Page 54 of The Spare

Adjusting to my new existence at the Sutter Creek estate feels more than a little awkward. I’ve officially unpacked my bags in Sam’s bedroom. It’s only been a week since the wedding, including an excruciatingly tense honeymoon, and I still feel like a trespasser in my own life.

I’m standing in the expansive, sunlit kitchen, staring at the double-door refrigerator, when Rosario steps in, wiping her hands on her apron. She gives me a warm, motherly smile that immediately makes me feel guilty for existing in her space.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lee,” Rosario greets softly. “I’m putting together the weekly grocery list. Please, let me know if there are any specific teas, fruits, or items you like. I want to make sure the pantry is stocked with whatever you need.”

“Oh, thank you, Rosario. Just English Breakfast tea and lemon is fine,” I reply, offering a polite smile, knowing I’m rarely home for a meal. “And please, call me Alexis. I have to deal with enough formality at my job.”

Her offer triggers a sudden, sharp memory. Grandpa. My chest tightens as I remember his fatigue, and the way he looked so small in his leather chair. I make a mental note right then and there. I need to contact the home-care agency today and review options for hiring a nurse to help him with meals and household chores a few days a week. That is, if he’ll let me.

Leaving the kitchen, I head upstairs to finish settling in. Moving my clothes into Sam’s massive walk-in closet felt unnatural enough, but my eyes land on the plush leather couch sitting in the corner of his bedroom, and a wave of pure relief washes over me.

Good. That’s where he can sleep going forward.

It’s bad enough we have to share a bedroom for fear of prying eyes. Rosario and the house staff are entirely too perceptive, and if news got back to Sam’s mother that her new daughter-in-law was sleeping in the guest wing, the whole charade could unravel. But there’s no way I can sleep in the same bed with him for a year. I won’t get any sleep for wanting things I can’t have.

It nearly drove me stark raving mad during our honeymoon trip. Every time he shifted in his sleep, every time his arm accidentally brushed mine under the sheets, my heart rate spiked until dawn. I was hoping I’d at least get some rest on that trip, but instead, I spent each night staring at the ceiling, fighting the magnetic pull of the man lying inches away from me.

Since returning, we’ve existed like two ships passing in the night. Our interactions have been reduced to cordial morning small talk as we make coffee to go.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Fine, thanks. You?”

Yeah, awkward. Yet we do this same dance each morning before we retreat to our separate worlds. I bury myself in the clinic, and Sam stays out in the fields until long after sunset. Each day typically starts and ends the same way.

Until this morning.

I wake abruptly, my chest heaving, and my skin flushed from a dream so vivid that I feel as if I’ve run a marathon. In the dream, Sam’s hands were tangled in my hair, pulling me down against him. My eyes flick over to the empty couch. The pillow is stacked neatly atop the folded blankets. Pushing myself up, I press the palms of my hands to my burning cheeks, trying to shake the lingering sensation from my mind. I’m grateful he isn’t here to see this.

When the bathroom door clicks open.

Steam billows out into the bedroom, and Sam steps through the fog. My mouth instantly goes bone dry. He’s dripping wet from the shower, droplets of water trailing down his chest and glistening over the sharp, cut lines of his eight-pack. A low-slung white towel is wrapped loosely around his hips. It’s far too low, framing the prominent V-shape of his rectus abdominis muscles. I’ve seen him at the beach in swim trunks, but seeing him like this, in the privacy of our bedroom, is different. It feels overwhelmingly intimate.

Not to mention dangerous.

The temptation of his nearness is already doing a number on me. Hence the dreams. How’s a girl supposed to survive a year of this torture?

Sam stops short when he sees me staring, a towel in his hands frozen mid-rub against his damp hair. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning,” I squeak out, forcing my eyes to snap upward to his face before I completely lose my mind. I fling the covers back and bolt for the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Leaning against the sink, I contemplate whether I should start setting my alarm for an hour earlier. It would be worth the loss of sleep if I can avoid having him parade around in a towel each day.

Ugh. How is this my life? Living this way is akin to waving a piece of layer cake in front of a brittle diabetic.

By the time evening rolls around, my nerves are completely shot. It’s been a brutal day at the clinic, capped off by an insufferable encounter with Chad Lewis in the doctor’s lounge. He’s been leering nearby while I document notes in a patient’s chart, tossing me a pitying smile that makes my blood boil.

“So, how’s married life with the local playboy?” He takes a casual sip of his coffee. “Gossip among the medical staff has been juicy. No one thought a woman with your standards would feel the need to settle for a classless vineyard worker who will likely sell the place for a quick buck,” his voice drips with condescension. “Unless he’s hoping you’ll ignore his philandering ways and continue to support him when his money dries up.”

The sheer hatred Chad has harbored for Sam is radiating off him in waves. It’s fueled by jealousy and wounded pride. He always suspected I had it bad for Sam, regardless of our feud. I tried to reassure him those days were over, but this must be driving him crazy.

“What Sam is doing is none of your concern, Chad,” I snap, standing from my chair with enough force to make him flinch. “And neither am I.” It sounds like the pot calling the kettle black. Chad’s got some nerve pointing out anyone else’s philandering ways.

Yet, coming home late into the quiet estate, Chad’s snide remark still echoes in my mind. I drop my bag on the entry bench, surprised to find the main floor completely dark. Shouldn’t Sam be done for the day by now?

I try to shake off the heavy mood that has clung to me all day by looking in the refrigerator and the pantry for a snack, but nothing appeals to me. Wandering into the living room, I kick off my heels and turn on the television to drown out my thoughts. I flip through the channels until I land on Dirty Dancing. Oh, yay! It’s just started.

I curl up on the plush sofa, covering myself with a soft blanket as I watch Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze on the screen. But as the romantic music swells, my mind immediately betrays me, flashing back to Sam in the doorway this morning with that damn towel.

Don’t go there, Alexis, I reprimand myself, rubbing my temples. This is supposed to be a platonic arrangement.