A/N: Hi! Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Lol.  Things have been tough, but here I am.  I'm trying my best! I hope you're all doing well.  Here's a wee bit, hope you enjoy it.  I can use all the support I can get right now.  Thanks everyone! -Germs

A week later, and things have mostly gone back to normal. I haven't been murdered in my sleep, and Sam has proven to be much more boring than his dramatic entrance had suggested. In fact, apart from our short conversations about the state of the house, or his daily stop into the shop for coffee, our interactions have been pretty scant. It seems to be for the best.

Occasionally he'll stick around the Spoon long enough to grab breakfast. I know for a fact that he eats dinner mostly every night at Gram's, the only restaurant open past 8 on weekdays. And when Gram's is closed, he goes to the only bar in Brush River and eats there. How do I know this? No, I haven't been stalking his Facebook page (though I doubt a man like Sam has one). Word gets around here. It's almost impossible not to hear what he's been up to. Every morning, my regulars at the cafe give me updates, whether I want them or not. Jacob is the biggest gossip in town. He knows things are happening before they happen.

People in town still haven't gotten used to the idea of a new person in town. Despite the fact that he's rather boring, they haven't shut up about him. The other day I heard someone say they heard that Sam wrestled crocodiles in Australia (I think that was actually Mick Dundee that did that). And another person swears that Sam has three wives he left behind in Utah. That I could see.

This morning, a fine, brisk, leafy September morning, he comes in around 7am, and gets his coffee-- black, two sugars, to go. He shouldn't feel special. I memorize everyone's coffee order. It's a gift, and a curse. Libby gives it to him with a trademark scowl, and I pretend I am busy rearranging muffins.

"Max?" He speaks! I almost don't answer, as I'm so busy pretending to look busy.

"Hi!" My voice is fake and cheery as I whip around, a blueberry muffin raised in my hand.

"I come in peace." He says, his hands coming up in surrender, eyeing the muffin aimed at his head. Oops. I lower my hand and give him a sheepish grin. Sam is wearing a light gray tshirt, with a zip up hoodie over top. His short hair is perfectly ruffled for 7 in the morning, and his face is just a tad bit scruffy. He looks a bit sleepy, and for some reason my mind goes to warm bed sheets, fluffy pillows and slow moving hands.

"Sorry. Good morning. Muffin?" I ask, pulling my mind from the depths of hell. He is watching me, as if waiting for me to explain my thoughts. No. Never. Not even if you torture me.

"I'm going to start siding today. I heard we're in for a storm though, possibly later this week. Have you talked to Rock about the order we put in?" He asks, his eyes searching my face. I notice, strangely for the first time, that he's got a tiny line through his right eyebrow. An old scar that never healed properly. Maybe the crocodile story is true.

"A storm?" My head goes back to the conversation, and the mention of weather. Bad weather. Yuck. I fight off the shiver that creeps up my spine.

"Uh oh. Get your thunder shirt ready." Libby quips to my right, and I scrunch my nose at her.

"Thunder shirts are for dogs..." I trail off, trying not to sound insulted. She shrugs.

"Maybe you should try it." She laughs teasingly. I roll my eyes and look back at Sam, who is watching Libby with an amused look on his face. One eyebrow cocked, his dark eyes wide.

"Why would you need a...thunder shirt?" He asks slowly. "And what exactly is a thunder shirt?" He leans against the counter, and gives Libby a quick smile. Like a flash of lightning. Here and then gone. Libby, surprisingly, smiles back at him.

"It's this heavy wrap that you put on your dog to keep it from shitting it's furry pants during storms." Libby grins and then winks at me. I shake my head.

"I've never shit my furry pants." I point at her. "Put that on the record."

Libby grins and shrugs. "Max is deathly afraid of thunder and lightning. It's a weird thing she has. Among other weird things."

Sam looks at me, does this strange, slow, once over of my entire being, as if he can see through my clothes and skin, and can examine the very core of me...checking for these so called "weird things". I shift and narrow my eyes. He's not allowed to see my weird things.

"It's not that weird. Storms are scary. unpredictable. Anyway, why are we talking about this?" I huff softly. Libby makes a soft, strangled laughing noise and Sam doesn't make any noise at all. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and I can tell he's staring at me. Why is he staring? Is there something on my face? Is he seriously that shocked that I have a fear of unpredictable, freaky, house-rattling storms? Has the man never seen the Wizard of Oz?!

"So...siding." He shifts, waiting. Oh. Whoops.

"Oh. Siding." I turn back toward him, making eye contact. He's looking at me with those dark, chocolate brown eyes.

"Uncle Rock said it should be in today or tomorrow. You should go talk to him." I clear my throat and offer to call up Rock, to make sure he's not out on a call. Sam nods and takes a drink from his coffee.

