Serendipity

by xfphile

The night that Sam and Nick Radford officially moved to Middleton was normal. Uneventful. Completely and totally unremarkable. Just a man and his son, moving to small-town America for a fresh start. It changed everything. Only . . . it didn't change anything.

8. Big Trouble in Little China (2-2)

I want to give a huge shoutout to lawand_disorder; she has kept me sane throughout the writing of this fic and I hope you guys are enjoying it. Your comments always make my day.

Now, without further ado, I present: The Second Half of Abigail.

---

Big Trouble in Little China (2/2)

As Sam had expected, Stephanie was at her restaurant, aggressively wiping down the counter and rearranging various items on it. With a sigh, he resigned himself to the coming . . . mini-tantrum . . . and forcefully reiterated the fact that she had every right to be pissed off at him. Especially considering that he had been with Abigail again, something he had realized on the drive over. Cassie wouldn't have thought twice about it, but Stephanie was a different kind of woman (well, there it was; Sam sighed again and just accepted the fact that he would apparently compare whomever he was with to Cassie and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do about it), so for her, 'the other woman' was much more prevalent than 'medical emergency'. And he could not hold that against her, because it was something she would have no way of knowing how to handle with equanimity.

Again, he wouldn't tolerate that forever, but this time, he wouldn't say or do anything. It did rankle a little, because Sam hadn't done anything wrong, but he had still hurt her, inadvertent though it was, and she needed to know that he was aware of this.

Ugh. Why did relationships, especially new ones, have to be so freaking complicated?

There was no time like the present, so Sam took a deep breath, mentally girded his loins, and stepped through the door.

She saw him come in but didn't acknowledge him and he swallowed, pushing down a surge of irritation.

(was it really that much to ask, for a grown woman to act like one?)

"Missed you at the restaurant," he said, coming to the counter. It wasn't the best of openings, perhaps, but he was a little hurt too. He had called and let her know what was happening, which was more than she'd given him, and when she made no reply, he said so.

"I did call," he reminded her, his voice picking up a little of his irritation despite his attempt to keep it hidden. When she still said nothing, merely glanced at him over a stack of receipts, he felt his anger start to rise.

He should have waited to do this. His temper and his nerves were still too on edge, both from realizing that she had just left without even trying to call him and from his . . . encounter . . . with Cassie and Ryan (ugh). So when he spoke again, some of his own frustration was audible.

"Abigail's fine, by the way," he informed her, feeling a sudden need to remind her that he had been tending to an injured person; the fact that it was a woman she didn't like was immaterial. "It was just a bad bruise."

When he got no verbal response for the third time, just a knowing look, he suddenly saw the humor and gave her a goofy look right back. She wanted to act like a child? Fine. He could do that.

Which, naturally, did the trick.

Go figure.

"It's not gonna work," she said, looking back to the register.

Oh, seriously?

"Stephanie, I'm a doctor," he replied with exasperation. "I'm going to have emergencies come up from time to time."

She glanced up from under her eyelashes and he saw the hurt he knew she was feeling, along with a strong hint of . . . despondency?

Oh.

Well, damn. That . . . made a lot of sense.

And made him see that he needed to think about this a little more, because he wasn't sure he wanted to get involved with that, at least not romantically.

But.

He had made her a promise and he was a man of his word. And who knows? It was entirely possible he was wrong.

So . . .

"Give me another chance," he said, holding her eyes. "Dinner tomorrow? What do you say?"

No verbal answer, but a cautious sideways look.

Okay, he could work with that.

"I'll pick you up, take you anywhere you want to go," he added; it was the least he could offer, and even after all this, he still wanted to get to know her.

Still no words, but he decided to wait and let his silence do the work. And this time, he could see that her hesitance wasn't coyness or her playing hard (well, 'harder') to get; she was genuinely uncertain about accepting his offer.

And that hurt, because Sam prided himself on being steady and reliable, and yet Stephanie had gotten neither of those things from him. Through no fault of his own, sure, but that changed nothing.

"Okay," she finally agreed, and he grinned in relief, ducking his head and tapping his knuckles against the counter. Maybe they hadn't completely screwed this up after all.

"Great! It's a date," he confirmed, giving her a smile that dropped immediately at her warning that he had better not break this one.

Irritation flared, but he pushed it down with the reminder that she had nothing to compare the situation to, and so from her point of view, she was behaving reasonably.

As she walked away after her warning (ah; his punishment wasn't over yet. Yay.), his cell phone rang and Sam, still trying to untangle his current emotional knot of triumph and aggravation, gave strong consideration to ignoring it.

But he couldn't.

Doctor, remember?

Oh, it was Cassie.

Th—

Wait. Why was it Cassie?

Oh, God. Was she hurt?

Okay, no, don't panic. It was unlikely something had happened in the thirty or so minutes it had been since he'd seen Ryan leaving.

"Hey, Cassie," he greeted as casually as he could.

Her breathless — and slightly incoherent, which scared the hell out of him — explanation of Grace missing and not having her phone was . . . puzzling. And worrying.

"What, really?" he queried when she was done, still a little shocked at this turn of events. Grace? Missing? Not having her phone?

Grace?!

Her affirmative spiked his worry into alarm. Her wondering if he knew where Nick was . . . he thought he should be annoyed, but had to concede it was fair. Especially since his son was supposed to be at home.

So he assured her that he was on his way and left without trying to get Stephanie's attention; he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with her attitude (tantrum) at knowing he going to see another woman, not with Grace missing and Cassie worried out of her mind. He would explain everything tomorrow at dinner, assuming an explanation was actually needed.

And if he broke a land-speed record (not to mention several speed limits) getting to her, well . . .

What else could he do? She had called him, asked for his help.

And she would have it.

Whenever, wherever, and however she needed him.

His help.

Needed his help.

And God help anyone who got in his way.

{{**}}

When Sam pulled into their shared driveway a little too fast for safety, Cassie almost collapsed in relief.

He was here.

She had called and he had come.

And even though Grace was still missing (and likely Nick as well), she suddenly felt like everything would be okay.

Had she been in a more stable frame of mind, this thought would have terrified her.

For several reasons.

The slamming of his car door broke into her thoughts and she looked up, eyes wide as he jogged the few feet separating them and laid his hand on her shoulder, warm and solid.

"I'm here," he murmured, looking intently into her eyes. "It's okay."

"Yeah," she managed to reply, his tender, reassuring touch threatening to shatter what remained of her composure and making her want to burrow herself into his arms and soak in the strength and comfort that were always hers for the asking.

"Will you—" he started to ask, breaking the moment (to both her relief and chagrin, which was confusing (and frightening)), before visibly changing his mind. "Let me see if Nick's home," he said, squeezing her shoulder when she wordlessly nodded, and then reluctantly leaving her to head for his house. She watched him go, feeling bereft, and absently rubbed her palm over the spot where his hand had rested.

She was so glad he was here.

And he wouldn't leave her side unless and until he knew their kids were safe and she was okay.

Why it taken her so long to remember that Sam would always help her, Cassie couldn't say. She just knew that in the middle of quietly panicking over Grace, she'd suddenly . . . had that epiphany.

And she hadn't felt a single ounce of regret over calling him away from Stephanie, assuming that's where he'd been.

The sound of his front door closing pulled her attention back to him and her heart sank at his expression, making his announcement of Nick's absence unnecessary. But she hated the worry that was clouding his face now, as he realized that neither of them knew where their children were.

And now, finally, she was angry with Grace. And Nick.

How dare they put their parents, the people who loved them unconditionally and only wanted the best for them, through this?

"You think Grace is with Nick?" Sam asked, distracting her from her anger, which masked a growing worry and a terrible, suffocating fear.

"I have a feeling," she replied grimly, because that was the pattern they'd set: Nick did something selfish and/or ill-advised and Grace got caught in the fallout.

Only this time, Grace had instigated her own selfish, ill-advised venture, and when she added her daughter's intelligence to Nick's experience . . .

The concept was too terrifying for words.

"Well, your feelings are usually spot-on," he added just as grimly, putting his cell phone to his ear in the same useless gesture she had tried earlier. Their kids had been determined to be lost this evening and they had successfully achieved that goal.

"But they're not exactly best buds," he added, confusion ringing just below the worry. And he had a point. For two people who weren't friends, they certainly ended up together a lot.

And usually in some sort of trouble.

Oh, that was a thought she had been trying very hard not to think.

"Yeah, I know, but . . ." she replied, pacing alongside him as he futilely tried to get his son on the phone.

He gave her a sharp look at that and asked the obvious question, getting the equally obvious answer. Cassie couldn't even be annoyed at that, because it was apparent that this was uncharted territory for both of them, and Sam was just as worried as she was — and about both of their kids.

Beneath the tidal wave of worry, anger, and fear, Cassie adored him for that, because it wasn't something Ryan would give her.

With (disturbingly) practiced ease, she ignored that thought and gave Sam her full attention as he accepted the truth that Nick was refusing to answer and stopped walking, turning to face her and forcing himself to calm even as she watched.

"Well, it's still early," he said reassuringly, seeking now to keep them in control of themselves and the situation. "And it's Grace," he added, more than a little ruefully. "She's a good kid."

"Yeah, Nick too," Cassie replied, though this time, it was a rote response. In the normal course of events, she believed that, but right now? Not so much.

Sam scoffed at that and said, "Well, I love him, but Nick is . . . Nick."

He said nothing else, merely gave her a wan smile that she halfheartedly returned, and laid a hand on her arm, his touch warm and comforting against the sudden chill of the night, as he caught her gaze.

"They'll be okay," he said quietly, his expression resolute. "I promise."

And despite everything, she believed him.

{{**}}

Sam desperately did not want to leave Cassie, especially since Grace still hadn't come home — or been found — but when Lori looked out the front door for the third time in less than ten minutes, he bowed to the inevitable. He wasn't Cassie's boyfriend, so there was no legitimate reason for them to stay together, particularly with her adult stepdaughter there for support.

So he gave her a soft smile and promised that he would let her know the second he heard anything, knowing she would do the same.

And then, after fighting down a shockingly strong (and — well, it was supposed to be unwelcome) urge to fold her into his arms and keep her safe until their kids came home, he walked her to her back door (it didn't take a genius to figure out that Lori's not-remotely-subtle looks were exacerbating Cassie's already-fraught nerves and wow, he turned into a wordy thesaurus when he was worried, stressed, and angry) and watched, his heart aching, as she paused just inside the kitchen, radiating despondency with her shoulders slumped and her head bowed.

He was going to kill his son.

Slowly.

And if he had dragged Grace into whatever mess he'd made . . .

