Amanda fixes her makeup in the hallway mirror, smoothing her hands over her dress.
I try not to be sick.
A moment later, Samuel is walking into the kitchen, him and David laughing over something as he claps David on the shoulder.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and then his eyes find Amanda.
I can’t look.
I can’t bear to watch his eyes take her in, or her blush under his gaze, or whatever hug or kiss is about to happen as a greeting.
Muttering something unintelligible under my breath, I slip out of the kitchen and into the guest bath, shutting and locking the door behind me.
My hands find the sink, gripping tight, eyes on my reflection as I listen to the muffled voices in the kitchen.
“Let her go,” I plead — with myself, or God, or who knows. “Let her be happy.”
I don’t take another clean breath until I hear the front door open and close, and then I splash my face with cold water, trying and failing to calm my racing heart.
When I make my way back into the living room, David is already kicked back on the couch and flipping through Netflix. His smile slips when he looks at me.
“Damn, dude. You okay? You look a little pale.”
I nod, forcing a smile, and plop down next to him. “All good. We watching a movie?”
“I figured we could at least put one on. I wish I had my Xbox here.” He pauses. “Hey, do you have one at your place? We could go there. I haven’t seen your fancy condo yet.”
I immediately shake my head, and then feel guilty, because I know exactly why I don’t want to leave, and it has nothing to do with David.
“Nah, man. Haven’t played in years. But let’s put on a movie and relax. We deserve it after today.”
“Fair,” he says, raising his brows. “Man, can you believe my mom?” He shakes his head. “Dating when she’s almost fifty. I can’t imagine.”
Then he’s back to surfing through the movies.
And I glance at the front door, wondering how long it will be until she walks back through it.
AMANDA
“And that’s when I see her,” Samuel says, splaying his hands out in front of him with wide eyes like he’s painting the picture. “Second floor, bathroom window, her little hands against the windowpane.”
“Oh, wow,” I comment, taking a long sip of wine. And really, the story of him saving a little girl from a house fire is incredible.
It’s just that it’s maybe the twentieth story of his heroism he’s told tonight, and I’m running low on enthusiasm.
“I immediately raced up the ladder, and no one saw her but me. So, they were all, where are you going?! What are you doing?! But I was on a mission.”
I nod, following along.
“When I get to the top, I have to break the window, so I scream for the little girl to get away from it. As soon as the window’s broken, smoke plumes billow out. I’ve just given more oxygen to the fire, you know? I have no time. So, I just reach in, grab her, throw her over my shoulder, and haul ass back down the ladder.”
He pauses, leaning over the table for emphasis.
“As soon as I got her to the truck… boom!”
He makes a noise so loud the other tables stop their conversations to look at us, and I flush and smile, waving them off with apologies while he carries on.
“The girl’s mom was sobbing, of course. Thanking me and praying for me as I handed her little girl over. But she was safe. They all were. Not a single casualty.”
Samuel’s grin is wide and bright as he finishes his story.
“That’s amazing, Sam. You’re a hero.”
He lights up at that, sitting a little straighter. “I guess I am, huh?” He shakes his head. “Anyway, just a few reasons why they chose me for Mr. January.”
I force a smile. “Sounds like they made the right choice.”
“Thanks, beautiful.”
He leans in again, and I wonder if he’s actually going to ask me something about me. But then, he checks the time on his watch, his eyes heated when they meet mine again.
“What do you say I grab the check and we get out of here? Skip dessert… or have our own elsewhere.”
My stomach sours.
I hate that it does. I want it to flip and fill with butterflies. I want my thighs to clench together in anticipation of what this fine-as-hell man will do to me.
But it just doesn’t.
Still, even without that first impulse, I know I should lean into the situation. Samuel is what I need to dust the cobwebs off, to get my feet wet, to jump back into all this after years of being in a relationship.
I’ve actually never dated — not really.
This is normal.
This is dating.
This is how things work.
I finish my wine on a smile. “Okay.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re on Bayshore, slowly cruising through Tampa with the windows down in Samuel’s sports car. His hand is on my thigh, tucked around it possessively.
Flashes of Greg’s hand doing the same hit me in waves.
Samuel is quiet, smiling and content, and he pulls us off the main road into a small parking lot by the water. This lot is usually full at sunset, but it’s empty now, and Samuel parks with the hood of the car facing the water before cutting the engine.
He turns to face me, hanging his wrist off the steering wheel, his opposite elbow propped on the center console. His eyes take me in slowly, lips curling into a smile that would make any sane woman feel sexy and wanted and ready to do whatever he asks.
“I’m really glad you let me take you out tonight, Amanda.”
My throat is tight when I reply, “I’m really glad you asked.”
Another smile, and then he’s leaning in, the kiss he’s about to give me so obvious, as if he just knows I want it, too.
I should want it.
But even as his lips find mine, his hand reaching out to curl around my hip, I don’t.
I feel nothing as his mouth explores mine, as he slips his tongue inside with a stiff breath that tells me he wants much more than a kiss.
I try. God, do I try to get into it. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him into me, will my desire to spark the way it did when Greg just looked at me, let alone touched me.
But I feel like a dead fish.
“Fuck,” Samuel says, breaking the kiss and pressing his forehead against mine. His hand travels up my hip to my waist. “I can’t believe you’re forty-seven.”
I freeze, blood running hot as his hands roam more — but now they just feel like slithery, slick, disgusting tentacles.
I bat his hand away, leaning back. “Excuse me?”
He blanches, confused. “No, I don’t mean anything bad by it,” he says, holding up his hands on a smile. “I’m saying you look amazing for your age.”
“For my age,” I repeat, deadpan.
He coughs a nervous laugh, then tries to save himself, leaning in and brushing my hair out of my face. “You know what I mean. You look like you could be a twenty-five-year-old. It’s a compliment.” He smirks. “I bet you make all the other cougars jealous.”
My jaw drops, and I scoff, sitting back in my seat and pulling every bit of my body away from him. “Wow.”