A Match Made in Heaven?

“Have I come at an inopportune time?” Michael Scott stood on the doorstep, dressed in a designer suit, his blond hair slicked back and his arms laden with red roses. Glancing from one to the other, he preened like a peacock. “I’ve come to claim my stolen bride.”

Chapter Three (#ub4f1fb91-2fb8-5b5b-b4e0-03879c22a198)

Oblivious to simmering tension, Michael skimmed his pale blues over Sam’s soot-streaked face, a notch lower to the plastic bowl in her hands, and up again, zeroing on Johnny’s batter-stained shirt.

“A domestic dispute?” He grinned like a Cheshire cat and took a step closer, pinching his nose in distaste. “Not trying to cook, are you Irishman?”

“You’re outta line, bozo.” Johnny lunged and landed a right hook on his jaw. “Beat it.”

“Johnny!” Sam grabbed his sleeve to pull him away but by then, Michael lay sprawled on the walk, scarlet blooms flying every which way.

“Should’ve done that two years ago.”

She squinted at the sunlight and shoving past Johnny, wobbled down the two steps to the fallen man. “Are you all right, Michael?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, reaching for her outstretched hand. “That freckle-faced leprechaun better watch his temper or he’ll land in jail.”

“I think not.” Johnny advanced like a man with a mission. “You’re trespassing.”

“This is Samantha’s property, too.”

“Yeah, and she’s my wife.”

“Not anymore.” A triumphant grin split his mouth. “She’s mine.”

“Michael …” Samantha glanced at Johnny and sucked in her breath, allowing it to slowly filter between her teeth. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw steel and a flush slashed his cheekbones. He was spoiling for a fight. “Johnny …”

“We’ll see about that.” Johnny pushed up his sleeves and in one long stride came at him.

In fluid motion, reminiscent of his former ballet training, Michael grabbed her outstretched hand, leaped up and raised his fists.

“Right, put up your dukes, then.”

“Bang on, mister,” Johnny muttered.

“No!” She kept him at bay with the bowl she held and pushed Michael back with her other hand. “Stop it, the both of yoa-aa-h!” She doubled over and the bowl cluttered down the steps, pancake batter splattering the cement walk.

“Samantha!” Johnny reached for her, his whole body seeming to pale. “What is it?”

Michael Scott stood locked on the step, mouth hanging open. “What ca-a-an I do?”

“Shut up!”

“A-agh … I’ve got to …” She leaned against Johnny’s shoulder. “Not to worry.” She took a deep breath and exhaled in puffs. “I-I need to lie down for a minute.”

Samantha lowered her lashes, hating to worry Johnny and panic Michael, but she had to do something to diffuse the situation. A woman could take license at a time like this, couldn’t she? She felt a twinge of uncertainty; was that a niggle pricking her conscience?

“Sure, honey.” Johnny scooped her up in his arms, climbed the steps, kicked the front door open and strode into the living room.

“Michael,” he bellowed. “Fluff up the cushions, will ya?”

Michael thawed to life and pranced behind him.

He placed Sam on the sofa and knelt beside her, holding her hand. “You okay, Sammy mine?”

Michael grabbed a magazine off the coffee table, fanning himself.

Johnny shot him a frosty look.

Michael froze in mid-motion, and then quickly turned the paper fan toward Sam.

“Thank you, both.” She pushed up to a sitting position, not missing the antagonistic glances between the two men. “Now, let’s talk this out.”

“You okay, Sam?” Johnny brushed a golden curl off her brow, his gaze connecting with hers.

“Fine … like civilized—”

“Sure?”

“Yes, Johnny—people.”

“Good.” Johnny leaped to his full six-foot height, flexed his hands, and light glinted off his wedding ring. He stared Michael down. “You, get out of my house.”

“For you, Samantha.” Michael pulled a wilted rose from his breast pocket and offered it to her.

Johnny knocked it from his hand.

“Johnny …” She touched his arm.

“Samantha, do you want me to go?” Michael took a step toward her but Johnny blocked his path.

“Michael …” she whispered.

“My wife does not want you to stay” –Johnny gave her a tentative glance— “do you?”

“She’s not your wife, anymore.” Michael almost stomped his foot.

“Stop.” She fell back against the cushions and closed her lashes. A myriad of emotions churned inside her, and she opened her eyes wide. “Out.”

Startled, both men gaped at her.

“You and yo—”

“Okay, okay, Sa-sa-mantha,” Michael stammered, backing away. “Do-don’t get upset again, please.”

Johnny grinned.

Michael glowered at him. “I’ll be back for her.”