A/N: Howdy! Thanks for reading!! I'm also working on my fairytale based romance, called "The Invisible Crown." Hope you will check that out as well. It's about 2 chapters in right now. Hope you all have a fantastic week.

I'm awoken the next morning by a noise. Something strange, high pitched, and out of place for the normally quiet house. My eyes snap open, my whole body tense as I wait, wondering what has woken me from a lovely, post coital sleep.

I'm curled next to Sam, who is dead asleep, one arm raised up above his head, the other lodged underneath my neck.

"Yoo hoo! Hello?!" It's a voice. A woman's voice, coming from somewhere downstairs. I sit up, taking the blankets with me. My hangover slams like a freight train into my head and I groan softly, then reach over and jab Sam in the side. He moans and rolls, but doesn't wake.

"Sam!" My voice a harsh whisper. I shove him hard, and he's close enough to the edge of the bed, that he rolls out, landing with a thud.

"Max, what is your bloody prob--" He jolts awake with his rude landing, and stares up at me with bleary eyed confusion.

"Some one is here." I growl at him, nodding toward the door. Then, I take a quick moment to enjoy the view. Because he's naked, sprawled on on his back, and looking a bit like an angry, prodded bear.

We stare at each other for half a second before we hear the voice again.

"Sammy?! Hello!?"

"What the--" Sam murmurs, letting out a string of obscenities as he scrambles off the floor, nearly tripping as his legs tangle in the sheets. He grabs boxers from the floor, and is out the door, pulling on a tshirt as I sit dumbfounded on his bed. Who is here?

I get up, taking the blankets with me as I creep toward the door, my heart thudding in my chest and my hangover banging clumsily in my head. I can see down the hall and toward the stairs, where Sam is moving swiftly, a hand running through his messy hair.

I wait, listening.

"Oh! Good morning, sleepy head. I was knocking, but when I didn't get an answer, I was worried." Wait a minute. I recognize the voice. Even in my hungover stupor, a face materializes in my mind.

"Elaine..." Sam's gruff voice, sounding annoyed but gentle. So Elaine just drops by and shows up at Sam's house (wait, my house), not bothering with a phone call or a letter or...smoke signals or something? I blink, holding my breath as I eavesdrop.

"I just wanted to drop some stuff off you left at my house the other night." Elaine says, her voice chipper and friendly. I let out a slow breath, my head slowly wrapping around what Elaine is saying. Well. Okay. He was at her house. The other night.

Moving with a speed I didn't realize was possible, I begin grabbing clothes. Mine seem to be nonexistent, and it takes me some quiet hopping around Sam's room to remember that I left my wet clothes in his bathroom last night.

"Shit, shit, shit." I grumble as I creep quickly down the hall. I can still hear Sam and Elaine talking below, on the first floor, though it's mostly Elaine chattering on. Probably planning their wedding. I need to leave. I need to get out of this house before Elaine realizes I'm here, or worse...Sam comes back upstairs and I'm forced to actually speak to him in the light of day.

Last night wasn't exactly a mistake, but it wasn't one of my more brilliantly laid plans. Pun intended. I was swept up in self pity and self loathing and hormones, and probably should have kept my pants on instead of sliding into Sam's.

But it had been nice. No, it hadn't been nice. It had been...spectacular. He'd been everything I needed, and more, in that moment. Kind, careful, passionate and sweet. And what had I been? I don't even know. Slightly desperate, a bit too eager...rather wanton, for lack of better term. I'd turned into a bodice ripping romance novel. And it couldn't happen again.

I grab my clothes from the bathroom, still damp, and tug my sweater on, while trying to hastily shove my legs into my grungy jeans. I don't bother putting on my shoes. I just need to get out of the house, stalk the few yards to my apartment, and disappear into a somewhat mortified, but sexually sated, amorphous blob.

I hesitate momentarily at the top of the stairs, shoes in hand, listening.

"Let me walk you out, Elaine." I hear Sam say, followed by some girlish giggling. I scrunch my nose and roll my eyes. I can practically hear her overpriced clothes and her perfectly coiffed hair, whipping in the wind like some goddamn L'Oreal advertisement. My jeans are covered in mud, and I ruined a pretty decent cashmere sweater by drinking cheap wine in the rain. Beat that, Elaine!

I hear the front door open, take this as my cue, and shuffle quickly down the stairs. I'm like a cartoon bad guy, creeping around clumsily, lifting up my feet high because I know exactly where these steps creak.

Knowing the house well, I slip through the empty rooms and through the kitchen, going quickly to the back door. I'm not running away. I'm not running from my problems. Not at all. I just need to get home, shower, find my right mind and get to work.

