Loving Again: Book 2 in the Second Chance series (Crimson Romance) (3 page)

• • •

She didn’t find the small box he’d left on her kitchen counter until the next morning. In it was a glass charm on a fine gold chain. On the charm was a delicate brush painting of bamboo. The note with it said:
“Amanda — This is from the Chinese Garden. You said once it’s your favorite place in the city. I’m told the bamboo represents strength, resilience, and grace — exactly what I’ve seen in you over the past months. I hope you’ll wear it occasionally and think of a beautiful place in Portland. And me. Sam.”

Four and a half months later

Goddamn traffic. How did people put up with it every day? Sam hadn’t been able to leave Portland until three in the afternoon, which meant he ended up right in the middle of Seattle’s famous rush hour traffic. At the rate he was going, he’d miss the whole opening. Which, given what the past few months had been like, shouldn’t have surprised him.

Amanda’s last night in Portland had been better than anything he could have hoped for but the time since had been a goat fuck. For three months, they talked, emailed and texted while she was tucked away at the Pilchuck Glass School. Then, when she moved in with her best friend from college so she could continue her work, they began to talk about getting together in Seattle.

For six weeks, they tried to make it happen. But three of the weekends were out because of his every-other-weekend with his sons. On the weekend they’d finally nailed down plans, he pulled a seventy-two-hour shift on a messy double murder. Then she was out of town celebrating her friend’s birthday. Nothing had worked. So, when she mentioned the opening at the Erickson Gallery for an exhibit of the work of Pilchuck students that included her, he decided he’d take a couple vacation days and just show up without telling her he would be there. What could screw that up?

Apparently, the traffic, which had him at a dead stop, looking at Boeing Field, not at her or her work.

• • •

Amanda couldn’t decide which was more uncomfortable, feeling hot and sweaty or nervous and twitchy. On one hand, she was miserable from the very un-Seattle-like ninety-degree heat. On the other, her anxiety level about being on public display for the first time since her trial was too high to measure. The only thing pushing edgy-anticipation-of-catastrophe out of gold medal contention was, when it happened, at least it would be over. The TV weatherman said the heat would hang on for a few days.

For what seemed like half an hour, Amanda had been trying to get through the crowd to the back of the room where Cynthia Blaine, her best friend and current roommate, along with Cynthia’s boyfriend, Josh, were waiting with cool water and soothing words for her. But people kept stopping her to congratulate her on her work.

She envied Cynthia and the other artists with work in the exhibit. They were enjoying the evening. Of course, all they had to do was sip wine, make arty small talk and flirt. Amanda had to enthusiastically discuss her new work while staying on high alert for some unknown calamity.

Finally she made her way to the back of the gallery. Kicking off her platform sandals, she took the paper napkin her friend offered her, blotted her forehead and sighed. “I’m hot.”

“You certainly are,” Cynthia said. She handed a glass of ice water to Amanda. “By the number of pieces you’ve sold tonight, you’re about the hottest glass artist in Seattle and that, my friend, is saying something.”

“I was talking about the weather, but thanks.” She wiggled her toes on the cool tile floor and gulped down the water. Glancing around at the crowd she said, “It feels like something weird’s going on, doesn’t it? I mean, nothing terrible has happened so far but … ”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Everything’s going great. Try to relax and enjoy this, will you? God knows you’ve earned it.” She reached into her purse and, with a “ta-da” flourish, brought out Amanda’s favorite Dagoba chocolate bar. “Here, see if this helps.”

Amanda swapped the now-empty glass for the candy. “You’re wonderful. I was too nervous to eat before I came here and my stomach’s paying me back by growling.”

As she nibbled on the sweet she continued to inspect the crowd. Surely there were people here who remembered what had happened in Portland. Who would resurrect the scandal first? That woman over there who looked kinda reporter-ish? The man who kept staring at her? Would it happen here, tonight, or would she have to wait for the newspaper tomorrow? What if … ?

Dear God, she had to stop this. Not only was she driving herself crazy, but she was sure her friend found her way past “annoying” on the Richter Scale of Irritating Emotions. Starting soon after the five o’clock opening, Amanda had forced Cynthia to accompany her around a conversational loop that quickly rutted from wear as she begged to hear over and over that the evening was going okay.

