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He let out a short laugh. “He’s tiny and orange. And lemme tell ya, when I say tiny, I mean miniscule. He fits in the palm of my hand.”
“Aww.” She stroked Snowy and imagined ginormous Sam cradling a baby kitty. Her heart squeezed. Big, strong men cuddling babies and kittens should be outlawed. The mere thought made women by turns horny and foolish.
“I bet you want to come see him.”
“I do.” And you, she added silently.
“The guy at the shelter told me Junior’d be a chick magnet. Wasn’t sure if he was right. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.”
“He is. Chicks love orange kittens.”
“And big bald guys?”
“That’s a given.” She cleared her throat as the silence dragged. Flirting with him might be fun, if they could ever figure out how to coordinate it to avoid the awkward pauses. “So, ah, I read more of the letters.”
“Did you call to refer me to a shrink? Because if you did, too late. I had one and I think I fired him.”
She laughed again and gripped the phone more tightly. The receiver was damp. Nope, she wasn’t nervous. Not at all. “I was okay, more or less, until I got to the letters you wrote to your daughters. Then I turned into a blubbering mess who had to weep her heart out in the shower.”
His long pause made her wonder if she’d said too much. As usual. “Sounds like I owe you some happier letters then, to balance.”
What did that mean? Had he written happier letters along the way? Or would he write one for her?
Shit, that freaked her out. It wouldn’t be a love letter. Maybe he’d talk about the teams they liked. Or something. A letter seemed so much more personal than a quick text or a haphazard email with more abbreviations than actual words.
Sam didn’t write like that. Even his work emails to her after two years were formal. He didn’t play fast and loose with the rules of etiquette—or the English language.
Rory swallowed and closed her eyes. Be cool. “You don’t owe me anything. I like reading them. Well, maybe like isn’t not the right word. They’re…compelling.”
“Like must see TV?” he asked drily.
“No. Like something that breaks your heart and mends it at the same time. If that makes any sense,” she added, feeling stupid. She wasn’t a poet so why was she even trying to explain herself?
“It makes a ton of sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. They did that for me when I was writing them. Though it probably doesn’t seem that way to you, they were cathartic. After a while some of the stuff I got out on the page stayed out of my head.”
“You suffered a lot of grief.”
“I did. I also caused a lot.”
“You’re a good man, Sam,” she said, voice trembling, hoping he understood how much she meant that. It wasn’t just empty praise. He, of all people, had shown her through his example exactly how powerful words could be.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Why?” This was why she rarely showed emotion. It never came out right. People thought she was drunk or patronizing them. Not that Sam had said as much but she could only imagine what he was thinking to ask a question like that when she was perfectly sober.
Okay, mostly sober.
“Because you have this little lisp going. It’s kind of…”
“What?” she asked, affronted.
“Sexy.”
“Oh.” She hiccupped at the absolute worst time, slapping a hand over her mouth amidst his low laughter. “In that case, maybe I’ve been drinking a small amount. Just a couple glasses of wine. It helps take off the edge when I’m reading.”
