She gestured to a low stone bench, judging them far enough away from the restaurant and hotel that they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He sat at one end of the bench. She took the other end, though it was a tight squeeze. Then again, he’d make anything a tight squeeze.
His body angled toward her. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“My assistant has some creepy powers.”
Samson’s smile was small. “Apparently.”
She bit her lip, aware the clock was ticking. His hair was rumpled. She had a brief, untimely vision of it when it had been long, long enough to slip over his shoulders and brush her nipples and she looked away, focusing on a spot right over his shoulder.
Get this over with.
“Rhiannon—”
“I’m here for closure.”
“Closure.”
“Yeah. My best friend says I need it.”
“Do you think you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re mad at me. I treated you really badly, and I am so sorry I hurt you.”
She drew herself up, feathers ruffling. Bad enough, showing Katrina her vulnerabilities.
Don’t get defensive. Don’t run away, or you’ll feel worse, as you discovered. This is what you’re here for. The voice in her head sounded oddly like Katrina’s, and it did calm her, but she still had to push back. “We knew it was going to be a temporary affair. It would have ended that second night anyway.”
“Not like it did.” Samson looked down at his hands. “The thing I said onstage, about the family emergency? That wasn’t a hypothetical.”
She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but she knew what that would convey. She didn’t interrupt him. Katrina may have connected the dots via Google, but that was a search engine, and she didn’t trust that hope wasn’t coloring their interpretation of what had happened.
There wasn’t a more optimistic creature in the world than a person who wanted to believe someone hadn’t treated them like shit. Let him corroborate what they’d cobbled together.
“My uncle had degenerative neurological diseases—Alzheimer’s, ALS. I was his caretaker. He was always on me to get out, take a night off, have some fun, and that’s not always easy to do in a small town. I’d grown up around most of the locals, and the tourists weren’t usually single people my age. I’d never been on an app before, but it seemed like the easiest way to see who was out there. Spending those hours with you was the first time I’d done something purely for myself in I don’t know how long.” His gaze on her was steady and sincere. “I swear, I did mean to see you again. But when I got home, Uncle Joe was having trouble breathing. I knew that it was inevitable, but his decline was rapid, and his death a few days later hit me hard.”
Samson’s recitation was matter-of-fact, but the underlying anguish and quiet sadness couldn’t be faked. She didn’t want to think anyone was cruel enough to try to fake it.
There are men who would fake it, her subconscious whispered. Don’t trust this.
There was corroboration, though.
He could have let you know that day so you wouldn’t have sat there waiting for him like an idiot.
Except she’d never given him her number. She rarely gave her number out to anyone, especially a one-night stand. A number was personal, and these sexual encounters were never personal.
As if he were reading her mind, he continued. “I could have—I should have—sent you a message through the app before we were supposed to meet. I didn’t, and I apologize for that. I completely forgot until days later. By then you’d already unmatched me, and I didn’t have a number to contact you otherwise.” He didn’t say it as accusation, but as fact. He shrugged. “I am sorry. I didn’t intend—” He broke off. “I know you don’t like hearing that, that you have no reason to give me the benefit of the doubt, but I truly didn’t consciously stand you up.”
She tried to marshal her chaotic thoughts. She hated feeling emotions. All these things inside her, anger, regret, sadness, relief, hope.
Stuff ’em down forever.
“I did try to find you afterward.” His lips quirked, making her heart thud. “I went to the house you’d rented, talked to the owners. Googled you. Unfortunately, it’s hard enough to find a Claire when her name is Claire. Much harder when her name is actually Rhiannon.”
She finally spoke. “My middle name is Claire.”
One snippet of personal information. It didn’t mean anything.