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“I know you think I’m loose but I haven’t had that many lovers. We haven’t even slept together, not really, and now we won’t. I shouldn’t have gone with him back to his apartment the day I hit his car.” Rory leaned forward and dropped her elbows to the desk so she could bury her face in her hands. “I don’t know why I did.”
“You fell in love with him before you ever laid eyes on him.”
Rory lifted her head slowly, sure she’d heard her aunt wrong. “What?”
“Do you remember how often you emailed his latest billboard to me, practically falling all over yourself? Almost every one of them ended up starred in my inbox. Women want to believe in love and Sam Miller gives good romance.” She made a disgusted sound in her throat. “Most men nowadays would mi
ss their dog longer than their wife. He’s unique. And worth fighting for, if you ask me. Not that you did. Not that you ever ask your old, dried-up Aunt Pam for anything.” She pushed to her feet and slapped the paper she’d been clutching faceup on Rory’s desk. “Maybe this will give you something to think about.” She left before Rory could respond.
If she’d even been able to.
With an unsteady breath, Rory reached for the piece of paper. It was an email, addressed to “Whom It May Concern” and sent about thirty minutes earlier. The return address was MillerLt.
He hadn’t emailed her. She’d always been his contact but he’d just sent it to the main email address on the site. Already he was cutting off contact.
Her tears had turned into a headache that hammered between her eyes. But she ignored it and forced herself to read what he’d written. Her stomach caught and turned over as the meaning sank into her tired brain. Then she picked up the paper, folded it carefully and placed it in her top drawer.
She had work to do.
* * * * *
Buying a bed wasn’t as easy as Sam expected. His old one at the house had been okay but maybe they’d started making them shorter or something because he felt too long for all of them. His current mattress didn’t count. He hadn’t bought that one for comfort—or permanence. It had been a stopgap measure that lasted a couple years.
Then there was the firmness issue. He didn’t want soft and fluffy. With the kind of workouts he did, he needed support. But none of the beds he tried out felt right.
“Sir, have you considered specially ordering a bed?”
Sam stared glumly at his hands. Since when had he turned into such a persnickety shopper?
Purchasing a new bed didn’t mean anything except he’d grown tired of backaches and lumbering up from the floor every morning. He certainly wasn’t considering the comfort of a woman he didn’t have in his life.
Thanks to your big mouth.
Sam cleared his throat. “Those are really expensive, right?”
“Not necessarily. Two to three thousand should—”
“Yeah, no. My budget doesn’t extend that far.” Sam jerked to his feet and motioned to the last row of beds left to try at Mattress-O-Rama. “Let’s give these a shot.”
With renewed determination, he tested the rest of the beds. And less than an hour later, he walked out as the proud owner of an ultrafirm California king with a complimentary bedframe and free pillows.
That might’ve cheered him some if he hadn’t gotten home and measured the space he’d allotted for the bed. He’d overestimated how much room he had. Significantly. With his new purchase, his bedroom would pretty much be all bed.
Not that that was sending any sort of signal or anything.
He went into the kitchen and grabbed a cold beer then headed back into his room and picked up the package of sheets he’d bought. Spice red in some sort of fancy cotton. Women liked red usually. More than puke-brown anyway.
The bed would be delivered next Wednesday. Until then he intended to keep busy so he didn’t notice what he wasn’t doing that he usually was at this time. He glanced at the silent phone. Yep, he barely remembered.
His fingers itched with the urge to call her but he held back. That would happen soon enough. Tonight he’d beat the hell out of his bag, take a cold shower and zone out with a book he’d dug out from the back of his bookcase. It was a self-help book and most likely full of shit but he had nothing better to do.
“Great attitude, Miller,” he muttered, heading into the bathroom. But when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was smiling.
It felt good to do something. To take a step forward on his own. Rory had given him a shove but he’d needed it.
Just like he had a strong suspicion he needed her.
Ninety minutes later, he’d done his workout and showered and was sprawled on his bed staring at page one of Moving Past Grief: A Survivor’s Story. His mother had bought him this book, along with several others tucked away in his bookshelf. The first paragraph wasn’t bad. Only ten million paragraphs left.
