Sam’s shoulders shifted and he gave her a grim smile. “How did that meeting go?”
“Let’s just say that both of us got beat up by a Govenor today.”
Sam laughed. “That bad?”
“You’re an immoral father, and I’m an unfit example for children.”
Instantly, his expression sobered. “No, you’re not. Through no fault of your own, you’ve been tossed into a situation you didn’t ask for and didn’t want. I know it hasn’t been easy, going from being a rich man’s daughter to a poor man’s wife. But you haven’t complained, you do what you have to do, and you keep trying. And Angie, you’re doing just fine with the girls.”
Compliments cut the ground out from under her. Especially from Sam, knowing that he blamed her for the collapse of their marriage and for the ruined reputation of a woman he had loved. Yet he found things to admire about her and possessed the generosity to say so.
“I burned the beans,” she said in a small voice, staring at him.
“Hell, I like burned beans,” he said, smiling.
“You don’t know this yet, but some of your underwear has a pinkish cast. Daisy’s red sash fell into the rinse tub.” She’d scrubbed like a demon to get his underwear from rose to light pink. Left the items soaking in bluing until she’d started to worry the strong solution would eat through the material.
“I won’t claim I like pink underwear,” he said, tilting his head back, “but I guess I can think of worse mistakes.”
“And Lucy hates me.”
His head came down and he fixed her with a level gaze. “Lucy was the lady of the house before you came, a seven-year-old trying to be a grown woman. Give her time to realize that now she can be a child again.”
Just like that, she understood. She had displaced Lucy and had become Lucy’s rival. Angie blinked. Lucy and Sam had been the grown-ups. At least that’s how it must have seemed to Lucy. Now it was Sam and Angie. Lucy had been responsible for the care of the house; now the house was Angie’s obligation. Lucy had tried to mother Daisy; now Angie did. Sam had belonged solely to the girls; now they shared him with Angie.
She covered her eyes and shook her head. “Sometimes I feel so inadequate.”
Sam’s arms came around her, startling her because she hadn’t heard him rise or walk toward her. “So do I,” he said in a tired voice, speaking against her hair.
Leaning backward, she rested against his chest, lightly so she wouldn’t put pressure on his bruised ribs. And she placed her hands over his at her waist.
The window over the sink reflected something Angie had never expected to see. She and Sam leaning on each other, depending on each other, finding comfort in touching. A moment ago she had felt as if the world were closing around her, as if the mountain of problems rearing before them was insurmountable. But with Sam’s arms around her, she felt protected and hopeful that together they could chew a few pieces out of that mountain.
All she had to do was turn in his arms and his mouth would be mere inches from hers.
Her breath accelerated and a spreading warmth flowed down her limbs.
“Angie?”
Wetting her lips, she answered in a husky voice. “Yes?”
“If I don’t lie down, I’m going to fall down.” His arms dropped away from her waist, and he rested his weight against the edge of the sink. “I hope that son of a bitch is as bruised and aching as I am.”
What a silly idiotic creature I am, she thought before she turned around. He was bruised, battered, and reeling with fatigue. Kissing was the last thing on his mind. On hers either, she hastily assured herself.
She dusted her hands together and tried to look brisk and efficient, like a person one could entrust with secrets, money, and children. Tried to look like a woman who had never entertained a single thought about kissing.
“I think you should sleep inside tonight, in your own bed. You’ll rest better.” When Sam’s gaze flickered, she added quickly, “I’ll sleep in the girls’ bed.”
“Of course.”
Blushing was a trait that she hated, hated, hated. “It wasn’t necessary for me to mention that,” she said, angry that she had.
“No.”
“I mean about me sleeping in the girls’ bed.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know why . . . it’s just . . .” To occupy her hands, which dangled uselessly by her sides, she stepped to the sink, edged Sam aside, and started scrubbing furiously at the bloody rags. “I know you aren’t thinking about . . .” She was digging herself deeper into a hole. “About dishonorable things.”