew better. The man was scared to death of failing. She knew it because she knew him. Years of covertly stalking a man had its benefits.
“What were you and your mom talking about?” he said, following her toward the front door. “Looked like I walked in on something awkward.”
“Nice subject change,” she said, using her toe to open the front door she’d left cracked. “And it was awkward. My mom wanted to know if my most recent BDSM article was based on personal experience.”
Sam whistled. “Whew. Go Erin.”
“Speaking of mothers, how’s yours?”
His easy smile vanished. “Fine.”
Riley tilted her head and gave him a look. “Don’t fine me. I know you.”
He rolled his shoulders. “Okay. She’s nasty and mean and still hates my guts. Good enough?”
“Sam—” She set a hand on his arm, but he jerked back.
“Drop it, Ri.”
Riley saw the pain in his eyes and was desperate to hug him, but she knew better. He wouldn’t push her away, but the emotional wall he had around himself would grow even thicker.
Instead she forced a smile and returned them to safer territory. “Aren’t you going to ask?”
His brow furrowed, his expression still wary. “Ask what?”
“About the spanking. If it’s based on personal experience.”
To her surprise and dismay, he laughed. “God no. I don’t need to ask.”
It was her turn to frown. “Because you don’t care one way or another?”