The distant sound of a door closing made him look up hopefully, only to slump himself on seeing that the new arrival was Abigail.

Sighing with disappointment, Sam entered his home, thankful beyond belief that he'd stocked up on Scotch; he definitely needed a glass or three.

Two generous shots later, he'd finally leveled out enough to think the entire situation over calmly and rationally.

And one of the things he thought about was the fact that Cassie had called him for help.

Not Ryan.

And it wasn't even a matter of 'Sam' and 'Ryan'.

No.

She hadn't called Ryan period.

She couldn't have, because he wasn't there, and he hadn't called or texted her. And even though Sam would be perfectly happy to never see Ryan Elliott again, he knew that if Cassie had asked him to come, the man would have been on his way before she hung up.

But he wasn't there or talking to her, which meant that Cassie hadn't contacted him.

Which . . . should not make him nearly as ha—plea—well, no, he wasn't—

Okay, fine, dammit. He was pleased that Cassie had reached out to him instead of Ryan, because she trusted that he would be there for her. No ego, no false platitudes, no . . . well, whatever it was that Ryan did (or didn't do) that made her not want to seek his support.

Which, to Sam's mind, said a lot about the level of trust and respect Cassie held for him.

For both of them.

And that was NOT a thought he needed to be having right now.

Later, definitely. But not now.

So with the ease of (too much) practice, he firmly shoved both his feelings about Cassie Nightingale and his observations about her relationship with Ryan in his mental cooler, putting them 'on ice', as it were.

That done, he turned his thoughts to Grace. He was still stunned that she had done . . . something this irresponsible. Even taking 'teenager' into account, Grace was an inherently gentle, well-mannered young woman. She would never worry her mother like this in the normal course of events; it just wasn't who she was.

Which, on reflection, made Cassie's supposition that she and Nick were together a lot more logical, friends or not.

And he was . . . well, he wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing or a bad one. Generally, he would expect that Grace's natural intelligence and mature personality would temper Nick's idiocy, but . . . not at the moment.

Ah, hell. If they set the state on fire, Sam was going to be pissed.

God, he was worried sick — and it shamed him a little that he was more concerned about Grace than Nick. But Nick . . . well, he knew better than anyone how often his son landed on his feet after one of his little stunts, so unless and until that was proven wrong, he was going to go with it.

But Grace . . .

And she was, by nature of her very personality, shockingly naïve about the monsters of the world.

Even the ones that lurked in a small town like Middleton.

Oh, hell. That was another thought he didn't need, because if someone hurt Grace . . .

The only thing that stopped him from calling the cops right that second and demand that they find her was the knowledge that Cassie hadn't already done it, so she obviously felt that the situation wasn't that dire.

Yet.

He needed another drink.

But when he started to pour a third glass of Scotch and saw that his hands were shaking, Sam cursed rather viciously and stopped immediately; it would be entirely too easy for him to get stupid drunk and that would be a very, very bad thing. So he capped the bottle and put it back it the liquor cabinet, which he then locked firmly, before tossing back the half-a-finger of liquid in the glass. No more alcohol until the red haze cleared from his mind and his vision.

Oh, he wanted so badly to go over to Cassie's and sit with her, hold her, and just let them soothe each other.

Umm.

As a friend, of course.

Just—

Well, 'just'.

Okay, that thought needed to die.

Now.

So while he occupied himself with setting it on fire, Sam failed to realize that reaching out to Stephanie never once crossed his mind.

{{**}}

After Sam had reluctantly taken her back to the false sanctuary of her home, Cassie found herself at a loss. She and Lori were both terrified, but weren't saying anything because truthfully, what could be said? Cassie had known that Grace was planning something, but this . . . this complete disappearance . . . had never occurred to her.

And her jumbled, out-of-control emotions had never been a consideration, either, because Cassie didn't do 'out-of-control'.

She might actually strangle Grace when she came home.

And Sam would help her.

After he'd strangled Nick.

And for whatever reason, that macabre humor helped restore some of Cassie's equanimity, and she found herself able to think a little more clearly.

Then she heard the front door open and close and all bets were off, especially when her senses registered 'family'. She was still too rattled to be able to clearly separate individual people, though, so her feelings at seeing Abigail were . . . tangled.

And not remotely complimentary.

Because she strongly suspected that her cousin had a LOT to do this, but a supposition was all she had.

"Any word?" she asked breathlessly, hoping against hope.

"No," Lori replied bluntly, her eyes swirling with a dark combination of anger, fear, and suspicion.

"Abigail?" Cassie demanded, meeting her cousin's eyes and demanding the truth.

When she got back a look of fake innocence, her temper, already precariously unbalanced, began to fray.

Abigail knew where Grace was, or at the very least, had a good idea. And she was choosing to keep silent even in the face of her and Lori's fear?

"Abigail?" she snapped, leaning forward and letting her anger show a little. She was not in the mood for her cousin's games, nor was she inclined to indulge them.

Unfortunately, Abigail's experience with this kind of thing trumped Cassie's complete lack of the same, so all she could do was watch in helpless frustration when her cousin merely gave an enigmatic smile and sidestepped both women, disappearing up the stairs before she or Lori could react.

Lori made a strangled sound of utter aggravation and stomped off to the kitchen, and Cassie felt a moment of sorrow for any sugar-filled products that were there. They weren't going to be there much longer.

There was one tiny silver lining, though: Abigail did know something about Grace's whereabouts. And that knowledge had managed to both calm her fear and stoke her anger.

But she was still out of her depth at being able to handle them both.

Sam.

She needed Sam.

Badly.

But she couldn't have him.

Lori would not understand their relationship and Cassie was in no frame of mind to explain it . . . and without that information, Lori would not simply let them be. She was too worried about both Grace and Cassie to allow something she couldn't reconcile with herself to go unchallenged. And Cassie got that, truly, but that meant she was alone.

And floundering.

Maybe she could call him?

Hearing his voice might settle her and if (well, 'when') Lori came around, she could always hang up; he would understand.

As she was trying to remember where she'd left her cell phone, Cassie suddenly sensed her daughter approaching the house and virtually flew to the front door. She only managed to stop herself from barging out into the icy night air and dragging Grace in by the collar of her shirt because she felt a lingering fear that held a completely different flavor from her own, or Lori's.

. . . and it was coming from Grace.

So whatever had happened had scared her.

Good.

Preoccupied from dealing with these new revelations, Cassie was a little surprised when she saw that Grace was nearly at the front door . . . and Nick was slowly approaching his home.

She made a quick mental note to ignore anything she sensed from Sam for the time being, knowing that he was going to be furious when he realized Nick was home. Which meant that she should probably wait a bit before she texted him that Grace was here, too.

Watching her daughter's slow pace as she took the last few steps to the house had Cassie moving back to the hall; she wanted to see what happened when Grace thought she had gotten away with it. The careful opening and closing of the door and the wide-eyed look around would have been amusing in other circumstances.

But Lori heard her sister come in and headed for the door, calling her name and thwarting Cassie's plans to observe and get a more truthful picture of just what had happened tonight. So Cassie joined her, vaguely registering Abigail's presence as well, and felt no guilt at all about the way she and Lori ganged up on the young woman.

Especially when Abigail confirmed her complicity with no subtlety whatsoever.

And still no way to prove she'd been involved.

Cassie's usual calm, unflappable mien had finally disintegrated and she wanted nothing more than to scream in utter frustration, especially when Grace went along with it and lied like a shag rug from the 70s: poorly, uncomfortably, and just all-around badly.

And Cassie . . . was torn.

She could feel the guilt coming off her daughter in waves, which was gratifying (and a good thing, she was able to note), which meant that Cassie could get the truth with just a little pressure.

But.

She wanted Grace to come to her of her own accord and admit what she'd done, which meant a guilt-trip was out of the question.

So she let it go, at least for now, and took a little solace in the fact that Grace's apology for worrying everyone was genuine. That was a good start, at least.

After Grace went upstairs, she, Lori, and Abigail all stared at each other in a tense, awkward silence for a minute, and then Abigail gave them a weak smile and headed upstairs as well.

"Well," Lori said after a second. "That was . . . complete and total crap, Cassie. What are you going to do?"

Oh, this was not going to go over well.

"Nothing," Cassie answered, meeting her stepdaughter's gaze without flinching. "At least for the moment."

There was a hard silence at that, but only for a moment, and then Lori sighed.

"You're going to let her come to you?" she asked, nodding her understanding and actually startling Cassie.

It was an amazing thing to see your children all grown up.

"Yeah," Cassie replied after she recovered from this minor shock. "I think . . . I think that will be the best way to make sure this doesn't happen again. After all," she told Lori with a small, rueful smile, "you hated being harangued. And I try not to make the same mistake twice."

This earned her a quiet snort of laughter and then Lori came to her, hugged her hard, and left without another word.

Alone now, Cassie stared at her phone and wanted so badly to call Sam that her hands ached to pick the device up.

But she couldn't.

He was still dealing with Nick and until he . . . well, had finished with that, she couldn't disturb him.

Because she knew that he would come, if she asked.

Which . . . should not be as reassuring as it was.

And not asking was getting harder by the minute.

Especially since she wanted to ask the wrong man.

Except he wasn't.

And she—

She trusted the wrong man entirely too much.

And she couldn't even begin to understand why trusting Sam was so instinctive and she had to work so hard at it with Ryan.

No.

No, she could not deal with this tonight.

(or ever)

God, she wished she drank.

And it still never occurred to her to reach out to Ryan.

{{**}}

When Nick strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water like it was 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon instead of nearly midnight and he wasn't confined to the house when he wasn't at school, Sam was only remotely surprised to discover that he was . . . numb.

The rage, the fear, and the worry that had been drowning him for what felt like days had simply drained away, leaving him an empty, emotionless husk. Even his relief that his son was home and apparently unharmed was dim and almost completely buried beneath the numbness.

He was finally at the end of his rope with Nick, but he couldn't muster up a single motivation to do anything about it.

He had tried literally everything he (and Cassie) could think of, and nothing had worked. Nick was bound and determined to destroy his life and Sam . . . Sam was ready to let him.

The conundrum was that he wasn't prepared to just let the kid walk all over him to do it, but there didn't seem to be a punishment or consequence out there that affected Nick for longer than a day.

A brief spurt of dark amusement flared up when his son turned from the fridge and was visibly nonplussed to see his father watching him, hands on his hips, in classic 'angry dad' pose because . . . well, why not?

"You're never up this late," Nick grumbled, not a shred of remorse in sight, and Sam just . . . stared.

"Sorry to disappoint you. And catch you," he shot back, because it was expected. It wouldn't make a damn bit of difference, but it was better than nothing.

