Page 43 of A Heart On A Sleeve

twenty-five

Olive

Hidden Magic

“Why is it you don’t have a car again?” Bridget asks as we turn onto the main highway leading toward Sam’s cabin. I shift in my seat, trying to come up with the best way to explain this without divulging too much information.

“I don’t have the money to buy one,” I offer, shrugging when her eyes bulge at my confession.

“Don’t you come from a rich family?”

“I, uh, well my parents are well-off, yes. But I decided to take a different path for my life, and that also meant walking away from their money,” I explain.

I didn’t really want to get into this, especially not when I should be getting excited for my date.

But I’m not a great liar, and Bridget seems like the kind of no-bullshit girl that could handle my truth.

Also, she’s driving me to the date, so she deserves a good reason.

“Whoa. I gotta give you props, I don’t know if I could have done that.” Bridget shakes her shoulders a bit, shaking off what I assume is shock.

“You could if you’d met Ted,” I quip, looking out the window, trying desperately not to picture his smug face sipping whiskey at the country club and smoking a cigar.

“Who the hell is Ted?” she asks.

“The man my mother wanted me to marry,” I reply casually.

“Wait, what? Girl, your life is weird.” Her simple assessment makes us both laugh. She has no idea just how bizarre it truly is.

“Was that not obvious enough when you had to drive me to a date with your brother?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. I mean this is definitely a first. But Sammy is really into you, and when he called me in a panic about the meal he’s trying to make, I really didn’t have the heart to say no.

” Bridget claps a hand over her mouth. “Shit, shit, shit. Do not tell him I said that. He made me promise to not make things weird or to out him for being less experienced in the kitchen.”

“I won’t tell him, but if I’m about to get food poisoning, blink twice so I can be prepared,” I say, hesitancy and humor equal in my reply.

“I promise you won’t. I’m like ninety-percent sure he’s been on video chat with Mom all day, making sure he doesn’t screw anything up.”

“I feel bad. He really didn’t need to go to all this trouble.” I shift again, readjusting the tin of muffins in my lap. I made a fresh batch for him after our phone call a couple days ago. We could survive on these, and worst case scenario, we can get some pizza.

“He cares about you, a lot.” Bridget reaches over to squeeze my hand gently before making the turn onto Sam’s private road.

As the gravel crunches under the tires, I can’t help but feel a little uneasy.

I care about him, too, I just don’t know if what we have is real enough to go the distance.

It seems like there’s more weight to what we are doing here, like it could be long-term when nothing else has ever been like that for me.

But there’s also the question of how much of this is based on him having too much insight, how much of his patience with me opening up slowly is enabled by his ability to judge my emotions by my arm.

I watch the fall foliage pass as we continue down the driveway, willing myself to stop worrying about things I can’t control.

As we pull into the clearing, I can tell things are different immediately. The last time I was here there wasn’t a set of hammock chairs hanging near the edge of the drop-off, overlooking the ocean. There wasn’t a clearly defined path to get to the cabin. When did he have time to do all of this?

Catching my stunned gaze, Bridget says, “He put a ton of effort into this night. I hope you love it.”

“Everything looks incredible. Am I supposed to go to the cabin? Or what’s the plan?” I ask, hand hesitating on the door handle.

“Yes, I swear to God. The two of you are like a pack of toddlers wandering around. Get your stuff and go get your man. I gotta boogie.” Bridget waves me out of the car in a hurry and promptly leaves once I step out with my things.

I start my trek, overnight bag slung on my shoulder and muffin tin clasped tightly in my hands, toward the .

. . stone pathway ? When we walked to the cabin just a few weeks ago, there was nothing more than dirt and branches to trip over.

Now there is a beautifully laid flagstone walkway with string lights overhead.

It’s magical and breathtaking. I feel like a fairy floating to her secret little garden getaway.

I’m sure he didn’t do this just for me, but my heart skips a beat at the thoughtfulness.

Someone who puts care and attention to detail into their home must be a decent human being.

“What do you think?” Sam asks, leaning against the railing of the porch steps.

“I’m speechless. This is gorgeous. When did you have this put in?” I reply as I walk toward the porch, sure that there’s no chance he did this himself.

“Wednesday. Max, Howie, and I worked on it. I’m glad you like it.” He grins from ear to ear.

