All I Ever Wanted Read online

  I laughed. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Gawd, no,” she shot back. “But you asked about the bakery, so I’m telling you the official party line. Eat anything I make myself at your own risk, although my family’s always quick to cover for me.”

  Huh. She was a curious little puzzle. A few things about her finally made sense now, though, like how—during the concert—she’d carried backstage to us this plastic tray of water cups for the band. To help out the organizers, she’d explained with a grin. She’d handled the tray so expertly that I immediately asked if she’d ever been a waitress. She flat-out denied it. (Well, her exact quote was, “That’s not my kind of job.”)

  I saw now that, while her words might have been technically true, they had also been misleading. She wasn’t a mere waitress at her family’s business, and it was definitely not her kind of gig, but I’d bet money she’d had plenty of experience carrying trays—large and small. Like today at the opening ceremony for Winterfest.

  Something else made sense now too, in retrospect. I’d only seen her with her big group of college friends for a few minutes, but I couldn’t shake the feeling then that, although she was smiling and laughing with them, she wasn’t fully a part of the group. She’d seemed a little removed from them. Again, that whole “lost princess” thing in yet another town where people didn’t recognize her identity. It might’ve been a different setting, but it was clear she didn’t fit cleanly into either environment.

  “I’m thinkin’ I have an almost complete tally of your fabrications now,” I told her, not trying to disguise my mockery, but I could feel that my earlier anger had all but dissipated into the frosty air. “Why’d you add on that bit about Switzerland?”

  She swiped her palm across her face and grimaced. “Oh, Alex. I’m sorry. How you must hate me. The whole Zurich thing—the only reason I told you that was because, when I was trying to leave, you were talking about staying in touch. I thought if I said I was studying abroad for a semester that you’d lose interest in me and I wouldn’t have to explain all of this to you. Ever.”

  “But, big fool that I was, I insisted you give me your number anyway,” I said. “And I got a pizzeria.”

  “You did.” She swallowed and looked away. “I’m sorry. Again. I can’t tell you how much I truly hadn’t wanted to hurt you. By the time I finally left your room, I knew I’d screwed it all up so badly there was no way to fix it. It was just too late. Right?” She looked at me with deep regret and not a shred of hope that I’d do anything but agree with her. So I did.

  “Right,” I replied, even though it was a lie.

  She nodded. “Well, I really hope you’ll accept my apology…someday.” She shoved her mittened hands into the pockets of her fluffy pink coat and seemed so miserable that I wanted to wrap my arms around her and squeeze her until she smiled again.

  I forced a heavy exhale. “Yeah, don’t know if I can do that. Not without some further amends being made. By you. With me. Possibly over dinner.”

  She stopped mid-stride and got all squinty again. “What?”

  “Dinner,” I said. “You. Me. Tonight.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll maybe consider overlooking how you broke my heart if you let me take you out to eat. For pizza,” I added with a smirk. “How’s six-ish?”

  She shook her head and something intangible and elusive in the vicinity of my gut plummeted to my toes. “I didn’t actually break your heart, did I?” she whispered. “Please tell me that didn’t happen—”

  “Listen up, Amanda or Samantha or whatever you want me to call you.” I waited until she stopped shaking her head and muttering under her breath. “No, you did not break my heart in October. I was hurt and I was angry, but I was not broken.”

  She looked so relieved that I smiled at her involuntarily. Then I tried to mask it with a stern expression. Wasn’t gonna let her off the hook this easy.

  “However, I will be very disappointed and inclined to be unforgiving if you don’t accept my invitation and show up as yourself tonight. And I’ll also be tempted to start spreading nasty rumors about you. Little towns like these are known for their gossip, aren’t they? And maybe even give you a new nickname. Like, oh, ‘Sami the Cincinnati Heartbreaker.’ Somethin’ like that.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You wouldn’t.”

  I wrinkled my nose right back at her. “Try me.”