Marginally.

"I just went out," Nick said casually, flippantly, like Sam hadn't been worried sick for his and Cassie's kids for nearly three hours now. "No big deal."

No big deal.

No, he guessed it wasn't. Not to a snotty, selfish, entitled brat who didn't think that any rule at all applied to him. Where had he gone so wrong?!

Oh, hey. There was a little frustration bubbling up now.

And rage was starting to boil up beneath it, threatening to crack the numbness.

Which was so unexpected that Sam was unable to lock it back down immediately.

"When I told you not to, it's a very big deal," he replied, feeling and sounding dangerous in a way that Nick would have been wise to heed. Liam would have been setting up the pool table as fast as humanly possible (while hiding the liquor) and Cassie would already have dished up a slice of something sweet and found actual ice cream at hearing that tone in his voice; Noah and Grace would have twisted their tongues into a knot while they apologized for whatever they thought was upsetting him — as would most other sane people, really.

Nick just looked bored.

And startlingly like his mother.

Oh, this was going to be bad. But maybe he could head it off at the pass, or at least soften the impact when Nick finally pushed him too far.

"Grace wasn't with you, was she?" he asked somewhat rhetorically, his tone laconic, because he didn't think so. He hadn't heard anything from Cassie, so it was unlikely that Grace was home yet, which put paid to their theory of their kids being together.

Rather than answer him, Nick somewhat mockingly demanded his usual punishment (as if Sam needed more proof that his parenting skills in the discipline department were a football field beyond lacking), which utterly extinguished the rage as he finally saw just how little his son cared about him.

So he told the kid the raw truth.

"I don't know what to do with you," he said, exhaustion ringing in every syllable.

This, of course, didn't register at all with Nick, and his snotty riposte of, "When you do, let me know. I'm going to bed," should have ignited Sam's temper again.

But he was back to being mostly numb.

And he was beyond grateful for that, because he was truly, honestly afraid that he would have actually hurt Nick had he been feeling the full scope of his emotions.

Sam Radford was a man who knew himself well, and so he said and did nothing, merely let his son walk away, because the numbness he was currently blanketed with was a very thin layer — strong, but thin — and while it would take a great deal to really crack it, the end result would be an inferno of pure rage. And violence.

And Sam refused to allow that, for a host of reasons.

Still.

How the blatant disrespect took him aback, even now, was a little surprising and Sam was unable to control his expression at Nick's utter lack of fear when it came to him.

But he let him walk away, because there was nothing else he could do.

He couldn't even drink. Not now.

But—

His phone chimed softly and he blinked, having to read the text twice to make sure he had it right.

Grace was home and safe.

Thank God.

He still wanted to toss back a drink of something hard and strong, but he couldn't. That just . . . no, he couldn't.

. . . but he could go see Cassie.

Grace was home and safe, and so was Nick, and Sam hadn't killed him.

Surely that was worth a cookie?

(or a hug)

{{**}}

Despite her resolution to wait for Grace to come to her, Cassie was unable to let things go completely. So she went to her daughter's room, not entirely sure what she was going to say, and paused at the sight of Grace gently futzing with Jake's compass.

Hmm.

"Your father's compass," she murmured, catching her daughter's eye.

"Yeah," she whispered, turning her attention back to the small miracle of brass and glass while her mother came to settle across from her on the bed.

"That was given to him by his grandfather. When your dad went into the Army, he took it with him," Cassie told her, wanting — needing — their daughter to know not just more about her dad and their family, but to truly understand why a moral compass was so essential. Grace gave her a . . . she wasn't entirely sure how to interpret that look, so Cassie simply continued with her story.

"The last part of boot camp was survival training," she said, drifting back to the night Jake had told her this story. "Your dad found himself out in the middle of nowhere with not much more than that compass."

"Wow!" Grace breathed, giving her a small but genuine smile.

Heartened by this, Cassie kept talking.

"He had doubts of surviving survival training," she said, watching Grace closely, "but that compass helped him find his way back."

"It meant a lot to him," Grace observed, telling her mother without words that she wasn't ready to deal with the events of the evening yet, but she did understand that her actions had been . . . ill-advised.

"Yeah," Cassie agreed, willing to go along with this, but also needing to be Grace's mom for a minute. "It reminded him that we all have an internal compass that points us in the right direction."

Because the thing was, Cassie was no longer so massively upset anymore about tonight. Oh, the anger and the fear hadn't and wouldn't go away completely, not for a while, but she did understand why Grace had done it.

Mostly.

But she refused to allow a repeat of these events. Hence, stories and unsubtle metaphors about compasses, both physical and moral.

"It's when we stray off course, we get lost," she finished, refusing to let Grace look away from her for a long, silent moment. When she finally relinquished her daughter's gaze, she looked right at the compass, guilt coming off her in waves, and Cassie mentally relaxed.

"I am so sorry for tonight," Grace said, looking up again, her entire being showing her remorse and sincerity.

"I know," Cassie told her, because it was a good start. Then, as a small test (and a confirmation), she added that Grace hadn't been the only one to disappear.

Grace didn't say that she had been with Nick, but she did feel unwarranted guilt for getting him in trouble, something that Cassie wanted to nip in the bud.

"Other people can't get us in trouble," she said. "Only we can get ourselves into trouble."

And it was true; without Grace pulling her little disappearing act, Sam might not have found out about Nick . . . tonight. But he would have eventually, and Nick had been breaking the rules. Getting away with it did not mitigate that fact.

Grace looked taken aback at this but said nothing, and Cassie was once again content to let it go for now, so she stood up, kissed Grace's forehead, and left the room, giving her daughter the space she needed to think.

Abigail's presence in the kitchen took her completely aback and the sight of her, drinking tea and reading the paper without a care in the world, roused Cassie's temper. She was half-tempted to just walk away, but decided against it because that was a huge part of the problem: everyone kept letting Abigail get away with the things she did, so she had naturally begun to assume that those things were okay.

"Since you showed up on my doorstep," she said to announce herself, catching her cousin's attention via a surprised look. "I have this feeling I can't seem to shake that you're here just to stir things up."

Okay, so that was both obvious and a little dramatic.

But then, it was Abigail.

Who was now looking at her with such an earnest expression that Cassie was reluctantly impressed. There was no doubt at all that Abigail was gifted. If she would only use those gifts for good . . .

"Sam, Stephanie, Grace, Lori . . ." she added, trailing off at the end of her list. She still wasn't sure what to make of her cousin's dislike of Sam and Stephanie, but it was very much there.

Abigail gave an insouciant shrug. "Well, if you don't stir the pot, everything boils over," she replied.

To Cassie Nightingale.

Really?

"But not your pot," she added a little . . . smugly?

Really?!

"My pot is fine," Cassie hissed, anger rising in spite of her best efforts.

This garnered a smug smile.

Cassie gritted her teeth.

"Your pot is stuck," Abigail pronounced, and Cassie nearly lost it.

"So you're here to stir it?" she demanded a little incredulously. The other woman's sheer audacity was breathtaking.

"Someone has to," was the matter-of-fact reply, and Cassie swallowed hard. Her anger would not help things in the slightest right now, because Abigail would neither care nor heed it, so she changed tacks.

"I know you think you're helping me," she started, and was promptly steamrolled over.

"I am helping you," Abigail said, looking and sounding excited that Cassie had figured it out. "You'll see," she added, and Cassie could not stop her look of absolute disbelief.

"I don't see," she protested, utterly flabbergasted now. How had things gone so off-course?

Calm self-assurance met this, in the form of a shrug and a confident, "You will," before Abigail smiled and left the kitchen, leaving Cassie behind her in a state of genuine bewilderment.

What on earth had just happened?

How had she, Cassie Nightingale, lost complete control of the situation?

And what was she supposed to do now?

{{**}}

After maybe ten or fifteen minutes of just futzing around in the kitchen, not doing anything in particular other than making tea, Cassie had calmed down quite a bit. Which was a good thing, because she suddenly sensed Sam heading to her door.

Good. Nick was home safe and Sam was . . .

Sam was . . .

Cassie frowned when she realized she couldn't get a grasp on what Sam was feeling, though she did notice to her surprise that anger didn't seem to be present.

Huh. Well, poking his sensibilities was always fun, and by now he'd come to expect it from her, so . . . yeah, she'd do the 'greet him before he got to the door' trick and see if that helped.

"The door's open, Sam," she called without turning around, laughing softly at the flare of frustrated fondness she cherished so much as he stepped over the threshold. Only then did she look at him, filling a cup while asking if he wanted tea. His answer of scotch was . . . well, she wasn't sure. He didn't sound like he meant it, but there was an undercurrent of 'want' that made her think he wouldn't mind in the slightest.

So it was probably a good thing she didn't drink hard liquor, then.

"Ooh, I have tea," she answered, carefully pouring him a cup as well.

Something akin to relief flooded the room, tinged though it was with wistfulness.

Ah. He did want something strong, but knew it was a bad idea.

So Nick had been his usual self. Well, it wasn't surprising. Cassie wasn't nearly as upset now as she thought she was supposed to be, because her brief talk with Grace had shown her it was highly unlikely she would do something like this again, which — now that she was safely home — was Cassie's primary concern.

Nick, however . . .

He had decided that he would do the exact opposite of whatever his father said simply to spite him. Sam could tell him to jump off a cliff and the kid would refuse to do it just to prove the point; of course, this put Sam in the worst possible position, because he couldn't and wouldn't tell his child to do anything that would hurt him, but the alternative was tearing him apart.

Hence, the burning desire for strong liquor to drown that reality out and the equally powerful swell of gratitude that it wasn't an option.

"Well, I'll drink it and pretend it's scotch," he said, trying for levity and missing by a mile, and making her heart ache at the pain she could both hear and feel.

But it was obvious that he wasn't quite ready to have a serious conversation, so she simply laughed again and kept pouring, inwardly gaping as he requested a double.

A double shot of tea?

Sam Radford?

"Mmm," was all she said, turning to look at him a touch wonderingly, only for her smile to widen at the soft expression on his face. He was clearly starting to relax, which was an excellent sign, and Cassie relaxed herself as she took him his usual cup.

"I got your text," he told her as he accepted the drink. "I'm glad Grace is okay."

His sincerity at that warmed her all over and she hated to break the moment, but he needed to talk about this.

"Ah, I'm glad Nick came back," she said — carefully, because she wasn't stupid. This close to him, she had a much better sense of the seething mass of unpleasant emotions swirling beneath his calm exterior (and spoke of his formidable control, because she had sensed none of this until she was literally less than an arm's length away from him).

Wow. He was pissed.