“Wait, you did this?” I stop and point at the pathway.

“Yeah, well, mostly Howie did it while he bossed Max and me around.” Sam shrugs like it isn’t a big deal.

“Wow. This is incredible. I don’t even know what to say.” I walk faster, desperate to hug him. Sam meets me at the bottom of the steps, enveloping me in his cinnamon scent and wrapping me tightly in his arms before pressing a kiss to my lips.

“Wait till I show you the inside,” he says, that panty-melting grin shifting back onto his face. Gah! He makes my body melt with a single look.

We walk up the steps and into the cabin, where the aroma of freshly grilled steaks and homemade rolls wafts to my nose. I toe off my shoes and carefully set my bag down before Sam helps me out of my coat. He takes the muffin tin from me gently and places it on the entry table.

“It’s so homey in here. I didn’t get to look around much the last time,” I note, soaking in the chic aesthetic. The couch is plush and inviting, the kitchen smells heavenly, and the artwork is stunning. “Did you do the decorating?”

“No, that’s all Bridget. She did an amazing job, didn’t she?” Sam is standing beside me, glancing around like he’s also in awe of how great the place looks.

“Incredible, I might need to hire her to do some decorating at my place.” I grab his hand and walk into the kitchen, curious about dinner.

I carefully peek under the foil covering a sheet pan, spying steak, then I look under the kitchen towel covering a basket filled with buttery rolls. My stomach growls silently. I’m so hungry and touched that he worked so hard.

“Hey, no peeking. I’m just waiting for the baked potatoes to finish in the oven, and I have to make a salad. Do you want a glass of wine while I finish?” Sam asks, grabbing me by the waist and hoisting me up on the counter.

“Sure, that sounds good. I can help though, I don’t need to just sit here.” I wave my arm to the counter I’m perched on.

“Yes, you do. I’m cooking for you.” Sam steps between my legs and presses a tender kiss to my lips.

I can’t help wrapping my hands around the back of his neck and sliding my tongue across the seam of his lips.

We take time exploring each other for a few minutes until the oven timer beeps loudly.

Sam looks at me and then my arm, before shaking his head and turning to remove our side dish.

My stomach drops at his small glance at my tattoo.

“You’re distracting me. If you want to eat dinner, I have to finish making it first,” he chides.

“Well, if you’d let me help, it would go faster.

” I hop off the counter and retrieve the muffin tin I brought along.

Sliding up next to Sam as he pulls salad ingredients from the fridge, I pop the tin open and wave it in his face, slightly distracting myself from my own anxiety with a little banter.

“I brought you the muffins you were so desperate to eat the other night,” I say, giggling a little when his face goes slack.

“Those smell incredible, but that’s not what I was referring to, and you know it.” He smacks my ass with a head of romaine and scooches me out of the way so he can finish prepping our meal.

It’s wild to me that my body is so responsive to Sam.

All it takes is one look from him and I’m ready to drop to my knees.

I’ve never had this feeling with anyone, but then there’s the niggling in my mind that maybe that’s not a good thing.

Maybe I’m caught up in the grandeur of it all, the way he makes my heart race and my center go slick.

Does he really know me outside of the basics?

Do I know him? And is he really this sweet, or is he just judging what I like from the obvious signs painted on my skin?

Bristling a little, I make my way to my bag and pull out a thick mossy-green cardigan.

I need to see if things feel the same when my most vulnerable inner self isn’t on display in a simple T-shirt.

I planned ahead for this. I meant to cover up before getting here, but the awe of the work he’s done distracted me.

“Cold?” he asks, looking up from chopping lettuce.

“A little, not bad though,” I lie.

“I can put more logs on the fire, let me just get this in the bowl.” Sam tosses everything in a rustic wooden container and pours on what looks to be homemade dressing. He mixes the salad a few times with his hands, quickly rinses off in the sink, and makes his way to tend the fire.

I watch him, chastising myself for not being all in. He’s gorgeous and kind. He’s got a stable job and two homes. He loves his family, and they’re quickly becoming some of my favorite people too. I excuse myself to the restroom.

Clicking the door closed behind me, I start to pace. Even the bathroom has been transformed with new decor and details. He went to all this trouble to make this night special, and I’m freaking out over nothing. Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I quickly type out a message to Ariella.