  She studied me for so long I almost squirmed like a teen boy under her gaze. But I held my ground. And waited.

  Finally, she found her voice again. “Six p.m., you said? All right. Where?”

  Sami

  If I thought it would be remotely possible to get out of having to explain any of this to my nosy, overprotective brother, I would’ve avoided going back to the Village Hall and instead headed straight home to hyperventilate for two hours until my dinner with Alex.

  But Oliver was not someone who’d tolerate being blown off.

  “What the hell were you thinking, hooking up with that loser?” Oliver said when I got back to our booth in the building.

  The Bake Sale was unfortunately almost over, and I felt bad for having left him to handle it all while I talked with Alex. But the alternative was unthinkable. Another minute of those two in the same place at the same time and there would’ve been a fistfight. Brownies and cupcake heads would’ve gone flying.

  “We’re going to talk about this, Sami,” Oliver threatened. “Or I’ll tell Mom and Dad that you have lousy judgment and need to be watched more carefully.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, because you’re so insightful, mature, and good with relationships.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” my brother demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Let’s just drop it for now. Please.”

  Miraculously, he said, “Okay.” I couldn’t help but notice he looked kind of hurt though.

  I exhaled, already regretting my snappish tone. Oliver was a kind and caring brother, and we were only a year apart in age, but we did not lead identical lives or think identical thoughts. One of these days, he’d have to figure that out.

  By four thirty, things were wrapping up at the Bake Sale. Dad scored second place in the judging with his famous brownie (first place went to Mrs. Hortense and her cassata cake, which was deserving of the honor—it was excellent), and we’d sold every item we’d brought. All in all, a big victory for Abbott’s Sweet Confections.

  Oliver and I packed up the empty trays, cleaned up our booth and headed back to the bakery. The air was so cold that our breath came out in little white puffs.

  “Remember when we used to pretend we were smoking?” my brother asked me, trying, I could tell, to lighten the tension that had built up between us. Deep down, he was unfailingly a good guy. No question he was on my side. He wanted our relationship to stay harmonious, and I appreciated that. “You’d hold your fingers in front of your face like you were gripping a cigarette and exhale.” He mimicked the action, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Oliver always did know how to make me laugh.

  “Yeah, Mom would tell us to knock it off. That people might think we were actually smoking,” I said.

  “Obviously, at ages eight and seven, we were on the straight path to lung cancer,” Oliver quipped. Then he sighed. “Look. I’m…sorry, okay? That guy pissed me off, the way he acted like that. Making those innuendos about you and him.” And he did look really ticked. He couldn’t hide it.

  “It’s not just that, Oliver,” I told him, frustrated because there was no way for me to clearly explain the situation without telling him everything from the beginning—and I couldn’t do that. “Besides, that wasn’t Alex’s fault.”

  “So what happened? Why didn’t he know your name? And why didn’t he know who I was?” my brother demanded, getting a little too parental-sounding for my liking.

  I huffed and took faster strides to the bakery door. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

  With my arms pumping, I sped into the bakery be
fore him and headed straight to the kitchen to rinse and put away the trays. I figured that if I made enough clatter cleaning up the mess we’d left behind this conversation wouldn’t have to happen.

  No such luck.

  “I just want to understand,” Oliver said finally, persistent as ever, even as he appeared to be busy working. He was scrubbing the top of the stove like he was trying to erase his arch enemy.

  I grimaced and continued rinsing the dirty utensils. “Look, you got a bad first impression of Alex. I—” The silverware clanked in the sink as I tried to figure out how best to explain that night in Cincinnati. There wasn’t a good way. “When we met at the concert, I didn’t tell him my real name. But we talked for a long time and I liked him, and he seemed to like me, and…I don’t know. Things just spiraled out of control when they shouldn’t have. It was really my mistake, not his.”

  “Did you two—” Oliver began and then stopped.

