Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) (20 page)

              Helen let out a slow breath. “I’d like to get to know him better.” She gave Sam a brave smile. “I’d like to give him a chance.”

              Sam’s heart squeezed, gladness spilling through her. “Thank you.”

~*~

Aidan stopped at the package store and bought a decent bottle of Pinot Grigio, forgoing the beer he wanted to get for himself when he opened his wallet and saw how few bills remained.

              What a perfect predicament he was in. Pregnant ex-fuck buddy, blackmailer, hovering traitor label, and a girl who deserved the world that he knew he’d never be able to hold onto. What a charmed life he led.

              Tonya had been on his mind, unwillingly. After Sam left Dartmoor that afternoon, he’d run into Maggie on his way back to the shop. Not accidentally, he would learn, as she’d grabbed his arm more forcefully than Sam had and steered him down toward the other end of the parking lot.

              “Your sister and I went to see Tonya,” she’d said.

              “What? Why?”

              “To make sure she’s telling the truth about being pregnant – she is, by the way, you can’t fake that morning sickness look – and to convince her not to give the baby up for adoption.”

              “Mags.” He’d hissed through his teeth, suddenly sick to his stomach and mentally flailing. “If she doesn’t want it, I can’t make her keep it. And I’m not gonna try to
be
with her.”

              “God, I hope not. No, you’re going to gain custody of the baby.” When he’d begun to protest, she’d spoken over him. “And if you for some reason you can’t be its father right away, Ava and Mercy will take it.”

              The notion had hit him like a punch and he wasn’t even sure why. Something about Ava and Mercy…He was the kid’s father, and he was treading water, helpless and stupid, but his sister had no problem taking on the baby, whether it was hers or not. Decisive, like her mother. And he was…uncertain. Like
his
mother.

              Disgusting.

              “I…” He’d had no words.

              “I saw Sam leaving,” Maggie had continued, ignoring his mental tangle. “She wasn’t here to see Ava.”

              “No, to see me.” He’d taken a deep breath and thoughts of Sam had eased the tightness in his chest.

              Maggie had made a knowing sound. “Hmm.” A sound that encompassed all her womanly wisdom. “She’s a nice girl. I like her.”

              “Yeah?”

              “Yeah.” She’d patted his hand. “Does she know about Tonya?”

              “No. No, and…please don’t say anything yet. I’m gonna tell her. But not yet.”

              Maggie had nodded, and the look she’d tipped up to him had been full of sympathy. “Don’t wait too long though. She’ll forgive you for the baby – but not for hiding it from her.”

              He’d known then, and he knew now, draped with sadness as he walked up to the Waltons’ back door. There was an expiration date on this thing he had with Sam, and it was entirely his fault. He really hated himself at the moment.

              But he would enjoy what time he had with her. Shoving all negative thoughts away, he knocked on the back door, heart thumping hard against his ribs.

              He heard a low murmur of female voices before the door opened, and then Sam stood in the frame, warm light spilling around her, turning her hair to molten gold. She’d unbraided it, and it was in loose waves down her back. He wanted to touch it, press his face into it. But her mother was watching, so he held out the wine and said, “Here, this is for you,” like a total dork.

              She grinned, like she knew this was awkward, but was finding it sweet and amusing. “Thank you, that was…” Her eyes passed over the label. “Ooh, this is my favorite.” Her grin was warmer when she lifted it again, blue-green eyes flashing behind her glasses. “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice soft and just for him.

              Never in his life had a woman looked at him like this. It was amazing.

              Sam’s mother was standing on the other side of the table, her smile uncertain, arms clasped together as if she was cold. He shut the door, and then stepped forward, feeling green as a teenager, hoping his hand wasn’t too clammy as he offered her a shake. “Mrs. Walton, thanks for having me.” He imaged Maggie somewhere, approving of his manners.

              Her hand was small and frail as a bird in his, but her smile struggled to be more welcoming. “I’m glad you could make it.”

              Good.

              “I’m looking forward to learning more about you.”

              Not good.

              “Here, sweetie.” Sam handed him the wine and a corkscrew, not seeming to notice she’d just called him
sweetie
. “If you’ll open this for us, I’ll finish getting the food ready.”

              Opening alcohol he could handle.

              He watched Sam covertly as he uncorked the bottle. She had sliced up some sort of meat that smelled fantastic and arranged it on a big platter, her movements precise and quick. She was used to being in the kitchen, getting everything just right. What must that be like, he wondered, to be the sort of person who did everything properly from the get go, and didn’t have to fix a bunch of mistakes?

              Scuffing footfalls and overdramatic sighing heralded Erin’s arrival. She wore the standard expression of beleaguered teenage girls; Aidan had seen it plenty at school, but never on his sister. Ava had never been much of a teenager. He felt a momentary, retroactive respect for her, for the way she hadn’t annoyed the shit out of all of them growing up.

              In contrast with last night, Erin wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and her hair tied up in a ponytail, her only makeup a touch of eyeliner and lip gloss. It was an improvement, in Aidan’s eyes. He resented the hell out of jailbait overdressing and acting legal.

              Huh. So he wasn’t like his father in
that
regard.

              “Hey, Erin,” he greeted.

              She folded her arms and shot him a murderous look. “So what? Are you, like, my sister’s boyfriend or something?”

              He didn’t hesitate for a second. “Yeah, I am.”

