She could have continued lying through her teeth, but from the look on his face, Scott Sanderson already knew the truth. “Dad put it and the house in my name and now it’s going under. The business, that is, not the house. Although I’m having such bad luck, that’s probably next.”
“I see,” he said again.
Sam took a swallow of beer to stop herself from adding that it was her fault, that she’d been lazy and hadn’t learned how to run Silver Daughters properly when she’d the chance.
Scott drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay, so what do your sisters think about your situation?”
Her mood dipped even lower. “They don’t know. I didn’t want them to worry and I knew Nicole would freak out and Tabby would do something crazy and unhelpful and I…I thought I could handle it.”
Scott’s fingers moved even harder, humming against the wood of the table in a perceptible rhythm. That was right, he used to be a drummer. Sam remembered hearing the noise in the morning and early afternoons, remembered walking by once and seeing a shirtless Scott sitting behind his kit in the living room. His eyes had been closed, his smile beatific, sweat dripping down a chest that was surprisingly defined—
“Samantha,” Adult Scott said sharply. “I told myself I wasn’t going to elaborate about what my father is proposing, but considering you’ve been left on your own to deal with this, I want to tell you how much my father is offering for your property.”
“Okay…?”
“Three million.”
Sam almost dropped her pint glass. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“Butwhy?”
“He wants your property and he wants it without all the rigmarole of dealing with a real estate company.”
“Jesus.”
That was…something. No, that waseverything. Three million dollars was enough money that she could create a whole new life for herself. Travel to New York, Barcelona or Tokyo and try to break into the tattoo scenes there. For a moment, she reveled in the fantasy, then the sheer unlikeliness of the offer hit her like a hammer blow. “Your dad hates us—he always has. Why the hell does he want our house so much?”
“I have a few theories, nothing concrete, but does it matter? I can promise you it’s a good deal. You don’t have to take it, there’ll be no pressure from his end, I can assure you, but at least now you know selling is an option.”
“True.”
Sam let her mind rest on that incredible number.Three million dollars…
She rolled the idea of all that money around her brain as Scott gulped the last of his pint. He was drinking even faster than she was, which was saying something. Maybe he’d become an alcoholic in London, though his tapping fingers and shifting body said nerves were more likely. He reminded her of a client who’d come in for an impulse tattoo they would almost certainly regret. Whenever that happened, Sam pretended they were short of ink and the client mimed disappointment while their eyes said ‘oh thank fuck.’ She wasn’t sure she wanted to slow Scott Sanderson’s roll, though. Not now her second pint was almost finished and her gaze kept falling to Scott Sanderson’s hands, his broad shoulders, his mouth…
“Sam,” he said quietly.
Their eyes met and Sam’s heart leapt into her mouth. “What?”
Scott brushed his lower lip with his thumb. “Look, let’s stop with the business. I saw they’re doing half-price margaritas. Are you still obsessed with lemons?”
A memory flashed bright in front of her. Sitting on the nature strip outside her house, the afternoon sweet with a sunshine and cherry blossom perfume. Tabby and Nicole had given her lemon wedge after lemon wedge, shrieking with laughter as she sucked them dry.
“I am still obsessed with lemons. Whenever I want to freak Noah out, I eat them like oranges.”
Scott laughed. “Then shall I…?”
He made a little motion toward the bar and Sam saw the afternoon unfold before them. She and Scott would drink margaritas and talk about the past ten years, avoiding the painful confusing spots—the letter, the crushes, the underwear pictures. They would flirt and the sun would set, and then they would be drunk enough to kiss.
For a moment Sam held the idea in her hand, cupped it like an open bottle of ink. Then she let it spill onto the ground. She was lonely and Scott was just visiting. Aside from some mindless pleasure, what good would come of them sleeping together? Old Samantha said mindless pleasure was enough, but if the past eight weeks had taught her anything it was that she needed to question her sources.
“I should get back to work,” she said, draining the last of her pint. “Thanks for the offer, though. And the other offer.”
“Sure.”
Though Scott still had some beer left, they both stood and pulled on their jackets, and the fact that they wouldn’t see each other without deliberate effort dangled in the air between them. He smiled at her. “You still don’t have a phone, do you?”