  “Seriously?” I asked with a snort. “If we did, do you think I’d want to discuss my sex life with you?”

  My brother laughed, and his face turned a little red. “No. I suppose not.”

  “Didn’t think so.” I paused. “But…there is something you and I need to talk about.”

  Oliver stopped scrubbing the stove and stared at me weirdly. “About what?”

  “It’s about you,” I admitted, hoping I wasn’t making a terrible mistake here. But there were two people I cared about and they might both lose out on something wonderful in life if they didn’t get a little help now. Not that I was any kind of relationship guru, but I did love them both, and I had to do something before it was too late.

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “What about me?”

  I inhaled deeply and kept washing the knife I was cleaning. It was one thing to decide to drop a bomb on someone. It was another to actually do it.

  “You’re going to wear the metal off that blade if you don’t stop,” he said, coming over to me and staring at my head until I was forced to face him. “Why do we need to talk about me, Sami? I haven’t done anything. You’re not even around anymore, so how could I have—”

  I slammed the knife into the sink to get him to shut up long enough so I could speak. “Honestly, Oliver, how can you be so brain dead? Maybe instead of focusing on my love life—or lack thereof—you should open your eyes and look at your own.”

  He blinked and gaped at me like a confused fish. “Sami, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Usually he was the one who took on the parental role—privilege of being the oldest—but it was my turn for once. I planted a fist on my hip and let him have it. “You know, I wouldn’t even be bringing this up unless it was a life-or-death situation, but if you don’t pull your head out of your ass immediately, you’re going to blow the best thing that could ever happen to you.”

  “Wait, what am I missing here?”

  “Oliver Abbott,” I said on a sigh, “Maya has been madly in love with you for a long time now. Like half a decade long. And if you don’t do something about it, you’re going to lose her.”

  My brother looked like he’d been hit by the recycling truck. “Wait, what?”

  I wanted to shake him and hug him at the same time. Poor idiot. He really hadn’t seen it. All these years to be staring love in the face and to miss it completely. It was kind of remarkable. What I wouldn’t have given to have had someone adore me the way sweet, caring Maya adored my brother.

  “Oliver, you are so thickheaded sometimes,” I said softly. “You’re so busy focusing on the small things that you miss the big thing in front of you. The only reason I’m even telling you this is because you’re this close to losing Maya for good.” I pressed my thumb and index finger together and hesitated until I saw that long-awaited flash of comprehension on my brother’s face. “She’s too wonderful for you to keep hurting her with your stubborn blindness. So stop focusing on me right now. Trust me, you have your own issues to deal with, big brother.”

  I prayed I was doing the right thing—not only for Oliver’s sake, but for Maya’s too. Not that I’d be telling her about the little chat I’d just had with my brother. She’d all but melt from the embarrassment. But I’d held on to this secret for far too long. I might never have that kind of love in my life, but I’d be damned if I stood by and let two of the dearest people in my world wreck their shot at it.

  With a burst of industriousness, I grabbed the knife from the sink, wiped it dry, and put away. The bakery was clean enough, in my opinion. So I waved a fast goodbye to my brother, who was still staring at me in shocked silence, and rushed home.

  I had to change. My clothes for sure, but I also needed to slip on some decent walking shoes. Alexander Hamilton was the type who liked to stretch those long, sinewy legs of his for an hour or more at a time. We’d strolled outside for ages the night of the concert too. I didn’t think I’d ever met a guy who liked to walk so much, especially if he owned his own car.

  Then I all but sprinted to the town square, where we were meeting by the Carson McNeil Abbott statue—my great-great-grandfather and one of the town’s founders—so I could be there by six.

  If I thought my punctuality would be rewarded, though, I was wrong. Alex was already standing there, arms crossed, his black tufts of hair sticking out in every direction—but he was somehow able to make it look fashionable—and glancing irritably at his watch.

  “Six-oh-two, Miss Abbott,” he said formally when he spotted me. “You’re late.”

