“Vince! What understanding?”
He sighed. “He told me he was going to be around more, so I better get used to seeing him.”
“And?”
“Nothing.” The motorcycle rumbled to life, fil ing the night with dual exhaust and putting an end to the conversation. He backed out of the drive and took off, leaving Autumn to stare after him. There was more to it than “nothing.” She knew Vince too wel to believe him. She let out a breath and headed up the steps to the front door, decorated with a friendly ghost. She was tired from trick-or-treating for the past three hours and hoped that Sam didn’t plan on staying long. She was meeting two prospective brides in the morning and needed to be sharp. She opened the door and headed up the steps as Conner told his latest knock-knock joke. Sam laughed like it was the height of hilarity. It wasn’t.
Conner sat next to Sam on the mint green couch, his coat thrown on the table. Father and son’s blond heads were close together as they hovered over the bag of candy sitting between them. The big number sixteen on Conner’s youth jersey was not only Sam’s number; apparently it had also belonged to someone named Bobby Clarke. “Bobby had a hard shot,” Conner had informed her a few weeks ago. “But Dad’s is harder. He won three times for the hardest shot.”
“Nice shiner,” Sam complimented Conner’s black eye.
“It’s like yours. Last season.”
“I don’t have a scar on my cheek.”
“I know. You probably wil , though.”
Autumn shrugged out of her coat and moved into the dining room. “Don’t make yourself sick on al that candy.”
Conner pretended not to hear her. “You can have a Kit-Kat, Dad.”
“I like Dots. I used to stick al the different colors on my teeth and chase El a around.”
“Who’s El a?”
“My sister. I told you about her.”
“Oh yeah. She died.”
Autumn hung her coat on a chair and moved back into the living room. She was used to having a man in the house. Vince was over al the time, but Sam brought a different energy with him. It wasn’t as aggressive or defensive as in the past, but it wasn’t altogether comfortable either. It was too much. Too much rugged testosterone radiating from her sofa and fil ing the room.
“You better let me have those Dots so your teeth don’t rot,” he said, poking around in the bag. “Maybe some of those M&M’s, too. There might be some green ones in there, and I know how much you hate anything that reminds you of veggies.”
The last thing Sam LeClaire needed was green M&Ms.
“You can have them al .”
Sam glanced at Autumn, then returned his eyes to the bag. “Thanks, but I—” His head whipped up, and he stared at her as if she’d suddenly turned into an alien. His brows shot up his forehead, and the corners of his blue eyes pinched. An evil alien. She looked behind her, saw nothing, then returned her gaze to his. “What?”
He pointed at her white Jersey. “What the hel are you wearing?”
“A hockey jersey.” She looked down and pointed at the penguin on the front. “Hockey is our Hal oween theme this year.”
His voice was quiet. Deadly. “It’s Pittsburgh.”
“I like it. The penguin has little skates on his feet.” She looked back up. “It’s cute.”
“It’s gay.”
“Sam. Language.”
“Jerseys aren’t supposed to be cute.” He frowned and pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re wearing Crosby’s number.”
She looked at the 87 on her sleeve. “Who?”
“Jesus. The bastard just scored on me with a hinky puck. He should have been embarrassed instead of skating around like a prom queen.”
Whatever that meant. She pointed at Conner, who was hanging on Sam’s every word. “Language, please.”