“Dr. Thomas Cook sends his regards, ma’am.”
Sam’s cheeks blushed. Raul’s mouth dropped. And the messenger noted an instantly tense vibe.
“If that’s all, I’m going to skedaddle,” he said, making a beeline for his car.
When their vocalist was out of earshot, Raul turned on Sam.
“So you did it. You got to Thomas Cook, and now you are dating him?” Raul glared at her with unmistakable possessiveness smothering every syllable, which this time Sam definitely picked up on.
“I most certainly am not dating him. I don’t know why he’s sending me flowers and chocolates and balloons and… love songs.”
“Wait—there was more before this?” Raul gestured to the vacant space where the messenger had just been standing. “I thought I told you to stay away from him. He’s dangerous!”
“Whoa there. I don’t follow your orders, Raul. And besides, he’s harmless.”
“You’re the one who claims he’s responsible for your dad’s death. How is that harmless?”
“Why do you care so much what I do?” Sam stormed into the house, letting the metal screen door slam behind her.
Raul followed her inside, wanting to tell her everything yet knowing he couldn’t. If Sam found out what Raul knew of her father’s death… No, there could be no if. Sam could never find out, but dating Thomas Cook would most certainly push her closer to that horrible, awful truth.
“I don’t want you getting hurt. Especially if you start digging too deep.”
“What does that even mean? What do you know, Raul?”
“I know this man is clearly obsessed with you, and I’d like to know why you’re leading him on.”
“I’m not leading him on.”
“Then what are you doing, Sam?”
“Well, it’s a long story,” Sam stuttered.
But it was not a long story. It was in fact a short enough story that Sam could fit into approximately two minutes of explanation about the night she met Thomas Cook and stole his ledger, somehow wooing him in the process. But none if it seemed to quell Raul’s heartache or his worry, no matter how much Sam tried.
Chapter 20
During the weeks following their first—and only—encounter, Thomas Cook had sent Sam a bouquet of red roses to her office, paid a delivery boy to leave a box of dark chocolates on her desk, tasked his secretary with tying a dozen balloons to her car door handle, and ordered a Western Union singing telegram to perform on Sam’s front porch. For a girl who had up until this point never received a single flower from a romantic interest, it was terrifying and, more than that, complete torture.
Attention like this from someone like Thomas Cook was not without its own special breed of aftermath. It impacted every area of Sam’s life—both personal and professional.
Ever since the singing telegram, Raul had left her in a dark silent treatment. Sam’s mother rambled daily messages on the answering machine offering everything from makeup tips to dating advice, hoping to secure the rich and successful son-in-law of her dreams. Even Sam’s co-workers couldn’t resist the urge to make her job more isolating—and thus more miserable—than ever.
The typists in the bullpen assumed Sam was dating Thomas Cook for the promotion. The research aids suspected Sam was putting out. The nice girls called her a gold-digger behind her back, while the not-so-nice girls gossiped in front of her face. Mel called her a slut. And Mr. Getty called her his golden goose.
Never in a million years would anyone have guessed that Thomas Cook’s taste in women was as plain as vanilla yogurt, and most other vanilla yogurt women would have jumped at a shot with the big-wig with the big house and big bank account to match. But not Sam.
The truth of the matter was simple: Sam had loftier goals than marrying a millionaire.
“We’re not dating,” Sam would have answered if someone asked. But no one asked. Not even Thomas Cook, it would seem.
Had anyone asked him, Thomas would have said that Sam was as good at “playing hard to get” as she was at writing columns, which he now voraciously read. And enjoyed, by golly! As far as he was concerned, Sam was the perfect medicine for the disease he had: his chronic inability to be challenged.
It had started when he was young. There was no math equation he couldn’t solve. No chemistry calculation he couldn’t deduce. He was unable to be stumped, which made him unable to be stopped. Eventually finding success so easily became boring. Predictable. No fun at all.
Until finally he met a challenge he could not easily overcome—and she came in the form of a plain-faced, average-intellect woman who against all odds remained firmly out of reach.
Thomas didn’t care that she was unoriginally unattractive, wore too much weight on her midsection yet could barely fill a training bra, had terrible taste in clothes, and sported a short shag haircut that did nothing to compliment her features. None of that mattered to him.
It was her mind that satiated him, an insatiable man, and it was her quirky apathy that intrigued him, having never met a woman who was apathetic toward him. Women usually draped themselves all over him, and yet Samantha Stanton could care less. It was the most addictive feeling in the world. Yes, to Thomas Cook, the richest and most desirable eligible bachelor in town, she was indeed the perfect drug.
And this made everyone hate her.