What had that foolish child done now?

"He did," Sam agreed, putting his tea, untasted, on the table next to him. "You know . . ." he started before trailing off into a sigh, only to keep going after a few seconds. "When they say their first words, take their first steps or ride a two-wheeler, first day of school . . . oh, you just never think you're going to end up . . ."

"Drinking herb tea?" she suggested dryly, because this was worse than she'd thought and Cassie, frankly, wasn't in any kind of shape to help him with this much darkness. Not tonight.

So, humor. They needed something light and fluffy to break the mood.

And it worked.

"Exactly," he agreed, his smile sincere and his feelings settling into a much more even keel, only to immediately tip over into frustration. "How is it I can control everything in my life and I can't control my own son?" he asked, plaintively and with desperate sincerity.

And therein lay the problem, she knew. Sam was trying so hard to keep Nick from destroying himself that he had stepped over that well-hidden line of 'too far.' And it wasn't his fault, really; after all, she'd done the same with Lori for a time until she had finally figured out that no one could control another person's actions, and trying just made them do the exact opposite on general principle. All parents did, Cassie suspected, when faced with a willful, intelligent child who knew everything and was bound and determined to prove it to the world, the destruction they wrought in their wake be damned.

And in Nick's case, this was compounded by both an absentee mother and an unexpected and very unwelcome move away from big city, not to mention everything he had known and loved, to small-town America, where everyone knew everyone's business and wasn't remotely shy about butting in.

Not that it excused Nick's behavior, but it did help Cassie understand it.

Sam, unfortunately, was simply too close to the situation to have that kind of perspective.

Still, the fact that he'd finally realized he couldn't control Nick was a good start . . . and he might just heed her words now, since they came from hard-won experience.

"Well, you can't control everything," she said, holding his eyes. "There are always unexpected variables that change things."

His immediate rebuttal about controlling the unexpected (and therefore, uncontrollable) was a huge neon sign that father and son were a lot more alike than either of them wanted to admit, and she found herself genuinely enjoying their short back-and-forth. He hated admitting that she was right about him being wrong, she knew (and to be fair, so did she when the tables were turned), but he was listening and she was confident that, eventually, he would find something workable to use on Nick (whether it would work on Nick, well . . .)

But that didn't mean she couldn't tease him, especially when he so desperately needed something positive to focus on.

So she . . . encouraged . . . the door knob to not work when he tried to turn it, and successfully kept a straight face at the mental 'seriously?!' he was unable to prevent.

After two tries, he stopped and wryly observed that he was, in fact, struggling, and she knew her point had been made (as much it could be tonight, at least). So she finished it with a nonchalant, "Hmm, we all do," as she stepped to his side and reached for the doorknob, covering his hand with hers . . .

And they both went still at the unexpected intimacy.

No.

No, she still wasn't able to deal with this tonight, so Cassie opened the door and summoned up genuine amusement at his chagrin before she wished him good night and watched him walk away, back to his own home.

And refused to contemplate why that sight felt so wrong.

He was her friend.

Nothing more.

{{**}}

Well, he hadn't gotten a cookie (or a hug) out of seeing Cassie, but he gotten A Giant Clue, Sam mused as he walked through his door.

It was no wonder Nick was fighting him so hard, the way Sam had clamped down on him. To be fair — and honest — Sam didn't know what else he could have done, after that damned beach house and Nick's plummeting grades and . . .

Well, 'and'.

Trying to control a mouthy, intelligent teenager was NOT his idea of fun, thank you, though now that Cassie had pointed it out to him, it was ridiculously easy to see how he had gone too far in his attempts to rein his son in (particularly when one factored in Sam's, um, tendency to be a control freak).

This did not make Nick's behavior or attitude okay, mind, but Sam finally had an understanding as to where it had come from and why things had gotten so bad.

So: now that he had come to this new conclusion, what to do about it?

He pondered this for the rest of the night, sleeping sporadically, only to suddenly hit on the perfect solution about an hour before his alarm went off. It was going to be brutal for both of them, Sam knew, but maybe that would finally get Nick's attention. If his father was suffering the same way he was, Nick might realize that he wasn't the only one involved in this kamikaze mission he seemed hell-bent on completing. And it was . . . shaming . . . to realize how little time he spent with his son because, frankly, he didn't WANT to be around him, and so the vicious cycle continued.

Stunned to have come up with something that just might work, Sam nonetheless actually slept until that grating 'beep' dragged him back to reality.

He debated for several minutes about telling Nick before or after school, mulling over the pros and cons of each, not to mention the logistics of making this work, while showering, and finally decided to get it over with. With his luck (and, you know, karma's apparent hate/hate relationship with him), waiting until tonight would result in a 22-hour day in the nearby ER.

Besides . . . the frustrated, angry father was looking forward to his rebellious offspring's response to this new punishment, if only because he needed something to show that his efforts at raising a happy, healthy person who would be able to survive on his own as a functional adult were not in vain.

This wasn't pettiness, either; this was a necessity every parent of a smart-ass teenager the world over needed at some point.

So he grabbed his briefcase and headed for the back door, where he could see Nick tossing layups, without a care in the world.

Oh, yes. The frustrated, angry father was suddenly very much looking forward to this.

The discouraged, hurting father was not, but understood the need.

So when he caught the ball and walked it over to Nick, his warring halves were able to find a balance in the wake of his son's brash disrespect.

"Just ground me and get it over with."

Yeah. This new solution really, honestly, just might work.

"I can't always control what you do," he said abruptly, catching Nick off-guard. "But I can control what I do."

And that was, at least to Nick, the most important part: he needed to hear his father admit fault. And Sam readily acknowledged that he needed to do so in this case, because part of the fault was his.

A puzzled expression greeted this, with an equally perplexed, "What are you talking about?" accompanying it.

And here it was. Go big or go home, Radford.

"We don't spend enough time together," Sam said, mentally bracing for the impact once his words registered.

"Yes, we do," Nick replied a little incredulously (and a lot more calmly than Sam had expected).

"No, we don't," he replied firmly. "But that's gonna change. Because something has to."

Wasn't that God's honest truth?

Taking in Nick's silent bewilderment, Sam went for the kill (so to speak).

"And that's why I'm grounding both of us," he told his son, taking a few seconds to revel in the stunned disbelief he was getting before turning to shoot (and score) a basket one-handed, wink at the boy, and then give a soft laugh as he headed to his car without giving Nick a chance to respond. He almost called back to have a good day, but decided against it. He was angry and frustrated, yes, but that was no reason to be a jerk.

And let's be honest: if that particular affectation became a necessity, he had no doubt whatsoever that Nick would give him another opportunity very soon.

But in the meantime, he had a plan.

And he was really looking forward to Cassie's reaction to it.

After all, she had planted the seed a—

Oh, crap. Stephanie.

They were supposed to be going out for dinner tonight, but he had just effectively ruined that.

And being a chef (gourmet or otherwise) was not among his skills.

Dammit!

Okay, it was official: he and karma were going to Have Words. And without chocolate this time, because Sam was done with this. There HAD to be a way to balance his professional and personal (all aspects of it) lives without sacrificing the important things; he just needed to find it.

Maybe he'd use his lunch break to go see Cassie at her shop and ask how she and Jake had managed (it never occurred to him to be bothered by her marriage, something that would have surprised people, given his strong dislike of her relationship with Ryan. But he had had never seen Cassie with Jake or met the man, so the only thing he had to go on were outside impressions — and they were all favorable. Ryan's pursuit of her, on the other hand, was something he was enduring from the front row, and he . . . well. Yes. His feelings on the matter were very clear.).

So, he would talk to Cassie and get some advice. And if they conversed over lunch, well, it was only logical.

No other reason.

Really.

{{**}}

When Ryan called and asked if they could do lunch at one, Cassie hesitated for only a moment before accepting. She hadn't seen much of him this last week and given her new realization about her relationship with Sam, she definitely needed to spend more time with hi-Ryan.

She and Ryan needed to have more 'them' time.

Which he would love, for a lot of reasons.

Therefore, Ryan being almost fifteen minutes late — and without so much as a text — irritated her a little more than was strictly warranted.

But she couldn't say that because it would hurt his feelings and he would alternate between sulking and pouting for the next few days, and she simply wasn't prepared to deal with that.

Then she took in his demeanor and mentally frowned; he looked rattled.

"Oh, no problem," she replied to his apology, now more concerned about him. "You all right?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh as he dropped into a chair. "Yeah, it's just Martha's going all Donald Trump on me with Keating House."

Gee. No one would ever have seen that coming.

No one.

Cassie was unable to prevent the slightly-gleeful enjoyment she took out of informing Ryan yet again that Martha Tinsdale was a powerful force of nature.

Missing the irony completely, he agreed wholeheartedly, his expression that of a man who has just been run over by a herd of goats while standing on the busiest highway in Chicago and trying to figure out where the goats had come from, and Cassie couldn't help but laugh.

"It's hard to contain something so strong once it's been unleashed," she replied, giving him a knowing look. He eyeballed her dubiously in response before (as usual) completely ignoring her words because he didn't want to hear that truth and going straight to their relationship.

"Look, I don't want Keating House to come between us," he pleaded, and Cassie mentally sighed. It wasn't Keating House that was the problem; the fact that he still hadn't grasped that was. "Give me one more chance to convince you of the merits of this project."

Which wasn't going to happen, if only because Cassie knew full well that advantages or not, the people of Middleton weren't going to be happy, and that was an undeniable truth. They lived in Middleton because they didn't WANT to be in a big (or bigger, depending on where you were looking) city. Therefore, bringing in 'big city' aspects was not going to go over well no matter how much merit they might have.

But.

She enjoyed this exact kind of debate with Sam, so it made sense that she would feel the same with Ryan.

They just . . . needed to do it.

So—

"Okay," she agreed. "Grey House. You talk, I'll cook."

Ryan was ridiculously pleased by this, which both mildly irritated her and made her feel a little bit guilty. They hadn't spent a lot of time together recently, it was true, but that wasn't her doing (though to be fair, she hadn't tried to make any dates herself).

Oh, this was so complicated. And feeling less and less like it was worth it.

Which was exactly the reason they had to start spending more time together as a couple, so that things would start to work and they would be happy and together and a couple.

Wait. Did — had she just repeated herself?

Well, yes, but she was a little nervous. No, trepidatious. After all, this was the first time she was really going along with his desire for a truly intimate date.

And then Ryan had to ruin it, because why not?

"Oh," he observed, giving her what she thought was supposed to be a suggestive look. "That's kind of intimate."

Which was the point. But fine; she could play this game.

