A Match Made in Heaven?

“Don’t be. I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”

“I read you loud and clear.”

In the two years they’d lived in the flat in North Hollywood, she’d become more domestic than when he had married her. She’d had no choice, he supposed. No maids, no gardeners, no cook, no housekeeper, no chauffeur.

Just him. She had him.

Was he enough for her without dollar signs written all over him? He had to know. A deep breath fizzled between his teeth. He skimmed a hand across his eyes, wondering if he’d been too hard on her, on them both.

She grabbed a mug and dipped it in the pot, casting him a closed look. “This is a self-service diner.”

“Fine.” He hauled himself up and watched while she settled on the apple crate.

Tomato soup dribbled from the side of the mug, and she slid a finger upward to the brim, catching it. She flicked her tongue and licked the warm liquid from her fingertip. His stomach muscles contracted, and he nearly groaned aloud. He’d tasted her sweetness, her soft— Gulping, he glanced around for a distraction. Papers, cartons and empty cans were piled high in the corner by the back door. “I’ll take that trash out after we eat.”

“Suit yourself.” Samantha reached for a package of crackers and crumbled them in her hand. Why did she feel her marriage was like that? Crumbling. “Makes no difference to me.” She sprinkled the broken fragments over the soup.

“Why’s that?”

“Won’t be staying.”

“Goin’ somewhere?”

Chapter Nine (#ulink_017171a8-4d7e-59d2-974b-5170aa0b3c20)

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Home to mother.” Samantha sipped the soup and stared at him over the mug’s rim.

“Figures.” He scooped soup into his mug and leaned against the counter, sampling the warm liquid.

She ignored his sarcasm. “Until baby comes.”

“Then what?” He narrowed his eyes, his jaw rigid.

“Then I-I’ll know better what to do.”

“You don’t know now, Sam?” The gentleness in his voice soothed her ruffled nerves, yet the subtle censure underlining his words challenged her temper.

Samantha lowered her lashes, concealing the confusion she was certain was apparent in her eyes. After she’d married Johnny, she enjoyed ‘playing house,’ especially with him pitching in and helping turn it into their little home. But by the time she’d gotten pregnant, the novelty had worn off, and now she wanted more. After nearly two years of living the life of a pauper, she began missing the comforts of her previous lifestyle.

When mamma had stopped throwing Michael Scott in her face, finally accepting she’d married Johnny for keeps, Samantha hoped she and Johnny could work out the kinks in their relationship. Make some decisions about their future; like Johnny getting a regular job and moving them into a bigger house and improving their standard of living, especially now with baby on the way.

Crackers floated on the soup, and she took a sip, licking a drop from her lip. She’d been ready to approach him about their future plans, when wham! The notice had arrived claiming their marriage a scam. She’d been mortified, and with her six months pregnant.

Although in these modern times it didn’t matter to some that a woman was unmarried and pregnant, to Samantha and her family background it was a scandal. It mattered to her.

Until she learned the truth about the fraudulent marriage license, she’d tread with caution. She wouldn’t sell out to appease her mother or the upper-crust snobs in her circle. In the meantime, she expected more from her husband and their life together. Would Johnny meet her expectations, and did he even want to?

Spooning soggy crackers in her mouth, she chewed and tasted tangy tomato. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. He propped his hip against the counter and drank from the mug in his hands … hands that had held her tenderly, caressed her, touched her in the most intimate of ways … A blush warmed her skin, and she swerved away from such dangerous memories… dangerous to her peace of mind. As for Johnny, his casual stance, for all intents and purposes, made it seem like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Aggravating.

It hadn’t seemed things could get worse, but here she was, smack in the middle of nowhere, in a ramshackle house that looked ready to fold at any minute.

“Can this house stand?”

He snapped his head up in surprise, but realizing her query was literal rather than figurative, a blank mask fell on his face. “It’s stronger than it looks.”

The play on words, the double entendres, seemed apt somehow.

“What’s with all this rainfall in the desert?” she asked, her tone irritable.

He shrugged. “In November thunderstorms are common even in the Mojave. High winds—”

“Seems kinda freaky to me.”

That made his eyes crinkle with amusement, and her heart melted. And to combat that feeling, she fueled her next words with a sharper edge.

“Next thing you know it’ll be a snow blizzard.” She toyed with the spoon in the half-filled mug, and then stirred with force. “What with global warming—” A blob of tomato flew up and landed on the tip of her nose. “Oops.”

Johnny chuckled, set his mug on the counter and stepped closer, not missing a beat. “Higher altitudes like the Mesquite and Clark Mountains have been known to get snow.” He dabbed the splatter from her nose with his shirt cuff. “The Sierra Nevadas.”

His eyes held hers.

She felt vulnerable, transparent, nervous. “Thanks,” she whispered, raising the mug to her mouth and taking a drink.

“No problem.” He sauntered back to the counter and flicked his wrist. “You can use me as your sponge boy anytime.”

A hint of a smile on her mouth, but she hid it behind the mug.

“So the weather’s not going wacky?” She wished the same could be said for their life, which launched into wacko mode since yesterday.

“Nope.”

Their banter simply delayed the inevitable, and they both knew it. As much as it hurt, she had to get away for a little while. To think clearly. Give them both some breathing room to sort things out and see—her lip quivered—if their marriage survived. Or toppled, making them another divorce statistic.

“When you leavin’?” he asked, his words cool, seeming to pick up on her thoughts.

“Tomorrow. The weather should clear by then.”

“How you plan on getting there?”

“Joh—”

“Tsk, tsk.” He clicked his tongue, downed the soup in two gulps and set the mug in the sink. “I’m not playing chauffeur to you again, so soon.”