“We were on the same team then too. I walked for Dean. I would have walked for you.” Samson’s hand clenched tight over the phone. “This isn’t for ego. Do you know where my nickname started? The Lima Charm? From my father. When he was himself, before the disease turned him into someone I didn’t recognize. That was all I had of him. And you twisted that. That part of my legacy, you destroyed it.” He took a deep breath. “I want a fucking apology.”
Trevor was quiet for so long, Samson wondered if he’d hung up, but then he spoke. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll be on a couple of morning shows next week. I can deliver an apology right there. Is that public enough?”
“Yes.” The tension leaked out of his shoulders.
“Done. We’ll talk next week about the position then.”
They said their goodbyes, and Samson slumped on the couch. He felt like the weight he’d carried for a decade had been lifted off him. Was that all it took? Telling someone who hurt him that they’d hurt him?
Was this . . . closure?
He didn’t know how long he sat there in a relaxed haze, but he was startled when his phone pinged on his chest. He rarely turned the ringer on, it was always on vibrate.
He crunched up to look at the display, and a new kind of relief suffused him.
Rhiannon. Finally.
Hi. Thank you for texting me, I had my phone off. I’m so sorry for getting mad at you. I land at LAX in about five and a half hours. Will you come pick me up?
He didn’t hesitate. His fingers flew over the screen. It’s okay. Yes, of course. See you then.
Chapter Thirty
WHAT WOULD he say to her? What could he say?
There were about a million things that ran around his brain for the next six hours, even as he drove slowly through the packed evening LAX traffic.
He saw her sweatshirt first. It was a soft lavender, the same one she’d worn when she’d walked into a bar in central California months ago. If she hadn’t been wearing that, he might have missed her. She stood on the curb with big sunglasses on, her hoodie pulled over her hair.
He didn’t blame her for the impromptu disguise. He assumed, after Helena’s show, those people who hadn’t known the owner of Crush now would.
Samson maneuvered his car through the traffic and pulled up to the curb. Before he could get out and open the door for her, she opened it herself. “Hey,” she said, her voice hoarse, and tossed her bag in the back seat.
“Hey.”
She avoided his gaze as she slid in. “Thanks for picking me up.”
“No problem.” His fingers twitched on the steering wheel. He didn’t want to spook her by grabbing her close and hugging her. But he also . . . really wanted to touch her.
Once she was buckled in, he settled for resting his hand over hers and squeezing it. “Am I taking you to your place?” He hadn’t been to either of her homes yet. He knew the one she shared with Katrina was farther away, but he’d happily drive her there, let her out, and return. Whatever she wanted.
He was so gone.
She twisted her hand over so they were palm to palm. “Can we go to yours?”
“Yeah.” He left his hand where it was, even if it made maneuvering through traffic one-handed a little difficult. Sorry, other drivers. My girl’s got her hand in mine.
He glanced at her a couple of times, but she was silent, head against the window, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling like she was asleep.
It was so late the roads were relatively traffic free, and they pulled up in front of his condo in no time, which was both good and bad. Good because he wanted to get her in his home so they could talk. Bad because he didn’t want to let go of her.
She stirred when he did release her and she lifted her head. He usually self-parked, but he tossed his keys to the valet this time and grabbed Rhi’s bag before she could.
She kept her head bowed as they walked inside, and he used his larger body to block her from view of anyone in the lobby. Rhi kept inching closer to him in the elevator, until he finally pulled her to his side. She belonged there anyway.
She must have thought so, too, because she melted against him. He didn’t let go