It's already nearly 8, and I should have been at the Spoon by now. We're opening late, on account of Jacob, but I still am running behind.

I sprint across the backyard and make it safely into my apartment, without Sam or Elaine noticing me. One small miracle. I collapse against the door, breathing heavily, as I lock it behind me.

A few things to chew on as I get ready for work.

1. My thighs are strangely and wonderfully sore, in all the best ways.

2. I don't want to think about why Sam was over at Elaine's "the other night."

3. There's a very real possibility that he was over there for no real reason at all.

4. Or he was over there because they were having mind blowing sex all night.

5. And now he's compared me to her.

6. She probably uses designer condoms. Gold plated. Plays R&B music while you...

7. But I'm not going to think about that.

8. Also, I haven't thought about Evan since I left him covered in beer at the bar.

Now I'm very late for work.

****

The Spoon is quiet when I get there. Henry isn't in yet, and Libby is in the back, pulling out supplies and refilling sugar bowls. I'm grateful for the quiet, for the late opening. Despite my hectic morning, it is still somber and somehow...muted at the cafe.

I know it's going to be a hard day. A hard week. After a rather dramatic and frivolous night, I'm now back to reality. And it's not easy knowing I won't have Jacob barking at me over his coffee being "too dark" or "too hot", despite always giving him his drink the same way every day. My breath catches as I quietly begin my morning opening routine. Getting the cash register ready. Straightening up. Putting out fresh pastries. Cleaning. The routine is helpful. It makes my mind go wonderfully numb.

"Hey." Libby comes in from the back, looking as if she hasn't slept much either.

"Morning." I say, still moving about. Libby plunks down a mug of coffee, in front of the spot where Jacob always sits. I stop moving, stare at the mug for a minute and then look to Libby. She shrugs, as if it's no big deal, but neither of us can speak for a minute.

I nod and then Libby let's out a slow, even breath. We leave the mug where it is.

"You alright?" I ask. Libby grunts and leans against the counter, her arms crossed around her waist.

"Sure. It's just another day." She says, though her voice is low and soft. I nod.

"Yeah....but it's not really." I answer breathlessly. Libby looks away. I swallow hard, and push my hair from my face.

"He would kill us, if he saw us here, blubbering." Libby says with a scoffing laugh. I smile and nod and push away from the counter

"You're right." I touch at the corners of my eyes, and then get back to work. Libby unlocks the front doors, and we're ready to start our day. I know we won't talk much more about Jacob. Not between the two of us. But we'll leave that mug of coffee there. All day, maybe more, because it's an unspoken conversation that we'll be having for the rest of our lives.

People start to trickle in, slowly at first, but then by ten we are back to our regular bustling pace. It's good to work because it means I don't have to think about Jacob, or Evan and definitely not Sam.

That is, until Sam comes in.

As soon as I see him, I disappear into the back kitchen, working on some prep for that afternoon. I'm not avoiding him. Of course I'm not. I'm an adult and I take responsibility for my actions. I have to prep for the lunch crowd.

"What are you doing?" Henry eyes me, as I am moving things around frantically in the kitchen. He's standing with one hip out, the other has a wooden spoon in his hand, pointed at me like a wand or a sword.

"Prepping?" I say over my shoulder.

"For?"

"Lunch." I nod.

"You're completely messing up my system. You should probably get out of my kitchen." He demands, his voice is light but he means business. I turn and squint at him and then let out a quick laugh.

"Technically it's my kitchen, Henry. Mine." I raise an eyebrow.

"You're being weird." He narrows his eyes at me and then grabs the packages of rolls I have in my hands, puts them back where they were and shoves me with all the love he can muster, back toward the front.

"Don't make me go out there." I beg softly. I brush my hair back from my face, throwing it up into a quick messy bun, as he nudges me toward the door.

"What's going on? It's your job to be out there." Henry shoves harder, and then looks through the prep window, out into the cafe. He pauses and then looks at me, his eyes mischievous.

"It's not a what. It's a whooo." He grins. I shake my head and then scowl at him.

"Shut up. Oh, and you're fired." I flash him a smile, and he rolls his eyes and shakes the wooden spoon at me.

"Get out of my kitchen before you set something on fire again." Henry turns away, shaking his head. I grunt and push open the door, into the cafe.

"That was ONE TIME!" I shout over my shoulder, slithering back into the front of the cafe.

There's a line of people waiting for coffee, and Libby is running like a chicken with her head cut off.

"What the hell, Max?" She hisses at me as she keeps making a drink. I flash her an "I'm Sorry" look and get to work helping the next customer. Sam is two customers behind crusty old Mrs. Jonson, and he's staring right at me. He's not smiling, not really scowling, just staring.