"Thanks, Max." He turns then, to go, but is nearly sideswiped by a flash of golden blond hair, and denim jacket.

"Max! Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend?!" The voice is high and has a slight southern twang to it. It belongs to one of the Real Housewives--one of the single ones. Her name is Elaine, and she's a vet technician at Brush River's only vet office. As she blocks Sam's exit from the cafe, I glance over at the other three women, sitting in a booth at the far end of the restaurant. They are watching Elaine intently, barely hiding their interest. I'm surprised it took them this long to jump.

"Um, he's not really my friend." I mumble under my breath, and Sam raises an eyebrow at me.

"Elaine, this is Sam Emerson. He's fixing up the Old House. Sam, this is Elaine Walker." I watched as Elaine smiles at him, all red lipsticked mouth and brilliant white teeth. She's wearing an outfit straight out of a pinterest pin. About twelve layers of button up crisp white shirts and cashmere sweaters, tucked under a chic denim jacket. Despite wearing her entire wardrobe, she still looks slim and way more put together than I ever have. Her tight jeans skim her pilates ass, and she has on deep brown leather riding boots, that come up to her knees. I can never find boots that fit over my monster calves, but that's neither here nor there. I'm glad to see she is supporting the boot industry, for all of us.

"Oh, Sam! Nice to meet you." Elaine thrusts out a hand, and gives Sam the once over. He notices. He definitely notices.

"Lovely to meet you, Elaine." He says, oozing charm. Where was this man a week ago? How come Elaine gets charming British lad, and I got grumbling serial killer?

"An accent! Well aren't you just adorable." Elaine giggles and reaches forward, touching Sam's bicep. I roll my eyes and turn back to tidying up behind the counter. I try not to listen to them chatting, but I catch bits of nonsense about "needing some things fixed around the house" and "stop by anytime." No mention of the fact that Elaine has 2 very capable older brothers to help her, along with the entire internet at her disposal. Hasn't she heard of youtube? DIY? Doesn't she have two capable hands and a college degree?

"Elaine's tryin' to bag your man." Libby whispers into my ear as I am rolling silverware, and I yank back, slamming a pile of napkins onto the tabletop.

"Not my man. Not my bag." I growl. Libby laughs and shrugs. Sure, okay. Sam's interesting. Interesting in a new toy kind of way. Play with him for a week, and I'm sure he gets really boring. And sure, he's good looking. He's got this strange face-- his jawline is too strong, his eyes a bit too expressive, his lips too full for a man. But it works. Somehow. God, it works. And it infuriates me.

"See you around, Sam!" Elaine says cheerfully, as she makes her way back toward her group of friends. Elaine's really not that bad. She's sweet, and beautiful, and has always been friendly to me. I should stop picturing her falling into a giant man hole or being swung off a ledge into a mud pit. I really should.

"She's nice." Sam says with an obnoxious sigh. He hasn't left. I nod and grin at him, all teeth.

"She is super duper nice." I squint slightly because I'm grinning so hard. He makes a face at me and then sighs.

"It's nice to meet nice people." He is challenging me. I keep grinning.

"Super nice to meet nice people." I shake my head. I can see Libby staring at us, but I ignore her. Sam leans forward then, onto his forearms. I want to step back, but I force myself to stay put. His face so close to mine, I can see his dark eyelashes and the scruff along his cheeks. I wonder what his face feels like. Evan always kept his face clean, smooth.

"Are you a nice girl, Max?" He asks softly. Goodness. Is he flirting with me? I blink then and swallow. Hard.

"Don't you wish you could find out the answer to that question." I say after a beat. After I've found my ability to speak. He smiles at me then, and tips his head toward me and Libby.

"Have a good morning, ladies." Sam turns then, and leaves.

"You sure that's not your bag, Max? Cause that is a nice bag." Libby coos softly and we both watch his ass as he walks away.

****

How many commandments are there? Ten? Thou shalt not kill...thou shalt not steal...thou shalt not stare at thou half naked neighbor whilst thou sweatily mow the lawn.

Sam should obviously be wearing a shirt. It's rude and insensitive and rude and... who knew one man could have so many abdominal muscles. It doesn't matter that it's unseasonably warm, and he's single handedly residing an old farm house. There's no reason why he should be barely clothed. For god's sake, there could be children around!

He doesn't seem to mind. Nor does he seem to care. I'm not even sure he's noticed me, though I've been haphazardly cutting the backyard for the past 35 minutes. It's a big lawn. Twice I've had to stop-- once to get more gas for the mower, and then again because I realized I was sweating like a pig. I pulled my dark hair back into a messy ponytail, and pulled off the zip up hoodie I'd been wearing.