Now, more than two hours later, somewhere in the middle of the eighth, or maybe tenth, circuit of the reassurance loop, Cynthia’s attention wandered, mid-sentence, apparently caught by something she saw over Amanda’s shoulder.

Amanda felt the blood leave her face. “What’s wrong? What did you see?” Cynthia only smiled, still looking into the distance. Amanda tensed, what remained of the chocolate melting on the fingers she clutched around it. “Tell me. Please!”

“Calm down. It’s nothing bad,” Cynthia said. “This sexy guy just sauntered in, out of a Levis’ ad if the jeans and cowboy boots are any indication, and he’s staring in this direction. When I smiled at him he didn’t respond. So, unless he’s all
Brokeback Mountain
over Josh, that leaves him looking at you. Do you know him?”

Jeans and cowboy boots? Amanda swallowed hard, trying to shift gears from panic to a feeling she didn’t recognize at first. A flicker of optimism? A little shiver of anticipation? She shook it off. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. Besides her gut told her nothing good was in store for her tonight, only something bad.

And she was tired of waiting for it. She wanted the ax to drop, the sword of Damocles to fall, the roof to cave in. Pick a cliché, make it happen, and be done with it. Then she could say, “I told you so” and go back to Cynthia’s apartment where — please, God — it would be cooler.

But, no, she wasn’t headed out of the gallery. She was staring at her friend who was grinning about some random guy in Levis. She knew Cynthia would pester her until she looked, so Amanda turned around, her eyes down. If this was the messenger of doom she’d been expecting all evening, it was time to get it over with.

When she looked up, however, her breath stopped for a heartbeat or two. It was no stranger or harbinger of disaster. It was Sam; all 5ꞌ11" of him, broad shouldered and slim hipped, in a white shirt open at the neck and boot-cut jeans with his ubiquitous cowboy boots. He was standing near the front door, people streaming past him like water around a rock, looking directly at her.

He’d starred in so many of her fantasies while she was in Seattle, she would have sworn she remembered every detail about him. But seeing him now she realized she’d forgotten just how flat-out sexy he was even standing still, his feet shoulder width apart, his hips tipped forward, his shoulders squared, his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans.

And how could she have forgotten that she could feel the warmth of his eyes across a crowded room?

His mouth she remembered, pressed against hers, turning her insides to liquid. The sun-streaks in his sandy-brown hair and the tan forearms showing under the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, she remembered, too. They reminded her of the horseback rides they’d talked about but never taken.

Cynthia was right. He was sexy and delicious — and staring, waiting for her to acknowledge she’d seen him. He nodded hello when she did. When his smile became a grin, a flutter of something light and free flew from the middle of her chest, released the breath in her lungs and untied the knots in her shoulders.

“Oh, my God, Sam … ” The candy bar slipped from her fingers, leaving Cynthia to lunge for it as Amanda deserted her for the front of the gallery.

When she got to him, all Amanda could say was, “It’s really you.” When he touched the glass charm she wore around her neck, she clasped his hand to her chest where she was sure he could feel her rapidly beating heart.

“I hear a rising young star in the art glass world is here tonight. Know anything about that?” he asked.

“There are several. You looking for anyone in particular?” She couldn’t seem to stop smiling, or let go of his hand.

With his left hand he tucked a curl behind her ear as he studied her face. “You look … well.”

“I’m doing okay. Except for being nervous about the exhibit. Wondering if it’s a mistake to present myself in public so soon after … well, you know … that kind of thing. I’m glad to see you, though. I was going to call this weekend, try again to get together now that this show is … ” The sentence was left dangling as she tried to calm her pulse, now at aerobic exercise levels, with deep, slow breaths. But that only brought in the smell of his clean, woodsy aftershave, which didn’t help calm anything. “Are you in Seattle for a meeting or something?”

He freed his hand and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. After he wiped a smear of chocolate off his fingers, he removed a smudge of it from her mouth. “No, like I said, I heard there was a hot new artist exhibiting here tonight.”