              Sam fumbled the platter of meat as she set it on the table, and a slice fell off into one of the water glasses. She recovered in a flurry, whisking the glass away, getting a fresh one. Aidan caught the distinct red tint to her cheeks and grinned. She was shocked; she was thrilled.

              She loved him. This shy, serious, studious girl really loved him. And he’d almost missed it, in his own stupidity.

              “Ugh,” Erin said. “Congrats, Sam, you
finally
have a boyfriend.”

              “
Erin
,” Mrs. Walton hissed.

              Sam sent him an apologetic look as she took the salad to the table.

              He smiled at her. “It’s fine. I’ve got a bratty-ass little sister too, you know.”

              Sam bit her lip and told him with her eyes that Ava was
nothing
like Erin; there was no misreading that expression. But Erin made a scandalized sound.

              Mrs. Walton pinched her arm. “Let’s all sit down and eat,” she said.

              And so they did.

~*~

“Aidan, what do you do for a living?”

              Sam set her fork down, food untouched. No way was she going to be able to eat a bite of this meal.

              Her eyes moved to Aidan as he used his fork to poke holes in his slice of tenderloin, uncertainty pressed into the lines of his face.

              “I’m a mechanic,” he said, lifting his head so he could address her mother properly. “Bikes, mainly. But I know my way around a car, too.”

              “Oh. That’s nice.”

              “But you’re, like, a gangster, too, right?” Erin asked sweetly. “My friend Amanda says the Lean Dogs are like the mafia or something.”

              Helen’s eyes widened.

             
Kill me now
, Sam thought. “Erin–” she started to intervene.

              Aidan beat her to it. “Mafia?” He smirked. “Nah. The club’s just what it says it is – a club. We’re a buncha bike nerds. But” – he lifted one brow – “so long as we’re talking boyfriends, what’s Jesse do? Other than deal, I mean?”

              “Deal?” Helen said. “Deal what?”

              Erin turned crimson and tucked her face down into her hoodie, but not before Sam saw her furious scowl. Damn, she was going to pay for that later, but she mentally applauded Aidan for the diversion.

              “Deals candy, Mom,” Sam said. “He’s one of those kids who sells candy bars during class changes at school, ever since they ‘healthed’ everything up and pulled all the good stuff out of the vending machines.”

              “Oh.” That seemed to placate her. “Well, I hope it doesn’t get him in trouble.”

              Erin glanced at both of them from beneath her lashes, still furious, but a touch relieved.

              “So,” Sam said firmly, “all but two of my students passed their latest paper.”

              “Wonderful,” Helen said, and the conversation veered back toward neutral waters.

~*~

All in all, dinner was awkward, but not unbearable. Once he shook off his obvious nerves, Aidan settled into his usual cheeky, uneducated charming self, and Helen seemed to react positively. When they were done, Erin was sent up to finish her homework, and Sam offered to do the dishes. “Aidan’ll help me,” she said, and he made a face that left her biting back a grin.

              Helen poured herself a glass of wine and left the room talking about a bubble bath and how nice it would be to have a little down time tonight.

              She paused, though, just before she slipped out; laid a hand on Aidan’s tattooed forearm, eyes trained on the inked skin, small frown plucking her brows together. She murmured something Sam couldn’t hear, and then moved on, silent on her socked feet.

              Sam waited until she heard the top step of the staircase creak before she asked, “What did she say to you?”

              Aidan had been leaning against a cabinet and pushed away from it, face thoughtful as he came to join her at the sink. “She said, ‘I don’t know how I would have lasted after my husband died without Samantha. She’s very special. If she thinks you’re special, then I know that you are. You’re always welcome in my home.’” He glanced over at her, dark eyes probing. “I make her nervous, I could tell. And she hates the tats.” He passed a hand across his forearm. “But she’s gonna try to like me for you.”

              She found the idea of it sad, for some reason. “My mom.” She knew her smile was crooked. “She misses some stuff. She’s naïve – a blessing, really. It must be nice to think the best of people, living in the shitty times that we do now. She wants us to be happy. She thinks I’m lonely, and…” She was rambling, so she stopped, concentrating on the greasy baking dish she scrubbed.

              “Sam.”

              “There’s towels in that drawer, if you don’t mind drying. The dishwasher won’t hold the bigger pots.”

              “Sam.”

              She glanced over at him, chest suddenly tight.

              “What does she think?” he prodded, tone gentle.

              She sighed. This wasn’t where she’d wanted the evening to go, but the door was already open, so to speak.

              She picked at the flaking bits of charred pork on the dish. “She thinks I’m missing out on my own life, taking care of her and Erin.”

              “Are you?”

              She shrugged. “I dunno…look, let’s not talk about this. This is too deep too soon for you.”

              He stepped in closer, until their arms were touching. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

              Anger in his voice? Or hurt? Were either even possible, given the swift, shallow nature of their relationship?

              Sam braced a hand on the edge of the sink and turned to him again. “I don’t have any expectations. I’m glad you met my mother, and I hope you two get along. But I’m not going to pressure you into anything, and that includes listening to my great big scary life complaints. I know that’s not what this is about for you.” She gestured between them, to their new strange connection to one another.

              He stared at her, expression adorably confused, and his head tipped to the side. He reminded her of a dog. Then he scowled. “Do you think I’m just messing with you or something?”

              “No. But I don’t know that I trust your seriousness.”

              “Do you want proof?” His level of anger was both funny and spooky.