I can feel the sweat trickling down between my breasts, and at my temples. It's mid September. This heat wave is unforgivable. Hopefully this is the last time I'll have to cut the lawn before cold weather takes over. But for the moment, it's hot and a bit muggy, and I'm doing a shit job of cutting in straight lines all because Sam is dangling from a ladder at the back of the house.

"Everything okay?" I shout as I turn off the mower. We haven't spoken in a day and a half. I don't think he's avoiding me, and I'm only partially avoiding him.

"Yes." His grunts, and I watch as he maneuvers on the ladder, and then carefully climbs back down. Muscles in his back strain and stretch, and I can tell, even from this distance, that he's sweating as well. In just a day, he's managed to complete a whole side of the house, ripping down old siding and beginning to put up new. The man knows what he's doing. He's efficient, and fast and...did I mention his abs?

"It looks good." I offer. Sam pulls off gloves he's wearing, and turns toward me. He's far enough away that I feel safe (from what, I'm not sure), but I can still see the sweat on his chest and the dampness at his brow. He throws his gloves down and takes a long, slow drink from a cup sitting on the picnic table.

His throat moves as he drinks. I put my hands on my hips and wait.

"I'll have the back finished by tomorrow. I'm worried about the rain coming." Sam says softly as he puts the cup down. He mimics my stance then, without realizing it. His hands on his narrow hips. His jeans slung low. He looks like an advertisement for something hot, male and sweaty.

"You must be tired." I say, without thinking. Sam shrugs.

"Feels good to be busy." He runs a hand through his hair. A boyish gesture, that is contradictory with everything else about him.

"Well. That's good." It's as if I've never carried on a conversation before.

Sam doesn't seem to notice I've got the conversation skills of a puppet. He sighs as if he's taken too much time to rest, and then begins picking up tools and material lying around.

"I'm packing it in for today. I've got some errands to run." He glances at me, and then goes back to cleaning up. I'm staring at him, just watching him as he moves, and he seems to have noticed this.

"Right." I say dumbly. He's got a tattoo, one that covers most of his arm. It's a bold outline of brilliant red flowers, with dark black centers. Poppies, if I'm not mistaken. It seems a strange choice for someone like him, but somehow it still fits. He doesn't have any other tattoos- at least any that I can see.

"Do you know of any laundromats in town?" Sam asks, pulling a shirt back on. I watch as the poppies, and his rather sculpted chest, disappear under a worn tshirt.

"Laundromat? Sure, there's one on Main. It's the Suds-ee." I offer. Sam nods. "You've got laundry to do?" I ask. Dumb question. No, he just wanted to go and watch the wet clothes spin around for an evening of fun and amusement.

"I do." He says slowly, as if he can read my mind. I take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and then surge forward.

"You can use mine, if you'd like. It'll save you a trip." I don't know why I'm offering. He still scares me, just a bit. Though I know, somewhere inside, that he's not a threat to me. It's something else. Something I can't put my finger on, but I don't trust him. Or maybe I don't trust myself, around him. After Evan, a man like Sam is hardly what I need.

Sam straightens up and gives me a quick, half crooked smile. His eyes change when he smiles. He goes from hardened criminal to...absolute sweetheart puppy dog in a matter of seconds. I shift, feeling that strange mix of warning and...something else, warm within me.

"You sure? I don't want to put you out." He's finished cleaning up and he leans against the picnic table. Sam fiddles with a black corded bracelet he has on-- paracord, that looks worn and old.

"Of course. There's no point in you going all the way into town." I nod and then walk back toward the lawn mower.

"Thank you." He says softly. I nod, and then we both go on our way. He finishes cleaning up his supplies, and I finish the lawn. We don't say anything else to each other.

I finish mowing hastily, wanting to get back to my apartment before he comes over. I keep the place clean, especially since it's rather sparse inside, but I want to make sure there's nothing terribly embarrassing lying about.

I pace around for a minute, before realizing I smell like grass and I've sweated through my tshirt. I check the window, and don't see any sign of him, so I grab a quick shower. Change clothes. Wait a bit more. Maybe he meant later? Maybe he meant tonight? I make dinner-- something quick, and then I clean the kitchen. I want to seem busy when he gets here. Not like I've been...waiting around.

I wait some more. And when it's nearly half past eight, and I've cleaned most of my apartment, I give up on the idea that he's coming over. I stare out the window, toward the old house, seeing the top floor lit up. I could go over there, ask him what gives, but what does it matter. Who cares if he didn't come over? Didn't come over to do his dumb laundry. He can go around in dirty, smelly, clothes for all I care. I bet the Real Housewives would love him then. I was just trying to be nice.

Who cares? Not me.