I look back to Mrs. Jonson, who can't decide on banana nut or blueberry almond.

"Henry just made the banana nut muffins." I smile sweetly at Mrs Jonson. She hems and haws, making the people behind her in line shift impatiently. Finally, after saying something about cholesterol and high blood pressure, she orders a blueberry almond.

"Is the coffee fresh?" She asks. I smile at her, feeling my nerves grate ever so slightly. We have this similar conversation every day. She always refuses to believe that the coffee is fresh. She'd refuse to believe it even if we took her on a trip to Colombia, let her pick the beans herself, ground them by hand and then poured the hot water into the french drip right in front of her face.

Of course it's fresh! It's our thing! It's what we do!

"Might be a little old this morning, Mrs. J." I scrunch my nose, and she looks at me like I've told her I killed a puppy. Sam is still staring at me. He doesn't smile, but I see the side of his mouth tilt ever so slightly.

"It's fresh. Don't worry." I murmur, just as Libby comes over and plunks down the latte on the counter. Mrs. Jonson grumbles, but takes her coffee and muffin and finally leaves.

Sam is still staring at me, his head looming over the people in front of him. His hair looks just like it did when I left him this morning-- messy, thick and tugged from my hands. His serious dark eyes are on me, and his brow is furrowed.

Oh lord. At least there will be witnesses for when he kills me.

I help the next two people quickly, and then Sam steps forward. He's wearing a tshirt, with an army green jacket over top, jeans and his normal work boots. He puts his hands forward and leans on the counter. His hands are big. Work worn. The nails kept short. And there's a little scar between his pointer finger and thumb.

"Can I help you?" I ask with a smile. Libby disappears into the kitchen now that the line has died down. Sam and I are alone. Alone, save for the handful of people eating in the cafe, and two people sitting down by the other end of the counter.

"Why did you sneak out?" He tilts his head, leans in toward me.

"I didn't...sneak." I turn and grab a to-go cup, knowing he'll want coffee.

"I saw you running from the old house into your apartment. You weren't even wearing shoes." He waits, his eyebrows raised, as I feel my cheeks flush. I freeze, and blink a few times. My brain goes from running at full speed to tripping over it's own feet. Oops. So he did see me.

Libby comes out from the back. I give Sam a warning look.

"Hi Sam." She says, and begins refilling cups around the cafe.

"Morning." Sam says softly. I put down Sam's cup, and gently fit a lid on the top.

"Hey you want to come to Sunday dinner? We're going to work on stuff for the Fall Festival, and then we thought we'd have dinner at Rock's." Libby asks. If I could stab her with my eyes, I would.

"Yup. I'll bring pie again." Sam says easily. I glare at him too.

"No. No pie." I grumble. The last thing I need is for this man to bring pie to Sunday dinner. Too many weaknesses in one room.

"What'd you say, Max?" Libby frowns from across the cafe. I shake my head at her and then turn to Sam.

"I'm working. I can't talk right now." I say quickly. I grab a muffin from the covered pedestal tray on the counter, and throw it in a bag for him.

"Bye." I thrust the bag toward Sam. He looks at it, but doesn't take it.

"Max. I had a really..." He pauses and for some reason, I don't keep him from talking. His face softens slightly. I feel my heart jump to my throat, and my knees do a little wobbly dance.

"Max! I need help with this prep!" Henry shouts from the back, and both of us look toward his voice.

"No you don't! Shut up!" I shout quickly over my shoulder. I swallow and wait for Sam to finish what he was saying.

"Sam?" I ask softly. He grabs his coffee, and his muffin and then gives me a full, warm smile. My insides melt a bit, and my thoughts turn slightly gooey.

"Stop by and tell me what you think about the new doors, yeah?" He nods and then, he's gone. Bullocks.

****

The next week, it is as if nothing happened. I hardly see Sam, he seems so busy. If anything, everyone else seems to see him but me. I hear from Libby that he's fixed the broken shutter at her house. Rock says they played pool together at the bar two nights in a row. Practically every single one of the Housewives have talked about him helping them in some way, shape or form. Elaine can't shut up about him. How handy he is. I try not to listen to their conversations, but she seems to say that he's handy as much as possible. She even made dinner for him. Whatever. He can be handy with whoever he would like.

My lady parts have gone back to being relatively sad and shriveled. But they remember. Oh, do they remember. Sometimes I'll be halfway through my day, thinking about perfecting the heart in the foam on someone's latte, and BAM! Weak knees. Flip floppy stomach. Shaky thighs. It's like PTSD. Post Terrific Sex Disorder. Hits you when you least expect it and then all you see is flash backs of some gorgeous, grumpy man kissing your thighs and manhandling you in all the most perfect, orgasmic ways.

