Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Wow.” Elation gave way to giddiness. I couldn’t help laughing, full-body chuckles at our wet, wonderful, and sticky mess. “Oh wow.”
“We’re gonna need a shower and then a mop.” Sam peered over the tub’s edge at the puddles on the floor. “And possibly a nap because my muscles have turned to mashed potatoes.”
“Totally Worth it.” I laughed harder.
“Pun intended.” Sam shook his head, chuckling along with me.
“Yup.” I grinned at him, but something in his gaze made me sober. Tenderness, the likes of which I’d never known, flooded me. I finally released the tub edges to cup his face while trying to label what I saw in his eyes. His affection was a gift, one I couldn’t begin to figure out how to say thank you for. “Sam…” I licked my parched lips. The water was cooling, and with it, my chance to say what I needed. “The past few weeks have been…everything. Everything. And I know you don’t want thanks, but I hope you know.”
“I know.” His eyes were as soft and gentle as his hands on my torso, holding me close. “And I feel the same way. I do.”
“How…?” The gifts kept coming. The way he echoed my feelings was overwhelming and awe-inspiring. “Tell me how to be what you need.”
“Keep being you. That’s all. Just be you.” He pulled me down for a soft kiss. I wasn’t sure it was at all that simple. Or enough. How could I possibly be enough for this marvel of a man?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Worth
Damn it. I peered at the spreadsheet on Sam’s ancient laptop for the umpteenth time that afternoon. I might have moments where I doubted my value to Sam romantically, but I was good at numbers, always had been. I trusted my analysis implicitly, but that didn’t mean I liked what I was seeing.
“Well, how bad is the damage?” Sam wandered over to the table in the back of the shop where I’d set up the computer to review bills and cash flow.
“Pretty darn bad. You’re behind with almost every supplier.” There was little point in sugarcoating the news, not that my pounding head and churning stomach would allow for much sweetness anyway. “The cash reserves are dwindling, and the latest work training grants are held up by some legislative red tape, which means your ability to make payroll is in jeopardy. And business is down nearly thirty percent compared to this time last summer. At least from what I can tell from your limited records.”
Sam made a frustrated noise as he peered over my shoulders. “Yeah, records have never exactly been my strong suit. Isn’t there any good news in all those number boxes?”
“I wish.” I reached for his hand, pulling it over my shoulder. I didn’t want to bring up the subject of the developer offer again, but it loomed large, at least in my mind. But Sam had an attachment to this building, this scrap of downtown. I, of all people, could understand that. After all, I was the one who’d driven hours and hours simply to see a particular tree.
“We’ll turn business around.” His voice was too bright. “The pet patio has been popular.”
“Might help if the patrons sitting out there actually purchased coffee from us.” I gestured out the window at the patio, where a group of women sat. Two of them had cups from Green Label Coffee with them, and none of them had food or beverages from us. Another seating area held a clump of students who’d brought a pair of beagles, but no coffee cups there either.
“Oops. I’ll get Marta to make a sign that the patio is for patrons only.”
“Good.” I stretched, rubbing my chest. My heartburn had returned while I’d reviewed all the numbers. The ulcer medications were no match for dismal news.
“Are you okay?” Sam leaned down to press a kiss on the top of my head. “Stomach again?”
“I’m fine.” I hated that he needed to fuss over me. I should be helping him, not one more thing for him to be concerned over. “Worry less about me and more about your shop.”
“I can do both.” His tone was wounded, which made my stomach ache that much more.
“Sorry. Hard day.” As far as apologies went, it was pretty weak, but it was the best I could do. “I forgot my morning meds, so I had to go back to the house and take them way behind schedule, and I was late to my group. Then, instead of letting me sneak in the back, the counselor made me share.”
“That does sound hard for you.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic to my complaints. “And probably why your stomach is off now.”
“Yeah.” I blew out a long breath. “This therapist thinks I have PTSD. That’s what Cal thinks too. The counselor called it unresolved trauma. There’s a group for that, apparently. God, I’m just so sick of dealing with my brain.”