Trapped in Tourist Town (28 page)

He stepped closer and leaned down. He was about to speak when a lock of hair, bold, fiery red, slipped from beneath her knit cap. His heart clutched and the comforting smile on his face slid away as she lifted her tear-soaked face, her lower lip trembling. Dear God, no. Please, anyone but her.

“Wynter,” he managed to croak out.

“Sam. Oh, my God, I'm sorry you found me like this.” She shook her head back and forth, cringing. “I'm sorry I just showed up like this.”

“How did you find me?” He spun on his heel and lifted his face to the bracing Vermont morning.

It didn't matter. It was the twenty-first century. Anyone with a working knowledge of technology could locate just about anyone on the planet. If she really wanted to find him, she would have eventually. He just hadn't expected her to try.

“Pauline. Please don't be mad at her, Sam. Blame me. I … I need you.”

He thanked God he wasn't facing her when she'd uttered that. He closed his eyes, emotions boiling to the surface. Guilt pulled at his gut. He'd left her. He hadn't expected to ever see her again. And damned if it didn't feel good to see her again. A long time ago he'd have given anything to hear those words. Now they scored fresh abrasions on an already battered heart.

“Where's Holt?” He spat out the name of his one-time best friend.

“He's dead, Sam. That's mostly why I'm here.”

Well, that cleared up why she was crying her heart out. Sam straightened his spine, grief squeezing his heart in a tight fist, so that even drawing a breath was difficult. Wynter had found him. There was nothing he could do now but invite her in. He'd figure out a polite way to get rid of her later.

“Come on, it's cold out here. Let's get inside before you lose your toes to frostbite.”

He turned his back quickly. If Wynter was looking for a cozy chat over coffee, catching up on ten plus years of life's milestones, she would be sorely disappointed.

Sam snatched up the suitcases and muscled his way through the front door. Dropping her bags in the corner and trusting she'd follow, he ducked into the kitchen on the left. He took down a couple of mugs.

“You still take cream and sugar in your coffee?” He dug in the silverware drawer for spoons.

“Yes, thank you.” Her voice was soft, throaty, and still had the power to kick him in the gut.

“I've got some Oreos around if you're hungry. I wasn't expecting company.” He paused to let that sink in. Hey, if she was going to make him uncomfortable with just her presence, then he needed some way of leveling the playing field.

“Double Stuffed?” Okay. She wasn't going to let him get under her skin so easily.

Sam finally turned around, a plastic bottle of coffee creamer in his hand. She'd removed her coat, hat, and gloves. Her hair was short now, sticking up in crazy orange tufts. Lucille Ball's ragamuffin cousin. Gray eyes, the color of the storm clouds outside, were red-rimmed and swollen.

“Holy Mary, Mother-of-God! You're pregnant.” His eyes had reached her distended belly. How the hell had he missed that? He unsteadily set the creamer on the counter.

Wynter wrapped her arms around her big stomach, rubbing gently. “She's my whole world, Sam. She's all I have left.”

Just when he thought he could get through this visit, another reminder of what he'd lost slapped him upside the head. Wynter had built a life with Holt. She was having his baby. Holt, however briefly, had enjoyed the life Sam had wanted with all his heart and soul. And Sam only had himself to blame.

Torn between wanting to take her in his arms and comfort her, and needing to push her back into a cab headed to where she'd come from, Sam shook his head and kept his distance. He'd get through this. They'd have a cup of coffee, he'd let her rest for a bit and then he'd drive her to the airport.

It started to snow. Big fat flakes drifted down from the sky, thick with low, nasty-looking clouds. Sam glared out at the steely sky and silently railed at Mother Nature with every foul expletive he could think of.

How could he have forgotten the storm? It was why he'd shoveled Riley out before he'd even had a cup of coffee. It was a break in the weather, and he hadn't known just how much time he had before they got dumped on again. Of all the miserable, rotten luck!

“Oh, look, it's snowing,” crooned Wynter. “It's so beautiful.” Her statement was punctuated with a huge grin.

At least she wasn't crying anymore. Sam plowed a hand through his hair and sighed.

“Snow's a four letter word around here. It was great, the first time or two, back in November. But it's only January and you know we've got at least two more months of this crap.” He gestured toward the dining room, off the kitchen, pulling out a chair for Wynter when she paused in the doorway to look around.

“Well, if you've lived in Southern California at Christmastime, like I have, you learn to appreciate the white stuff.”

Yeah, back to the chatty, catching-up thing. Sam didn't want chatty. He didn't want catching up. He wanted his privacy back. He forgot his manners.

“Listen, Wynnie.” He knew the nickname irked her. “I'm not sure what dragged you all the way out here from sunny SoCal, but you can't stay here. As soon as the roads are passable, I'll take you back to the airport.”

“No, you can't!” Her eyes widened and she closed the distance between them to grip his hands, her fingers ice cold. “You were my last hope, Sam.” She stood up taller, closer, her belly brushing against him. After all this time, he still wanted to pull her to him, and it took all his willpower not to recoil from her touch.

“What do you want from me, Wynter? Can't you see how hard it is to see you again? Why are you doing this to me?” He couldn't look away from her charcoal eyes, welling up with tears.

“You promised me, Sam. You promised.” The last word was nearly unintelligible as the tears spilled out and down her cheeks.

The desperation in her terrified stare, the desolation in her voice. Coming here had not been an easy decision for her. Suddenly it came rushing back to him, memories from a time he'd locked away. Sitting on the window bench together in Wynter's bedroom, the window he'd climbed through many times. Holding her hands much like she was holding his now. He'd promised her that if she ever needed him, no matter what, he'd be there for her. She'd come to collect on that promise.

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Also by Jennifer DeCuir:

Five of Hearts

Praise for Five of Hearts:

“ . . a light romance with enough tension to entertain readers.”—Anna
Fitzgerald,
InDTale Magazine

Drawn to Jonah

Praise for Drawn to Jonah:

“The characters in DeCuir's book have drawn me in, enveloped me in a hug, served me something warm and gooey to eat, and invited me to be part of their family. Heartwarming, sexy, and a dash of magical realism makes this book a must buy.”—Brooke Moss, author of
Baby Bump

“Jennifer DeCuir's writing is as warm and cozy as snuggling up to a crackling fire on a cold winter's day!”—Laura Marie Altom, author of
The SEAL's Christmas Twins

“This book was absolutely amazing . . . I loved the ending and I highly recommend this book to anyone who wants to read about love, taking chances and family.”—Night Owl Romance

 

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