She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. As soon as she’d realized she was braless, her nipples had sprung to attention as if to yell “over here, look at us.” Not something she wanted Sam to notice in a million years.
“Why did you do it? This crazy situation is your fault.”
He frowned. “You weren’t exactly convincing as the levelheaded, responsible parent. You were about to dive across the table and take out the grandma.”
“She deserved it.” Julia popped out of her chair and grabbed a fleece sweatshirt from a hook near the hallway, trying not to let her belly show as she pulled it over her head. “But I didn’t need to be rescued. Especially not by Three Strikes Sam.” She sat back in her chair and picked up the pizza. “We’re quite a pair. Do you really think anyone is going to believe you’re engaged, given your reputation?”
“What reputation, and who is Three Strikes Sam?”
She finished her bite. “You don’t know? Brevia is a small town. But we’ve got more than our share of single ladies. Apparently the long line of women you’ve dated since you arrived has banded together. The story is that you don’t go on more than three dates with one woman. You’ve got your own fan club here in town. The ladies blog, tweet and keep track of you on Facebook. They call you Three Strikes Sam.”
Sam felt as though he’d been kneed in the family jewels. Never mind the social-media insanity, what shocked him more was that Julia acted as if she knew the details of his dating history. That possibility was fright-night scary.
“You’re making it up.”
“I’m not that creative. You can log on to my computer and see for yourself. I only found out a couple of weeks ago, when Jean Hawkins was in the salon.”
Sam swallowed hard. Jean was the dispatcher for the county sheriff’s office. They’d had a couple of casual dinners last month but had agreed not to take it further. Or so he’d thought.
“She got a blowout and a bang trim. A ‘wash that man right out of her hair’ afternoon.” Julia wrinkled her pert nose. “You know how it is—stylists are like therapists for some people. Get a woman in the chair and she has to spill her secrets.”
“And she told you about this fan club?”
Julia nodded and took a drink of beer. “Three seems to be the magic number for you. You’re a serial get-to-know-you dater.”
Sam pushed away from the table and paced to the end of the narrow living room. “That’s ridiculous.” He ran a hand through his hair. “There’s no arbitrary limit on the number of dates I’ll go on with one woman.”
“A dozen ladies claim there is,” she countered. “They say you’ve more than made the rounds.”
“I haven’t dated a dozen ladies in Brevia. Besides, why would anyone gossip about dating me?”
“You’ve been in Brevia long enough to know how it works.” She laughed, but he found no humor in the situation. Sure, he’d been on dates with a few different women. When he’d first come to town, it had sort of happened that way. He’d always been a gentleman. If things led to the bedroom he didn’t complain, but he also didn’t push it. No one had grumbled at the time.
He wasn’t a serial dater. The way she said it made him sound like a scumbag. So what if he was a little gun-shy? Walking in on your fiancée with her legs wrapped around another guy would do that to a man. It had been almost three years now since he’d had his heart crushed, and he wasn’t itching to repeat that particular form of hell. “You’re telling me I’m a joke with these women because I’m not in a relationship?” His voice started to rise. “In case they haven’t noticed, I have a serious job. One that’s more important to me than my damned social life.”
“It’s not like that,” she said quickly, reaching out to place her cool fingers on his arm. A light touch that was oddly comforting. “No one is laughing at you. It’s more like a challenge. Scary as it may sound, you have a town full of women who are determined to see you settle down. According to my sources, you’re quite the catch.”
He dropped back into the chair. “I came to Brevia because I wanted a fresh start.”
“As Mick Jagger would say, ‘you can’t always get what you want.’”
“You think this fake engagement is what I need?”
“It was your idea to start. Plus, it’s quieted the gossips, and your dad seemed to approve.”
He nodded and took a long drink of beer. “My father loved you.”
“Who can blame him?” she asked with a hair toss.
Sam smiled despite himself. “He wants to help me tap into my emotions.”
She studied him as she took another bite. “Is that so bad?”
“I don’t need to be more emotional.”
“Your fans beg to differ.”
“Don’t remind me,” he muttered.
A tiny cry came from the corner of the table and Julia adjusted a baby monitor. “I’m going to check on him.” She padded down the hall, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts. Something he didn’t need right now.
He preferred his emotions tightly bottled. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have feelings. Hell, he’d felt awful after calling off his engagement. He would have made a decent husband: loyal, faithful...
Maybe those were better attributes in a family pet, but he managed okay.
In Sam’s opinion, there was no use wearing his heart on his sleeve. The scraps of memory he had from the months after his mother died were awful, his dad too often passed out drunk on the couch. Neighbors shuttling Sam and his brother to school and a steady diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When Joe finally got a handle on his emotions, it had saved their family.
Sam would never risk caring for someone like that. Feeling too much, connecting to the feelings he’d locked up tight, might spiral him back into that uncontrolled chaos.
He looked around the apartment, taking in more details with Julia out of the room. The dining area opened directly onto the living room, which was filled with comfortable, oversized furniture covered in a creamy fabric. Several fuzzy blankets fell over the arm of one chair. A wicker box overflowed with various toys, most of which looked far more complex than he remembered from childhood.
In addition to the classical CDs, framed pictures of Charlie with Julia, Vera, Lainey and Ethan sat on the bookshelves. Sam had also noticed an impressive collection of books—several classics by Hemingway, Dickens, even Ayn Rand. For someone who clearly didn’t see her own intelligence, Julia had sophisticated taste in reading material.
The baby monitor crackled, drawing his attention. He heard Julia’s voice through the static. “Did you have a dream, Charlie-boy?” she cooed. “Can Mommy sing you back to sleep?”
Charlie gave another sleepy cry as an answer and a moment later Sam heard a familiar James Taylor song in a soft soprano.
He