"It is?" she asked in fake surprise, raising her eyebrows.

"Mm-hmm," he murmured, leaning a little closer.

(she ignored her immediate desire to lean away)

And then he backed off and changed tactics so quickly it actually made her blink.

"Well, yeah, at a restaurant, you know, we're not alone, but at Grey House—"

Oh, really?

All right, then, fine.

She could do this with Ryan, too, and prove that it wasn't just Sam who brought out the true snark in her.

"At Grey House, there's Grace and Brandon . . ." she began, her tone almost teasing.

"But no Lori?" he cut in, and she paused, startled. That had come from — where HAD that come from?

But it was true; Lori wasn't around much at the moment, and she chuckled softly at recalling the reason why, because it was laugh or rage and she did not want Ryan to know about her issues with Abigail.

Lori's reasons were her own.

"No, Lori's, um, investigating something," she confirmed, looking away for a few seconds because his expression was making her feel . . . something she neither understood nor liked.

"See, right there," he riposted, that boyish grin she used to love coming to his lips. "Lori would have changed the dynamic of the entire evening. We're practically going to be alone."

Cassie wasn't sure what to make of this. On the one hand, Ryan was clearly trying to keep things light. On the other hand, it was equally obvious that he badly wanted this to be the start of something deeper, more personal, more . . . intimate.

After all, this was hardly the first time they'd been alone . . . although it would be only the second time she'd be cooking for him.

At her home.

Oh, wow. She was suddenly dizzy.

Umm.

Light. Fluffy.

She needed to lighten things up.

"Practically," she echoed, needing both of them to keep that in mind.

But this was what she wanted, a chance for her and Ryan to get closer and more invested in each other.

Wasn't it?

{{**}}

It was strange, Sam mused later (much, much later, after the fire and making dinner with Cassie and Linda's bombshell and the slow dawning of his realization that he wasn't sure he really wanted to date Stephanie), at how similar Abigail was to Cassie only in regards to how easy it was to get him to talk. He had been mulling over the options he had for dinner that night, trying to decide if ordering (and then driving over to pick it up before driving back) food from somewhere in Blairsville was worth it. It . . . well, frankly, it sucked that he couldn't get it from Le Bistrot du Broc, but that would be the height of poor taste (and bad manners, not to mention just rubbing it in), and when he realized that yes, he was going to either have to do Hamburger Helper or drive to flippin' Blairsville, Sam was annoyed.

At the world at large, himself in general, and Nick in particular.

Though right now, it was mostly at himself. Why, WHY couldn't he have waited two more days to punish Nick? Then he and Stephanie could actually go out and Sam wouldn't be stuck in this awkward situation he'd created for himself.

Therefore, with his brain on 'need to whine' mode, Sam sighed morosely and leaned on the front counter, accepting Abigail's sympathy without a second thought.

(he really would wonder later how he failed to see her not-remotely-subtle attempts to sabotage what he was trying to start with Stephanie . . . except he knew why: he DESPISED being manipulated whether he consciously realized it was happening or not (or agreed with the end result), and was digging in his heels so he could make his own choices)

And she wasn't Cassie, but she wasn't . . . she wasn't someone who would give away his secrets, if only because she didn't know anyone to tell them to (the irony of this would choke him later, once he fully understood).

So he spilled his guts, his woes, and his immediate problem of not knowing how to, you know, cook.

When Abigail dryly observed that Stephanie wasn't coming for the food, Sam couldn't help his own wry grin; she wasn't wrong, and the entire town knew it.

Nonetheless.

"I want it to be—"

"Special?" she interjected, her eyes dancing with a wicked amusement he couldn't hold against her, especially since he knew that Cassie would have the same reaction.

"Edible," he corrected, because he and Stephanie weren't anywhere near ready for 'special'.

This earned him a look of mild disbelief and an offer to teach him how to cook.

Which . . . given that her idea of 'teach' was 'cook this dish by following the recipe in this book' and nothing else, that REALLY should have made him stop and think.

But he was a man.

Who didn't cook.

So to him, this seemed perfectly reasonable.

Her parting shot about making up for the trouble she'd caused was a truth he wouldn't appreciate for several weeks, and by then, it would be too late to strangle her for it. But at the time, he still hadn't figured that out, so he asked if she was sure and accepted her confirmation as the lifesaver (or, well, date-saver) he thought it was.

And if part of him was disappointed that it wasn't Cassie he would be cooking for, well, that was only because he'd missed her at lunch.

Really.

{{**}}

When Stephanie strolled into her shop that afternoon, bringing chicken broth as a bribe (well, actually, Cassie wasn't entirely sure why her friend had handed her a container full of liquid, but okay; stranger things had happened), she could only shake her head. Stephanie was tenacious, she would give her that.

And it was sweet to see that Sam was serious about wanting to see if they made a good couple.

But Cassie would be lying if she didn't say she was tired of being the sounding board for both of them, knowing as she did that this was highly unlikely to end . . . not badly, but not with Sam and Stephanie as a couple.

Particularly since she couldn't say that, being who and what she was.

Not to mention the fact that neither of them wanted to hear it.

Urgh. This was one of those times when being 'Dear Abby' was not what it was cracked up to be.

"So," Stephanie began with such studied casualness that even poorly-made student films winced. "Sam hasn't called to cancel."

Okay?

"And now that dinner is at his house, if he doesn't show, he'll either have to leave town or move."

Ah.

Cassie hadn't realized just how much that broken date had hurt Stephanie. And now she was torn, because she could completely understand where her friend was coming from.

On the other hand, Abigail or no, Sam had been caught with a medical emergency, and it wasn't fair of Stephanie to hold that against him — especially since he'd let her know about it, which was more than Jake had managed at times.

But she didn't really have a good way to segue that bit of wisdom into the conversation, so she simply gave a slightly-awkward laugh, echoing the other woman's, and stayed silent as she continued.

"I have never, and I mean never, given a man this many chances," Stephanie confessed, which—

What?

This many chances?

It was 'two' and the first one had been understandably derailed.

Wow.

This explained a few things about her friend that Cassie had seen before but never quite understood.

"But I think he's worth it," she added, bringing Cassie's focus back to her. "Ugh, men, they can be so frustrating!"

Yeah.

Not just men.

But — maybe Stephanie would actually be receptive to hearing this? Sam had, after all.

"I think the frustration comes from not being able to get someone to do what we want or to react the way we want," Cassie imparted in the sage tone she had learned worked wonders for getting people to hear the actual message she was conveying — and desperately hoping her friend would be one of them.

Because if Stephanie really wanted to be with Sam, she had to learn that he did not handle manipulation or steamrolling well (Martha Tinsdale notwithstanding), something Cassie suspected had its roots in the ex-wife.

She was completely unprepared for her friend to change the subject to Cassie's relationship (or lack thereof, as far as Stephanie knew) with Ryan.

"Well, then, I think Ryan is a little frustrated with you," she stated, sounding far too knowing for Cassie's taste.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Not going there. Not with Stephanie.

"Well, I can't help that," she replied a little tartly, not remotely wanting to talk about this.

As usual, Stephanie ignored the anvil-sized hint and pulled off her coat, dropping to the small couch next to Cassie. "I think he really likes you," she informed Cassie — and to be fair, she was just trying to help, Cassie conceded. The problem was that she didn't need or want it, but due to her own insistence on keeping their relationship quiet, she couldn't actually say that.

Irony, thy name is Cassie Nightingale.

"Well, I really like him," Cassie answered with a sigh, because it was true. It was just that — well, there was a lot more tangled up in that than anyone knew.

"But?" Stephanie prompted after a second, her entire countenance open and eager for information (and gossip. Juicy gossip at that.).

"But I think we were talking about you and Sam," Cassie said firmly, steering the conversation back to a slightly-less-fraught topic — which, given her reluctance to talk about or deal with that subject, told her more than she wanted to know about how she truly felt about dating Ryan, a thought she immediately and forcefully shoved to the back of her mind.

Stephanie conceded with a laugh and a droll, "Nice deflection," to which Cassie gave an equally droll thanks, and they sipped their tea for a few minutes in silence before Stephanie started chattering about a possible new entrée she wanted to add to her menu.

And if Cassie took a second to offer a heartfelt prayer of gratitude that she'd successfully diverted attention from her and Ryan, well . . . of course she did.

She never thought to wonder why, if she was determined to make them work as a couple, she was so reluctant to talk about them with anyone.

Or consider that not once had she wanted to hide her relationship with Jake.

{{**}}

When Sam ran into Cassie as he was leaving the grocery store, looking remarkably like a man stocking up for a blizzard, he couldn't be anything but amused . . . especially when she rescued the red pepper trying to leap for freedom.

In retrospect, that might have been a clue.

"Thanks," he said, grinning; it was amazing how much seeing her calmed him, emotionally speaking.

Uh . . . wait.

"Anytime," she chirped back, falling in step beside him, and his brain (or maybe just his self-preservation instincts) shut off.

"I'm making dinner for Stephanie," he informed her blithely.

"Oh," she responded, sounding surprised (and a bit dubious). "You need help?"

"Nope, got it all under control," he replied assuredly. After all, he performed complex, detailed surgeries all the time, and they were usually the direct result of serious trauma, so they also tended to be messy.

How difficult could it be to cook an extremely popular entrée?

"I'm sure you do," she said, the dubious a little less 'bit' now, but he found himself amused instead of annoyed.

Oh, God. Was the brain-eating amoeba back?

Well, you know, if it was . . . that was still better than his ongoing fight with karma.

His answer to her query about his meal plans sparked a lot of dubiousness, so elegantly framed with her simple, "Ambitious."

Which . . . yeah, that pricked his ego, he admitted. It couldn't be that hard to do!

"And French," he shot back a little . . . okay, snottily. "Abigail helped me."

"Did she?" Cassie asked, and something in her tone gave Sam pause, though he couldn't for the life of him say why.

So he told her what Abigail had told him.

"If you can read, you can cook."

A pause.

"Uh, and she told you that?"

Dubiousness had upgraded to disbelief and Sam huffed, turning to face her.

He was a grown man who could read and follow instructions perfectly well, thank you.

"Yup," he replied simply, refusing to be drawn any further on this issue. It was going to be fine.

And edible.

"Well, then, this is either very French of you or very stupid," she said.

IN FRENCH.

Oh, it was on now. Cassie Nightingale was entirely too used to getting away with dropping that kind of bombshell.

So he answered her with a word-for-word translation and derived a huge amount of satisfaction in watching her shock at his fluency register in those gorgeous eyes. He followed up immediately by asking if she was fluent (in the language in question, because it was on, dammit) and got an affirmative answer, one that was hastily chased by what sounded almost like a sincere 'good luck'.