  I studied his expression closely to see how serious he was about this. With Alex, it could be hard to tell. His eyes were wary and unamused, but his lips gave him away. One corner quirked upward. Just for a second, but I saw it.

  “You said ‘six-ish,’ remember? Besides, your watch is wrong.” I pointed to the clock tower above the Village Hall. “Looks like six o’clock on the dot to me.”

  He glanced up to read the time and his hint of a smirk blossomed into a flash of a grin. “Fine. I’ll let you slide on it tonight, but I’ll have you know my watch is not wrong. It’s set according to Greenwich Mean Time.”

  I feigned an unimpressed shrug. “So is my cell phone. I don’t know why you even need a watch anyway if you’ve got a phone.”

  His gray-green eyes widened, and before I knew what was happening, he’d grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward him, pressing my hand against his firm chest. Even through the layers of leather and fabric, I could feel the thump of his heartbeat underneath. It was teasing my fingertips. Making me far too aware of his masculinity.

  “What are—” I began.

  “Do you feel my pulse?”

  I nodded.

  “A watch has a pulse, a rhythm I can feel, a ticking I can hear—keeping time with the moments of life.” He abruptly let go of my wrist, and my hand dropped to my side. “A cell phone does not.”

  I swallowed. “Oh.”

  He grinned again and nudged me toward the sidewalk. “C’mon, let’s walk a bit before going in to the restaurant. I made our reservation for six forty-five.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  He tilted his head and appeared concerned. “Is that too late? Are you hungry right now?”

  I shook my head. “Not that. You just always like to walk.”

  “I do,” he admitted. “I get my best thinking done then. Gives me time to see things that are happening around me. To really look at people. To create stories about them and reasons why they act the way they do.”

  “Like what?”

  He glanced at a cluster of townspeople in the middle of the square, many of them bustling around because the craft fair was still in progress.

  “Here, I’ll show you.” He nodded toward a group of teens talking on the corner. “See that blond kid with the green and white jacket? His name is Jack Samson III. He’s got that plastic bag poking out of his pocket, but in the bag he’s got a roll of tokens wrapped inside. Tokens that can only be used at a gaming station a few hours north in Clevel
and. His parents don’t know he and his buddy Bart”—Alex pointed toward the tallest teen in the group—“skip school once every few weeks and drive up there. Not only to play the machines but also to meet up with Cassie and Abigail, the Florentina sisters. Jack’s been in love with Abigail Florentina for three years, and he’s just biding his time until he can permanently move to Cleveland. Maybe go to college up there.”

  I laughed. “You’re funny. His real name is Steve Delaney, and he’s the son of one of the grocers in town. His friend is Charlie Westmore, not Bart. Steve always has a plastic bag in his pocket, hand, or stuffed in his school backpack, and it’s filled with some kind of produce. His parents are serious food pushers, and he was a roly-poly kid before he hit his growth spurt. My guess is he’s got an apple or a pear in the bag that his mom insisted he bring in case he got hungry, but he was too full or just hasn’t had time to eat it yet.”

  “Huh. That’s an interesting story,” Alex said, “but I like mine better.”

  I grinned. Yeah, I liked his version better too. “Okay, try again. Let’s hear another one of your instant histories.”

  He nodded, glanced with deliberation around the square before finally turning his attention toward Reverend Randolph.

  Alex lowered his head and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, “There’s something going on between that clergyman—Pastor Mitchell Hemmings—and, uh, Jacqueline Moran, the wife of the local surgeon. That blond woman standing over there.” He shot a look at Alyssa Keaton, who was married all right but actually to a lawyer. One who was out of town on business. A lot.

  “I saw her staring at him earlier today at the opening ceremony,” Alex continued. “It was odd, the way she and her friends were glancing over at him and then chirping about it in hushed whispers. But the way he looked back at them was the telling thing. Like he was proud of his conquest. Recent church scandal, I take it?”