“You drove all the way from Portland for this?”

“Yeah. Don’t I at least get a hug for that?”

She slipped her arms around his waist and nestled against him with a sigh. He held her close and rested his cheek on the top of her head. It felt so good to be in his arms again.

Without her heels on, she didn’t quite reach his shoulder so when he released her from the embrace, she stood on tiptoe and turned her face up to get him to bend and kiss her. He didn’t need much encouragement to give her a light butterfly of a kiss that awakened a dozen of its butterfly friends in her stomach.

“I’m so glad to see you. It has been so long,” she said.

“Four months, two weeks and six days, if anyone’s counting.” The dimple in his right cheek deepened and his brown eyes lit up as he smiled again.

“Apparently you are. Does that mean you missed me, cowboy?”

Ignoring her question, he draped an arm across her shoulders. “Since I must win the prize for driving the farthest for your opening, doesn’t that get me a personal tour of the work I fought through hellish traffic to see?”

“If you’ll stop complaining about the traffic like Portlanders always do, I’ll introduce you to some people and then show you around.”

When they got to the back of the gallery, Amanda said, “This is Cynthia Blaine, Sam. I worked in her studio in Seattle. Cynthia, I’d like you to meet … ”

“Oh-my-god-Sam, I believe you said as you dropped half of your favorite chocolate bar,” Cynthia said. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“And this is Josh Franzen.” The two men shook hands.

“Sam is … Sam Richardson … is a friend I haven’t seen in a while,” Amanda said.

“Right. He’s the guy you … ” Cynthia began but changed direction when Amanda shot her a fierce look, afraid her friend would reveal exactly how much she talked about him. “ … the guy who helped your attorney,” Cynthia finished and glared back.

“I’m going to give Sam a tour of the show,” Amanda said as she picked up her sandals. “You mind? We won’t be long.”

“Don’t worry about us. We were about to leave for Bellingham anyway,” Cynthia said.

“I forgot about that. Say hello to your parents for me,” Amanda said. Holding on to Sam’s arm for balance, she reshod herself, then kissed her friend good-bye.

As she led Sam through the show, she pointed out her work, three sets of two pieces on the theme “Contrasts.”

“Interesting,” he said. He was examining a pair titled “War” and “Peace,” pebbles of glass on curves holding up a clear glass center shot through with strands of wire. “It’s more abstract than the ‘Emotions’ series I saw last year. I like what you’ve done with the metal and the glass.”

“I spent part of my time at Pilchuck experimenting to see how to get it to go together the way I wanted it to. And I’m still working on it.” She described creating the three-dimensional objects of glass, metal foils and slender wire. As she did, she proudly pointed out the red dots, indicating pieces already sold, which had broken out like measles on the tags identifying the pieces.

“I had to be talked into being part of this show, but I have to admit it’s the best one I’ve ever had, not that I’ve had that many shows. I’ve sold all of the pieces already, to serious collectors and at higher prices than I’ve ever gotten. I wasn’t sure what the response would be, but the previews were good and so far this evening everything seems to be going okay. It’s such a relief … ” She stopped. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry. I’ve been nervous all evening.”

“Nothing to apologize for. You should be excited. But looking at these prices, I’m glad I already own an Amanda St. Claire piece. I don’t think I could afford you now.”

“I could always work something out for you, Sam.”

“How about working out time for dinner with me tonight, then? Or do you have plans?”

“Max, the gallery owner, said a collector wanted to talk to me after the reception but she left so I’m not sure it’s still on. Let me check. Look around for a minute and I’ll find out.”

When the gallery owner said that the collector had left satisfied with her purchase and the earlier conversation, Amanda arranged to meet Sam at the bar in the hotel where he had a reservation for the night.

At eight-thirty, he was waiting for her with a glass of her favorite wine and a space next to him in an intimate booth. He had the same grin on his face he’d had in the gallery.

They clinked glasses and sipped. “I still can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “That you drove all the way here for the opening. But I’m awfully glad to see you. We have so much to catch up on. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Why don’t we start by figuring out a place to eat? Any ideas about where you’d like to go?”