Almost.

And his ego bristled again.

"Luck's not a factor," he replied, unlocking his car and grinning in victory when she made no reply, merely left him to loading his groceries.

Yeah.

This was going to be fine.

{{**}}

This was not going to be fine.

As he tried to beat back the smoke billowing from his oven and simultaneously calm his irritated son down, Sam would readily concede that he had made a massive miscalculation in his choice of main dish (and maybe, possibly, also in his decision to skip a step or four in the recipe itself. Not to mention refusing Cassie's offer to help. That had been Grade-A stupid.).

So when Cassie sauntered into the kitchen like the white knight she had come to be for him, Sam couldn't be anything but grateful.

Also, highly chagrined.

He was about to get a lecture — no, worse, he was going to get that gentle 'Sam is an idiot for ignoring my warning' talk — and he had it coming.

Had he mentioned that his life was bordering on the absurd?

"Uh, need some help?" she asked with a completely justified amount of sarcasm, and Sam just sighed as he looked at her.

Seriously: when, where, and how had he offended karma so badly?

And yet — the end result was Cassie, looking at him with fond amusement.

Umm.

Okay, he was sure now: the brain-eating amoeba was back.

And had, from all appearances, teamed up with karma.

You know . . . 'absurd' was the perfect word for the state of his life.

And it said a lot that he wasn't particularly upset about it, all things considered.

Well, damn.

{{**}}

When panic (and anger, frustration, and a huge amount of disbelief) rushed over her from Sam's home, Cassie was irrationally amused . . . until the smoke hit her and she abruptly realized that her earlier doubts about Sam's kitchen skills were spot-on.

Time to go rescue him, them.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

And he was going to let her, because he had it coming and they both knew it.

Not to mention, the look on his face when she rather sarcastically offered to help was priceless. She would have given anything for a camera at that moment.

Nick stating the obvious just tipped the scales over to absurd, especially when Sam couldn't say a single thing in his defense.

Oh, why, WHY couldn't she have a camera right now?!

So she did her best to imprint it on her memory, and after assuring herself that no one was hurt, made her point by delicately fanning some smoke away and lightly clearing her throat.

It took everything she had not to burst out laughing at the look on his face, but to his credit, Sam didn't say a word.

And so it was that, instead of preparing an intimate meal for two, Cassie Nightingale found herself in the position of having to make two of them.

She wasn't nearly as upset about her potential interrupted plans with Ryan as she was about Sam's date with Stephanie, something she attributed solely to Abigail's heavy-handed interference.

What other reason could there be?

Then she saw that his oven was on 'broil' and all bets were off.

His befuddled expression as she explained the concept of 'broil' brought her back to earth. Right. The man did not cook, even for fun. She was going to have to remember that.

But then —

"How exactly did Abigail help you?" she asked with more than a little exasperation (and a heavy dose of suspicion).

It suddenly occurred to her that that the odds of Derek arresting her if she strangled her cousin were very, very low.

"She gave me the recipe," he said a touch defensively.

And?

After a very telling pause, Cassie mentally sighed.

That was all she had done.

Of course it was.

Normally, she would have modulated her tone, but she just couldn't. Not today.

"Okay, Beef Bourguignon is really complicated," she explained as though Sam was a kindergartener trying to write a business letter with a crayon (which was a ridiculous metaphor, and yet still accurate).

"Abigail thought I could handle it," was his weak (and he knew it) rebuttal.

Of course she did.

Cassie was unable to suppress her sigh and also unable to keep from informing him of just how dumb it had been to not do further research. If nothing else, the fact that you had to have a cookbook (or Google) in front of you to spell the name right should have been a clue.

Sam's wince at this realization only made it worse and she wasn't able to keep her sarcasm at bay when she inquired if he'd actually, you know, followed the recipe.

She knew perfectly well that he hadn't — hello, kitchen on fire? — but she was going to force him to admit it.

After all, she'd offered to help and been arrogantly turned down.

Though it was impossible not to see the humor in the situation, especially when she heard Sam's sheepish — yet still defiant — admission that he'd skipped a few of the steps in the recipe.

Oh, he deserved to be called out on that, especially since he wasn't, in the normal course of events, an idiot.

Decided to wing it?

Really, Sam?

This time, the sarcasm was completely intended and she was in full 'mocking' mode when she asked if he'd read any books before performing his first surgery.

And his ego finally surfaced.

Well, at least this incident hadn't actually damaged him, small mercy though it was at the moment.

"I was doing just fine," he replied defensively, only for his natural honesty to kick in. "Until—"

"—the fire," she finished somewhat acerbically, her expression matching her voice.

"The fire," he agreed, deflating as he was once again forced to acknowledge that he didn't have a leg to stand on here. "And that's when the wheels came off."

Oh, Sam.

She was definitely going to have to teach him to cook.

Whether she would kill him or turn him into Paul Hollywood remained to be seen, but either way, it was going to be fun.

Or at least entertaining.

So when he said he was going to call Stephanie to cancel, her reaction caught her completely and totally off-guard.

She wanted him to do it.

If he did, she could cancel with Ryan and have a nice, enjoyable meal, just her and Sam.

What in the hell was wrong with her?!

"Don't call. Don't cancel," she commanded, fighting back her last thought with all the passion of a woman who has just glimpsed a reality she isn't supposed to want.

"Well, I have to!" he replied, utterly oblivious to her inner turmoil.

Oddly, that helped her find enough of her equilibrium to function.

And she was NOT going to let Abigail ruin this for Sam. If he and Stephanie didn't work out, so be it, but it had to be their choice.

"Look," she said a lot more calmly. "One Merriwick woman got you into this, so another one's going to get you out."

He looked so pathetically grateful she almost cried.

Yes, she was most assuredly going to strangle her cousin. Derek wouldn't arrest her and Sam would help if she needed him to.

He always would.

So tonight, she was going to return the favor.

And if the thought turned her stomach, well . . . it didn't.

That was just the lingering smell of smoke.

Coming from his kitchen to hers, across a thousand yards of open space.

There was no other reason.

{{**}}

"I can't take all your food for my dinner date."

Sam was fairly sure that he had never made a less-true statement in his life and found himself irrationally worried that his tongue might fall out because of it.

But it was a lie: he desperately wanted to take all her food, because if she didn't have enough of it, then she couldn't have a romantic dinner with Ryan.

Okay, this just wasn't fair: he should NOT have to contend with karma and a brain-eating amoeba. Not at the same time.

Especially because she was taken. And while he wasn't sure he wanted her romantically (which made no difference, because she wasn't single and he was not going to be the other man), her relationship with Ryan Elliott continued to make his teeth grind. The man simply wasn't a good match for her, at least not as a boyfriend, and . . .

And Cassie was so obviously unhappy — well, not . . . maybe 'dissatisfied' was a better word — with the state of things. Sam had been noticing for some time that the spark that drew everyone to her had dimmed (oh, great, now he sounded like one of those bodice-rippers his sister pretended she didn't read), and that was just wrong. On so many levels, Cassie Nightingale being diminished was just not right.

She perked up when she saw him and most other people, sure, but his observational skills were some of the best in the country, and so he had seen her increasing malaise, to his extreme displeasure.

But he still couldn't talk to her about it, because there still wasn't anything to say.

Well, that and the fact that he knew full well how HE would react in a similar situation (assuming, of course, that her relationship with Ryan was the problem, and he reluctantly conceded that this was a big assumption, especially factoring in Grace's little stunt the other night).

But having to sit by, watching an unhealthy relationship and waiting for it crumble, while his best friend grew more and more miserable and he was unable to do a damn thing about it?

Well, to be frank, it sucked.

And not in a fun or life-affirming way.

Whoa. He had not realized just how bitter he'd gotten about this issue (or how much Nick's vocabulary had infected his own. Wonderful.)

And even taking all of this into account, Sam was still taken by surprise when Cassie refused to let him cancel his date with Stephanie, because when he said it, he would have sworn on an entire stack of Bibles that she wanted him to.

But he refused to break his word again if he had another choice, and so he reluctantly agreed to let Cassie help him salvage something he was no longer sure he wanted to pursue.

So when they joked and flirted and moved around the kitchen like they'd been doing it for years, well, it made sense: they were good friends with a solid core of trust. Which was why he found himself telling her things he'd only shared with Liam, and still more that he hadn't talked about with anyone, because she simply . . . listened. There was no jealousy about the string of dates and no judgment for his failure to really deal with the problems his marriage had caused before trying to move on. Cassie gave him only quiet acceptance and a safe place to rest.

But he couldn't want more than the strength of their friendship, so he didn't, instead focusing his attention on his date with Stephanie, even going so far as to insert it into the conversation, because he desperately needed the reminder. He tried to hope that it would go well, he really did, but . . . well, his ability to deny certain things had taken a hit tonight, something that was driven home as he watched Cassie walk away from him so he could let Stephanie in. And while he did not want to hurt Stephanie — he refused to do so, in fact, which was why he wasn't canceling things — he also knew that for both of their sakes, this date needed to be either spectacular or an epic crash-and-burn.

Maybe that would force him to finally make a choice.

{{**}}

It took the entirety of finishing the preparations for her meal with Ryan for Cassie to regain her equilibrium, but she managed. Any and all thoughts of Sam and Stephanie had been shoved firmly into a dungeon she'd created just for that purpose and she had (almost) convinced herself that she was looking forward to this date.

Ryan greeted her with a soft kiss but nothing else and surprised her by being low-key and just . . . well, really nice company, for the entire meal. There was no pushing about their relationship, nothing about Keating House, nothing — well, nothing objectionable or arguable.

And Cassie hated herself for making the comparison, but it was so uncharacteristic of Ryan that instead of enjoying a nice, quiet, romantic evening with her boyfriend, she instead found herself wondering when and how she'd fallen into the Twilight Zone.

The end result was that she was no longer able to contain her curiosity (or her concern) and as they finished off their main course, she finally had to say something.

"Um, you don't look well," she ventured carefully. She wanted to know what was going on, of course, but not if it started another argument.

"I'm not," he replied, following that immediately with, "It's not the food," which was sweet, she admitted, albeit worrying, because he made not even a token attempt at a joke, which was unlike him.

But she appreciated the effort he did make, so she gave a soft smile and asked what was wrong.

This garnered a blank stare for several seconds before he announced, in a voice full of dread, that he'd unleashed Martha Tinsdale on Middleton.

Ooh.

Yeah, okay. Cassie was suddenly feeling a little queasy herself.

"How?" she demanded sharply, mystified as to how he'd managed that. Martha did not take orders or direction from ANYONE.

