Page 55 of The Spare

On screen, Swayze draws a line on the floor, declaring his famous boundaries, demonstrating to Jennifer Grey that they each have their own dance space. I let out a soft laugh into the empty room. Ha. Yes. As I’d said before. This relationship is strictly business. I need to remember what he does is his business and none of my concern, and vice versa.

My gaze bounces about the living area. The sound of the movie echoing off of the walls. It’s none of my business where Sam is or what he is doing. Or why he isn’t home yet. I frown. At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.

The quiet creak of the front door signals his arrival. I tense, trying to remain focused on the television. But my curiosity niggles at me when he doesn’t come in to say hello. Then my anxiety starts to do a number on me. Did he go straight to the bedroom to shower?

We’d said no other women. No scandals. But is it feasible to believe a man with his history could simply abstain from sex? My stomach rolls, and I’m suddenly grateful I resisted snacking.

A few minutes later, Sam walks into the living room, carrying a tray with a steaming mug of tea, a jar of raw honey, sliced lemons, and a small bag of fresh-ground dark roast coffee. “I thought you might like this for the morning,” Sam says, setting the coffee on the kitchen counter before bringing the tea over. “You looked exhausted yesterday.”

I sit up taller, my heart doing a treacherous backflip. “Thank you. You… you didn’t have to do that.”

He gently places the mug on the coffee table and looks up at the screen, brushing a rogue lock of hair from his forehead. “What are we watching?”

“Dirty Dancing,” I say, taking a slow sip of the hot tea. Hmm. It’s perfect.

Sam sits down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a wide expanse of leather between us. He leans his head back against the cushions, studying the TV. “I’ve never seen it.”

I nearly choke on my tea. “You’ve never seen Dirty Dancing? How is that even possible? It’s a classic. It should be required viewing.” I giggle.

“I was a little busy working the fields or getting into trouble.” A faint, tired smile curls the corner of his lips.

Don’t remind me.

“I’m going to take a quick shower. I feel like I constantly smell like old grapes, wine barrels, and dirt.” He chuckles.

Yes. It’s practically his signature scent. And I love it a little too much. Maybe I should convince him to bottle it and sell it at the winery. Or better yet, provide it to women as a free gift with purchase on Girls’ Nights at Sutter Creek. We’ll have them all as hypnotized as I am.

“Fill me in on what I missed when I get back.”

He’s coming back?

Well, butter my biscuit. Boy, does he ever.

Sam strolls in moments later wearing gray sweatpants, no shirt, and drying his damp hair with a fluffy white towel. Each movement of his arm makes his muscles come to life. I force my eyes back to the movie screen, swallowing hard. I’m torn between wishing he’ll put a shirt on and equally hoping he doesn’t.

His shower was so quick, he barely missed anything. We sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence as the climax of the movie builds. I continually remind myself to remain focused on the show in front of me, not the smoke show beside me.

On the screen, the iconic music swells, and Patrick Swayze walks purposefully into the crowded room, striding straight toward the table in the back. He unabashedly addresses the female lead’s father, reprimanding him for keeping her, and her potential, hidden away in a corner. Swayze delivers the famous line with absolute conviction.

Beside me, Sam lets out a low, thoughtful breath. His eyes are fixed on the screen as Swayze pulls her up onto the stage. Looking in Sam’s direction, I realize that somehow we’ve moved closer to one another as the movie has progressed. We’re curled up on the sofa, a thick fleece blanket draped over our legs while the movie continues to play. As the finale begins to build on screen, I can’t help the sudden laugh that bubbles up in my chest.

Sam shifts beside me, resting his arm along the back of the couch, his warm fingers occasionally brushing against the ends of my hair. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about something my friend Kat told me,” I say, turning my head to look up at him. “She works as a physician assistant in the ER at St. Luke’s. A few months ago, a patient came in with a pretty nasty leg injury. Apparently, her husband had tried to lift her overhead in their living room. Kat said the patient told her he was mimicking Patrick Swayze lifting Jennifer Grey in that exact dance move.”

Sam raises a brow, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And I’m guessing it didn’t end well?”

“Nope.” I giggle. “He dropped her mid-lift and ended up landing on top of her. They both had to be checked out.”

Sam lets out a deep, gravelly laugh that vibrates against the back of my neck. When had he placed his hand there? Wait… Is he playing with my hair?

“So I guess we’re not trying that move,” he adds, his mesmerizing blue eyes sparkling with humor.

I smile, taking him in for a quiet moment. Months of grueling, backbreaking labor out in the vineyard have left him looking even more rugged than usual. His jaw is defined, dusted with dark stubble, and his broad shoulders fill out his T-shirts in a way that makes my lower belly do somersaults. When he chooses to wear one, that is. His forearms are corded with lean muscle, and the sight of them is making my mouth water.

What is it about a man’s forearms? The sinewy, tanned limbs with prominent veins. Is it only appealing to medical professionals, or do all women feel this way? We’re always happy to see someone has accessible veins. But if that weren’t enough, his calloused hands are warm and strong where they rest against my shoulder. Sam looks every bit the hardworking man he’s become.

Honestly, I think to myself, my cheeks warming as my gaze lingers on him, I wouldn’t mind if you landed on top of me… I wisely keep that thought to myself, biting my lip to hide my grin as I lean back into his warmth and focus back on the movie.