His narrow-eyed gaze pinned her, his square jaw stone-hard. “Please give me your keys, Samara, and I’ll get your suitcase for you. And you’re welcome.”
They stood there facing each other. Mom hovered nearby. They both ignored her. Travis held out a hand. And waited.
Samara fought down the surge of frustration. Her mother had chastised her like a child, and now Travis was ordering her around like he was her father. Damn him.
She reached for her purse, dug out her car keys and thrust them at him. Without a word he turned and left the room.
“We need to talk, Samara,” her mother said quietly. “Maybe now isn’t the time. But before you leave...”
Samara’s insides twisted in knots at the thought. She’d rather chew her arm off than have that conversation, but again, she had to put aside all that old crap and deal with what was important at that moment. “We’ll see,” she said, just as quietly. “What about the funeral? When will it be?”
“I thought Friday would be a good day. That will allow Greg and Leila and the kids time to get here from New York as well as any of the other out-of-town executives if they want to attend.” She paused, her head bent. “I’ll get Ava to make up the bed in your room,” she continued, her voice determinedly steady. “And I’ll just go let her know that you and Travis will both be staying for dinner.” She hurried out of the room, her small slender figure outlined in the black sleeveless dress she wore. She was still so perfect.
As a young girl, Samara had admired her mother— so beautiful and charming, graciously hosting dinners and parties in their home. She’d never had to work outside the home, thanks to the success of Cedar Mill Coffee, and had been able to devote herself to her husband and her daughter and the charitable organizations she and Parker had chosen to support. It wasn’t until Samara was older that she’d realized her mother relied so heavily on her husband. Other friends had mothers who worked outside the home, mothers who were lawyers or doctors or even just worked at Macy’s. Samara knew her mother didn’t have to work, and that was fine, but her mother didn’t make a single decision without her husband’s input. Her love and devotion to her husband and their life together had been wonderful, but Samara always wished her mom would be a little more independent. In a million years, never would Samara have worried about her mother cheating on her husband.
Alone in the room, Samara sank back down into her chair and took in a long, shaky breath. Well, that had gone well. Not. She snorted at herself.
She rubbed her forehead and squeezed her eyes closed, trying to focus on breathing. Dinner with Travis and her mom was going to be as much fun as dental surgery.
After a moment she had a feeling of being watched, and she lifted her head to see Travis standing there holding her suitcase.
“Are you...”
“Don’t say it!” She jumped to her feet. “I’m fine. I’ll show you my room.” Damn. That sounded disturbingly intimate. But trying to reword it would just draw attention to her poor choice of words, so she brushed by him to lead the way upstairs.
He didn’t move out of the way, and his body was warm and solid, making her tingle all over. Conscious of his eyes on her, she walked stiffly to the foot of the wide, polished oak staircase, a plush runner in a muted sage green running up the center of it. She put a hand on the gleaming banister and started up the steps then paused to look over her shoulder.
His eyes were on her ass.
Holy crap.
She froze in place, one foot on the bottom step and stared at him. He lifted his gaze to her face, and she was pretty sure she saw a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as he realized she’d caught him checking her out. Oh, Godfrey. Once again her mind started spinning. What the hell did that mean? It couldn’t possibly mean anything. If it hadn’t been for that shift in his eyes, she would have assumed he was just following her and his eyes just happened to be looking there.
She forced herself to turn and lead him up the stairs, but her skin tingled with awareness, hot and tight, knowing as she climbed the stairs in front of him her butt was at his eye level. Then she had to lead him to her old room. She threw open the door and walked in, unsure of what to expect. If it was exactly the same girly pink teenage room, she was going to be embarrassed.
But no. The bubble gum color was mostly gone. Her eyes moved over walls now painted a soft taupe, the puffy duvet on the bed shades of chocolate, taupe and pink. Assorted matching cushions in various patterns of the same color were piled on the bed, and the armchair had been reupholstered in chocolate brown fabric. The rug she’d loved as a teenager, patterned in various shades of pink and beige, remained. It still looked feminine but also modern and grown up.