"She's ready to tear down the whole town," was his somewhat pitiful non-answer, which calmed her worry even as it fanned her irritation.

She distinctly remembered telling Ryan that this would happen.

And for once, she decided to remind him of that.

"Isn't that what you want?" she inquired with no sympathy and a fair amount of sarcasm.

He looked at her like she'd grown another head and emphatically denied this.

Which . . . wow.

But assuming that was true, what did Ryan want?

He kept talking before she could answer, explaining how he'd dug a hole for himself with the bulldozer that was Martha Tinsdale and was now trapped by his own hubris.

And then he begged her to help him.

Because that was what Ryan did.

Every. Single. Time.

And Cassie was exhausted, and not just from the constant fighting she and Ryan had been doing over this very issue. She also had Grace and Abigail to contend with, to say nothing about Stephanie, and Sa—

She just didn't have anything left to give him.

And quite frankly, even if she could, she wouldn't. She was done with being his conscience, at least in this, because he refused to so much as consider her advice, much less heed it, until he'd fallen down the rabbit hole.

He was a grown man and it was beyond time for him to starting handling his own problems, particularly those that were self-inflicted.

"I can't," she informed him, managing to inject a smidge of sincerity in her voice so he didn't feel slighted.

A disbelieving stare.

Then — "WHAT?!"

Hence, her refusal to clean up his mess. If this was how Sam felt, trying to deal with Nick, she was suddenly a great deal more sympathetic to his situation.

And his desire to kill the boy.

"Only you can really help yourself out of this," she explained with more patience than she realized she had.

To her eternal astonishment, he took this at face value and agreed, only to immediately ask for 'pointers'.

Really?

Well, of course 'really'. She'd been bailing him out for nearly three years now, why on earth was she surprised?

So . . . what to do?

If she refused, how long would she have before he was beating down her door, begging (literally) for her help, then her involvement, and finally just shoving the entire thing in her lap?

If she gave him the ultimate solution (which was to tell everyone involved 'no' and actually stand firm on that decision), he would ignore her because it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Or do, for that matter.

Okay. Middle ground, middle ground, middle ground.

Hmm. How to derail Martha Tinsdale, human bulldozer . . .

Ah.

Flattery. It worked equally well on both boyfriend and mayor, so it was possible that even Ryan could wield it successfully if given the correct direction.

Fine. She would do that.

But as she explained how he needed to start, Cassie was unable to completely bury her resentment at being pulled into the middle of yet another one of Ryan's self-inflicted work injuries. He refused to learn from his own history and she was at the end of her rope dealing with him.

It.

Dealing with his failure to learn from his mistakes.

When he whined that he couldn't reason with Martha — that no one could — it took everything she had not to laugh in his face, because duh. Cassie loved Martha dearly, she did, but the woman was . . . well, a human bulldozer and had been since birth. Ryan just didn't like being the helpless pebble in her path.

Still, the reminder gave her another idea, one that Ryan wouldn't think of in a million years, so she steered him in the direction of his investor as subtly as she dared; maybe if he thought the original idea was his, something would stick and keep this from happening yet again.

Please God, let it work.

Please.

She could see the exact second the answer hit him and nearly cried from sheer relief.

In fact, she was so grateful that the argument had been avoided that she actually initiated a good-night kiss for the first time, thrilled that Ryan finally seemed to be growing up a little. She didn't even mind that he tried to deepen it, though she didn't indulge him (and was slightly startled when he didn't push it and simply left after a soft farewell).

And as she started to clean up, she used that small victory to smother her irritation that he hadn't stayed or even offered to help her.

(Sam would have. Jake had. But Ryan wasn't Sam. Or Jake. So Cassie ignored the warning siren her brain was sounding because of course there would be different bumps in the road for each man. And with Ryan, this wasn't a fight worth picking. At least, not yet.)

One hurdle at a time.

Right?

{{**}}

Cassie had just started on the dishes when Grace came to her, hesitant and full of remorse and guilt.

Well.

That had taken less time than she'd expected.

She simply listened as Grace finally admitted that she'd lied about Friday night, inwardly debating about whether letting her daughter know that she had known all along that she was planning something before deciding that it was a good idea. If Grace knew now that her mother had known at least the basics of what she'd intended and let her do it anyway, she believed it would go a long way to preventing something similar from happening again.

This information visibly caught Grace off-guard and she quite reasonably wanted to know why Cassie had let her.

And that was a difficult answer to give to an inexperienced child, because her base reasoning had been 'I have to let you make your own mistakes', but there were a lot more layers.

Still, her daughter was more than smart enough to understand the concept of 'learn by doing,' so Cassie told her as much.

Grace took a few seconds to absorb that, and then decided to add to her honesty by admitting to Abigail's complicity in the whole thing, though she took responsibility for her own actions, something that made Cassie swell with pride.

And, while it was nice to have her suspicions about Abigail confirmed, it didn't really help Cassie now. Though . . . she did have a better idea of what to watch for in the future, should it become necessary.

Well, that was something, at least.

Her confirmation of being with Nick was no surprise; her assurance that he'd protected and helped her, on the other hand, was shocking. Not that Nick was a bad kid, because he wasn't, not really, but because he was selfish and not the sort of person to help someone else just because it was the right thing to do.

Cassie was still processing this last mini-bombshell about Nick and so had said nothing, which finally prompted Grace to timidly ask if she was disappointed.

And her smart, level-headed child was back, so they could actually talk about this.

"Well," Cassie began, "it's not your best day . . ."

She trailed off here, curious about Grace's reaction, and got another genuinely remorseful apology.

Oh, thank God. She had learned from this mistake, and learned well.

But Cassie couldn't let her off quite so easily, so she bit down her initial desire to tell Grace everything was okay, and instead answered with, "Look, a mistake is like a bump in the road. One bump is not so bad. But if we keep making mistakes, eventually we change the shape of the road forever."

And Grace, who wasn't stupid, immediately understood that this metaphor was about trust. She was also a teenager who had just apologized for a massive screw-up, so Cassie wasn't surprised or annoyed when she deflected from the 'trust' thing to reiterate that Nick had taken care of her and helped her for nothing.

But why w—

Oh.

She was trying to ask if she should tell Sam about this.

Hmm.

On the one hand, Nick had deliberately broken the rules.

On the other hand, in doing so, he had been in a position to help Grace.

Yeah. Yeah, Sam would want to know that, if only for his own peace of mind.

"Well, that seems like a story worth telling," she said to her daughter, inwardly amused that she was still stuck on 'metaphor' mode, even now.

"I don't know what to do," Grace replied and Cassie blinked.

Hadn't — hadn't she just given her advice?

Oh, wait. She was probably worried about getting Nick into more trouble.

Unfortunately, Cassie couldn't help her there; ultimately, the decision was up to Grace (and she was unsurprised when, the next morning, Grace had found a reason to talk to Sam. She was even prouder when Grace refused her offer to go with her, knowing that she needed to do it herself.).

"You will," she said softly, knowing it was scant comfort. But it was all she had and Grace knew it, so she let it go and turned her attention back to her primary worry.

"So are you gonna punish me?" she asked, her voice shaking a little; she'd never been in trouble before, not like this, and was understandably worried.

But Cassie knew her daughter well and the fact that Grace had come to her, unprompted and unaided, told her the rest. What had happened on Friday night would not happen again, and Cassie felt that suffering for a day over your actions was punishment enough . . . especially since Grace had had the courage and maturity to own up to her actions and not try to justify them.

But . . . well, she was exhausted after putting two fires (one physical, one mental), preparing and cooking two full meals, and avoiding a fight with Ryan while simultaneously heading off a huge problem for the town, so . . .

"Well, looks like you're washing and drying tonight," she said, tossing her the dishcloth and smiling with pride and no small amount of relief.

Grace smiled back, her relieved happiness obvious, and went to work without so much as a frown of complaint.

She really was raising a wonderful young woman.

If only Jake could be here to see it.

{{**}}

Sam didn't know what he was expecting when his doorbell rang late the next morning, but an injured Grace Russell wasn't it. She calmed his instant fear by explaining that it wasn't a deep wound, but it had involved glass and so she thought that having an actual doctor look it over was a good idea.

Smart girl.

And one who had apparently apologized to her mother for the stunt she'd pulled.

He'd be lying if he didn't admit to being a little jealous of that.

But while he was cleaning and tending to the cut, he kept getting the feeling she wanted to tell him something. Only, she didn't and Grace wasn't one for beating around the bush, so he chalked it up to a restless night and finished gluing the edges together while asking what had happened, listening attentively as she explained.

"It doesn't seem that deep but . . ." she finished, trailing off into a slightly-awkward pause, one that made him want to comfort her.

Huh. It looked like Grace had roused the same protective instincts in him that her mother had. Hmm. Good to know.

"Well," he replied, wanting her to know that she was fine but coming to him had been a good idea. "It's a good thing your mom sent you over."

"It was," she agreed, but he was distracted by putting the glue back in the bag and so missed the lie in her words.

"No stiches?" she asked when he looked back at her, wondering why she was still sitting down.

"No, just some glue," he answered easily; it was a fair question.

"Glue?"

Ah, he did love that disbelieving tone of voice when people first heard 'glue'; without fail, everyone's mind went straight to Elmer's.

"Medical grade," he replied with a grin that she hesitantly matched when she saw his amusement.

"Oh," she said, watching him as he looked down to make sure he hadn't left anything important out of his bag.

"Okay," he said, starting to feel a touch awkward himself but deciding immediately that he was overreacting and moving instead to start cleaning up, only to go still and look back at Grace in confused surprise when she swallowed hard and met his eyes, looking both guilty and scared, and confessed that Cassie hadn't sent her.

Which was . . . why would that frighten her?

"No?" he prompted, concerned. She was not acting remotely like herself.

"I wanted to come over," she continued, holding his eyes with what he could see took a lot of effort.

Okay?

"Oh," was the only thing he could think to say, 'why' being redundant. She'd get there and he hated being the person who asked the obvious.

She took a deep breath, then blurted out that she knew Nick was in trouble.

Oh.

Well, that was easy enough.

"He is," Sam confirmed. "I'm just glad he didn't drag you into his mess."

And he was. If Grace had been hurt because of something Nick had done . . . the thought made him feel cold.

"He didn't drag me," she said, almost on top of him — which, again, was not like Grace.

He said nothing for a long minute, trying to process this unusual behavior, when she dropped the building on his head.

"I dragged him."

Wait.

What?!

He gave her a skeptical look and hoped that she would keep talking, because he needed information but couldn't form actual words just yet.

Grace had pulled Nick into her mess?