Shit.

On Thursday, I stop by the old house and Sam is cordial and normal, and looks at me with about as much interest as a cardboard box. He shows me the new doors he installed, and warns me not to kick them or he'll hunt me down. Then he explains some things he's going to do in the bathroom, and I barely hear him because I can't stop staring at his mouth and the way he almost never smiles unless he truly thinks something is funny.

By Friday, I'm a confused mess. Friday night, I get home from work and can only think about decompressing. I slip into flannel pajama bottoms and a shirt that is completely covered in cartoon cats. AKA the least sexy outfit in the world. I have a date with wine, some chocolate covered strawberries that I bought in town, and a large cheese pizza. And I'm doing whatever I can to keep my mind off of him.

What if he's on a date with Elaine? Or one of the other Housewives?

I distract myself by watching one of the many superhero movies I own, hoping that hot men in tight costumes will somehow help. It doesn't really. Sam's the least superhero-y person that I know, and yet he showed up in that pick up truck just when I needed someone. And he made me forget all the hangups in my head with just a few simple touches.

It becomes even more difficult to not think about hi when there's a knock on my door and somewhere deep inside my ovaries, I know it's him.

Don't panic. Don't panic.

"Hi." I open the door, and try my best at playing it cool. Sam is standing on the front step, in a gray hoodie and jeans. He looks much younger than he really is. The darkness of the night softening his features. The hoodie looks soft and inviting.

He raises an eyebrow and takes in the flannels and the cat tee.

"Wild Friday night?" He asks. I shrug and tug at the shirt.

"It's still early. I'll be going out at like 2 am to all the best raves and ragers in town." I assure him. He frowns.

"Right." He swallows and crosses his arms over his broad chest, suddenly looking somewhat uncomfortable.

"What do you need?" I ask, my voice getting quieter. He takes another look at me, at my outfit, and then licks his lips. Like...like...like he wants to eat me. Devour me. I've seen that look before. Oh god. But I'm wearing flannel and cats! Proven man deflectors!

"What do I need..." He says softly, and then looks down, shaking his head. I hear him laugh-- or what counts as a Sam laugh. A quiet chuckle that is short and quiet, and then gone. God, if I could just get into his head. Just for a moment. I know there's so much more there than what he reveals. Especially considering he reveals nothing.

"I'm starting on the refurb on the bathroom at the house." He looks at me, his eyes unreadable. I shift, leaning against the doorjamb. Just like that, he's back to business. Or maybe I read him wrong. I've been known to do that.

"Ok. Great."

"I won't be able to use the shower for about a week. Maybe more, but I'll try to finish it as fast as I can." He explains. I can't help but watch his mouth. Those lips. I get a little too distracted for a little too long and I realize he's waiting for me to reply.

"Oh. Yeah. Shower." I nod.

"I might need to rent a room somewhere so I can shower." He's looking at me funny, but I'm guessing because I'm daydreaming about him, naked and soapy.

"You can use mine." I blink. Sam blinks as well.

"I don't know if that's a good idea." He shifts and we lock eyes.

"It's fine. I have a bathroom. I'm not here a lot of the time, so I'll just give you a key. You can use it whenever. It's no big deal." I shrug. It really isn't. I'm out of the apartment early, and I could always go over to Rock's if Sam needed it in the evening. It would be ridiculous for him to get a hotel room somewhere.

"Only if you're comfortable with that." He offers. I shake my head quickly. Behind me, the noise from the television rumbles, and there's the sound of explosions.

"What are you watching? Titanic?" He smiles.

"I don't always watch Titanic." I smirk at him. He takes a deep breath and then slips his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Want some company?" He asks. I hesitate, a thousands reasons why he should and shouldn't come in go screaming through my head.

"Probably not a good idea." I say softly. Sam nods and runs a hand quickly through his hand.

"You're right. Have a good night, Max. Get me that key, when you get a chance, yeah?" He asks, and turns, taking the steps quickly. I almost stop him. I almost call him back. But I don't, because I can't. I can't get involved with him. If Evan was the wrong man for me, Sam is mostly definitely even more wrong. He doesn't even technically live here! Who knows where he'll go off to after the job is done. Brush River isn't the sort of town for him.

And besides, it was a one night thing. A one time deal. And I don't like the idea of being one of many. Or even one of two. Elaine's shrill voice and perfect face come to mind.

"Okay. Good night." I call after him, and I watch him walk back to the old house, his strides long and confident.

I turn and close the door behind me, feeling a bit confused, frustratingly horny, and more than a bit lonely.