Page 67 of Run Home

When I stand up from her hug, I’m met with the brick wall that is Griffin and Sam’s dad, David. He’s about three inches taller than me with broad shoulders and massive hands that fully envelop mine in a handshake.

“Mr. West,” I stammer, shrinking beneath the intensity of his blue-eyed stare.

His stare cracks with a smile as he releases my hand. “Adrian. You’ve called me ‘David’ for years now. No reason that should change.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, then amend, “I mean, David. It’s good to see you all again. Especially for such a happy occasion.”

Loosen up, man. Stop being so stiff. You’re acting like Carson.

Sam’s older siblings, Sawyer and Miranda, are next in line to greet me along with their significant others. I receive another crushing handshake from Sawyer, but otherwise, no one makes any overt threats. Sawyer and his wife usher their kids around to the backyard, and Sam gets tugged along in the commotion.

Ian steps toward me, looking so similar to Sam. He has the same light hair and slight build, although he has a couple of inches on Sam. His eyes are entirely green to Sam’s blue-green lagoons, and those green eyes are currently locked on me with an unblinking gaze.

His voice is low when he says, “I may be the smallest of all the men in the West family. But the thing about studying biology is that you learn a multitude of fascinating ways that life can suddenly end. Sammi has taken care of me my entire life, and I’ll put my research to good use if you don’t take care of her.”

There’s no sarcasm in his statement. His calm countenance conveys exactly how serious he is, and I respect him for it. Holding out my hand to shake his, I say, “I believe every word. And I swear that Sam’s going to be taken care of for the rest of her life. As long as she’ll let me.”

With a restrained nod of approval, Ian shakes my hand before turning to catch up to the rest of the West family. Sam returns to my side, her eyes dancing with delight at having all her family in one place. In this short moment of privacy between guests arriving, I grip her waist with one hand, pulling her hip against mine as I lean down to briefly kiss her.

She sighs and reaches a hand up to my cheek.

Heaven.

Several hours later, I drive Sam back to my house, where her car is waiting. I’m kicking myself for asking her to come to my house earlier instead of picking her up from her apartment so she wouldn’t have to drive home so late. But also, I wouldn’t trade the time we had alone together before the rehearsal for anything in the world.

Sam dissects the evening as I drive, relaying conversations she had with family members about us, swearing they were all positive. By the time I pull the car into the garage, I’m fairly confident that I didn’t burn any West family bridges tonight—at least, if Sam’s not embellishing the truth.

When I turn off the car, Sam’s hand catches my right arm before I can open the door. “Thanks for being a great date tonight. The best date,” she says. But there’s a haunted look in her eyes that doesn’t match her words.

Something’s hidden underneath her statement, and I don’t know the right way to uncover what that is. I don’t know if she wants it uncovered. I lean forward to kiss her gently, buying myself a minute to think.

Unfortunately, the second my lips meet hers, my brain stops processing logical thoughts. My hand finds its way to Sam’s neck, spreading my fingers across the length of smooth skin there. But before I get completely lost in her, I remind myself that I have to learn to face uncomfortable emotions with Sam.

Not wanting to alarm her, I gradually scale back our kiss until I break away completely. I leave my hand on the side of her neck, tracing her jaw with my thumb to maintain that point of connection as I say, “Sam? I want to apologize to you about something.”

At the speed of light, her smile crashes to a frown. A crease furrows between her brows. “What? Why? You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m not upset at you about anything. We’re fine, aren’t we?”

The fear kindling behind her eyes spurs me forward. “We are more than fine. But back when I was packing for the All-Stars, you mentioned that the way Veronica and Lynsey are being weird brought up reminders of the way Ryan used you because you were Griffin’s sister.”

Sam recoils, and I start to regret rehashing the conversation. But deep down, I know I need to. Because I shut down before it was even a conversation the first time. “I want to apologize because you brought up something that was clearly hard to talk about—emotions that were painful—and I froze up and didn’t know how to respond.”

“It’s fine, Adrian. You didn’t do anything wrong, and you don’t need to apologize,” Sam says, trying to cut out the legs from my apology before I can finish.

“No, I was wrong because I didn’t support you in that moment the way I want to support you,” I explain. “I’ll be honest—I don’t really know what I should have done. I don’t know the right way to respond when you’re feeling hard emotions like that, but I want to learn. What did you need from me? What would have helped?”

Sam’s eyes bounce back and forth between mine, panic growing with each movement. “I . . . I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know why I even brought it up—I shouldn’t have. Because now you’re feeling guilty for something that you shouldn’t even be worrying about. I shouldn’t—”

“Cielo,” I say, clamping one hand on her knee. My use of the nickname she now understands brings a soft sigh to her lips, quieting her panic. “You did need something from me, and that’s okay. Maybe it was reassurance, and I’m sorry I didn’t give that to you sooner. Because I like you for you, and I think that all of your hair customers do too.”

A smile teases the edges of Sam’s lips. “Hair customers?”

Throwing up my hands, I ask, “Well, what do you call them?”

“Clients,” she says. “But I might switch to hair customers now.”

“My point is,” I emphasize, “that no one would trust you with their fancy hair colors just because you know me. Or even if they did the first time, it’s your talent that’s going to keep them coming back. Be honest—do you even talk about me when you’re cutting someone’s hair?”

Sam gives a weak smile. “I try not to. I mean, sometimes people will ask questions at first, and I’ll give a short answer, but then I turn the conversation around asking about them. That’s what a hair appointment is supposed to be all about—not only getting pampered, but also having a chance to ramble about your life to a listening ear who isn’t going to judge you.”