His mind was literally boggled.

"I know that Nick snuck out," she said, looking at him with earnest eyes, "but . . . he helped me that night."

He'd done what? Sam was unable to keep the incredulous look off his face.

"He got me home safe and he didn't ask for anything in return," she told him, sincerity coming off her in waves.

Okay, back up. What had he missed? Sam straightened on the table and rested his ankle on his knee, fixing her with a steady, unblinking gaze, and finally gave her his full and undivided attention.

"I mean, we're not even friends, really," she added with a shrug.

Which . . . yeah, no. Sam had no answer for any of this so he said nothing, merely kept his gaze locked on her, and waited for her to go on.

"He puts on a good show," she said after a minute, sounding thoughtful, before trailing off and giving him an imploring look. "But he's not as bad as he wants everyone to believe he is."

This, Sam knew well, because it was a major part of the problem. See, Nick wasn't a 'bad boy' (and thank God for that), but he thought he wanted to be, so he kept pushing the boundaries in a desperate attempt to get there.

"This I know," he assured Grace with a soft scoff, because she was too perceptive by half sometimes.

So why was she telling him this now?

"So, should he still be in trouble if what his trouble did ended up helping someone? Me?"

Having said her piece, she gave him a half-smile and hurried out of the house before he could formulate any kind of answer other than a sigh, which he was thankful for, because that answer would not have pleased her.

He could tell just from the question that Grace had never been in any kind of serious trouble before, because she thought that punishment was a zero-sum situation. Unfortunately, life didn't work like that and even if it did, Sam did not.

Yes, he was beyond grateful that Nick had kept Grace safe . . . but he had still deliberately disobeyed his father's rules. And so had Grace. If she hadn't gone somewhere she shouldn't have, then rescue (or at least assistance) wouldn't have been necessary. So yes, Nick was still in trouble . . . but Sam fully intended to find out why his son hadn't thrown Grace under the bus.

Ah, God, that sounded so bad, but that was Nick. He would say and do anything to keep from being held responsible for his own actions.

But he hadn't this time. And Sam deserved to know why.

Oh, he wished he could talk to Cassie, but he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't seek her out for a full 24 hours.

His date with Stephanie had been . . . okay, which was — well, not okay. He really didn't think he wanted to date her seriously, but he didn't have anything to justify that. She had accepted Nick's presence (and Sam's explanation for it) with serene grace and her admission that she knew Cassie had helped him with dinner was made with a calm, mature attitude that almost caused him to drop dead from shock.

She had finally shown him the grown woman he'd wanted so badly to meet . . . and he wasn't interested.

If he were paranoid, he'd think someone was pranking him for America's Funniest Home Videos.

'Karma and a brain-eating amoeba walked into a doctor's office . . .'

How had his life become a cosmic joke?

{{**}}

Cassie was waiting for Abigail when she got to Grey House.

She had considered Grace's admission that Abigail had been a big part of her plans to go somewhere she shouldn't and had, after much deliberation, decided to confront her cousin with it. If nothing else, she wanted to see and feel Abigail's reaction.

And she would not deny the satisfaction she got at seeing the other woman's wariness on realizing that this was a mini-ambush.

"Hi, cuz," Abigail said carefully, trying for nonchalant and missing by a mile.

"You look very satisfied," Cassie replied, cutting to the chase. She was in no mood to deal with the Merriwick tendency for riddles or talking in circles.

And to top things off, she felt her cousin's smugness, too.

Huh.

That was . . . irritating.

"I've done what I came to Middleton to do," Abigail replied.

"Have you?"

Okay, that was a little bitchy, but Cassie wasn't in the best of moods.

"Yes," her cousin confirmed, easily holding her eyes.

"And what is that?" she demanded, fed up with the entire situation.

"Help," Abigail said simply — and Cassie wanted to scream.

"You've been helping?" she demanded with no small amount of disbelief. Oh, it was on now. She was done. "Well, I guess it's true that, uh, you helped Grace lie to me and sneak out—"

Abigail interrupted before Cassie could finish her sentence. "I helped Grace realize that for some people, like her, being a rebel is far more fun in theory than in practice."

Wait.

What?!

Oh, for the love—

That actually made sense.

Ow. Headache.

Why, WHY, did Abigail have to have a point?!

Because, in hindsight, Cassie had seen a few signs; being around Nick had definitely affected Grace and at some point, curiosity alone would have driven her daughter to do something like this. But — BUT — Abigail shouldn't have encouraged or helped her do it.

Oblivious to (no, ignoring) her thoughts, her cousin added, "And as a bonus, I helped Lori, too."

Lori?

What?

"Lori?" Cassie repeated in surprise, having not expected that at all, and followed as Abigail started to walk away.

"Lori is now totally renewed in her very important role as Grace's big sister and protector," the other woman explained, which . . .

Ah, dammit.

Yeah, she was.

But she was going to make Abigail say it.

"And who is Lori protecting Grace from?" she asked, her tone more than a little saccharine.

This backfired spectacularly because Abigail had no shame.

"Me," she said matter-of-factly, and Cassie was . . . was . . .

Okay, well, she'd gotten her answer. Hated it, sure, but there was nothing else to be gotten from rehashing those events. Next topic.

"Oh, well, there's no doubt that you helped Sam with his dinner date with Stephanie," she observed dryly.

And with quite a bit of curiosity, because she still could not understand why Abigail was so adamant about them not getting together.

"Hey, that's on you," her cousin replied bluntly.

Huh?

"Excuse me?" she said incredulously. How was she involved in this?

"Sam doesn't belong with Stephanie," Abigail explained, looking her dead in the eyes. "And if you hadn't stepped in and worked your magic in the kitchen . . ."

Ooh. Well, she wasn't wrong (about any of it (no, not going there)), but—

"And you don't belong with Ryan."

Wait. What?

How could she possibly know?

"I tried to help you," Abigail continued, "but you're a strong force to take on, even for me."

Okay, stop.

That was what this whole ridiculous affair had been about? Matchmaking?

Oh, for the love of Pete!

"You can't control who ends up with who," she informed Abigail with no small amount of exasperation. "Fate needs to play its hand out."

Because it did.

And the evidence spoke for itself: she and Ryan were doing fine.

Just . . . fine.

This earned her a roll of the eyes and a flippant, "Fate needs a little push from time to time."

Argh!

It was like nailing Jell-O to a tree!

Because, aggravatingly, Abigail wasn't completely wrong. Sometimes things needed a little outside assistance.

'Little' being the key concept.

"A gentle push," she corrected her cousin. "Not a forceful shove."

After a few seconds of silent challenge, Abigail said, "Fate may need a gentle push, but you?"

Her?

"I think you need a shove in the right direction."

No, she damn well didn't. She was already going the right direction and one day, she and Sam—

Ryan! One day, she and Ryan would be happy and stable and Middleton's power couple.

They would.

Someday.

Unable to articulate any of this, mostly because she flat-out did not want Abigail to know, Cassie merely looked at her.

"Look," her cousin said with a conciliatory air that just grated on Cassie's nerves, "I'd love to do this all night, but I should get to bed."

Yes, please. Go away and leave Cassie to stew over this completely unexpected turn of events.

"I start my new job tomorrow."

What?

"Stephanie hired me." It was said flippantly, without a care in the world.

Wh—oh, hell. Seriously? Stephanie despised Abigail, so why w—

Right.

When had her life turned into a soap opera? And why?

"You're gonna help Stephanie?" she asked in utter astonishment, needing to confirm this ridiculous announcement.

And here came that smug, knowing look that came close to inciting Cassie to violence.

Oh, look. Now she was going to be nursing a migraine.

"She's much easier to help than you."

Of course sh—well, yeah, okay. Not easier to help, no, but manipulate? Yes, Stephanie was definitely an easier mark than Cassie when it came to that.

Hang on.

"And what about your job in New York?"

Because surely Abigail wasn't planning to stay in Middleton.

Please, God, don't let her be planning to stay.

Abigail's gaze never wavered, and neither did her certainty.

"I e-mailed my boss, gave notice," she said, her voice free of anything but innocent explanation. And then came that gentle, knowing little smile that made Cassie grind her teeth. "I told him my family needed me."

Cassie sighed. What on earth could she say in response that wouldn't escalate the situation in a very bad way?

On the other hand . . .

"Stephanie really hired you?" she asked, finally registering how odd that really was. Stephanie might think she was protecting her territory, but hiring Abigail seemed a little extreme, even for her.

A grin on her lips, Abigail nodded before admitting that she knew full well that Stephanie had only done so to get her away from Sam.

No, Abigail definitely wasn't stupid.

Or inexperienced with the world.

But then, neither was Cassie. And she was more powerful, in every way.

"And which are you?" she asked just as gently, letting her cousin know that she wasn't fooled.

Abigail's smile widened, but she went upstairs without another word.

No, seriously: when had her life become a soap opera?

And why?

What had she done to deserve this?

{{**}}

It took Sam entirely too long to find his recalcitrant offspring (though to be fair, him reading quietly in the living room — and a paper magazine at that — was literally the last place anyone would have thought of), so once he did, he just looked at him for a minute, trying yet again to reconcile the boy he knew with the young man Grace had told him about.

"I'm just listening to music, I didn't do anything wrong," Nick said immediately, without so much as looking up, and Sam's heart froze.

Had it really gotten so bad that Nick instantly assumed he was in trouble every time his father looked for him?

Dammit.

Yeah, it had. Because . . . well, that had been the case since they'd moved to Middleton.

But he needed answers, and acknowledging that Nick was right was a good start. This new realization had knocked Sam off-balance, though, so his first words weren't what he'd planned.

"No," he said sincerely, looking anywhere but at Nick. He had screwed up royally on Friday night by not asking a single question. "I did."

And there was the stunned look he had coming.

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did, and yet . . .

"I've been trying to control you, and it's not working," he explained, having finally figured that out. "And it's not working because it's not what I should be doing. It's not what you need."

And now surprise had been replaced with wariness, and more than a little defiance.

Which he deserved, at least in this.

"What do I need?" Nick demanded with a complicated expression.

"You need me to help you find a way to control yourself, to make better choices yourself."

Because that was the real root of the problem. Nick kept making poor, stupid, or just plain bad choices and instead of trying to help him see why they were wrong, Sam had simply punished him and when that didn't work, tried to force Nick to make the right decisions just because Sam said so instead of searching for genuine understanding.

It was no wonder the kid was resentful and angry.

Hell, it explained his own issues, too.

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked, genuinely confused, and Sam sighed.

Well, at least he had a recent example to use. Maybe it would be a strong starting point.

"Grace told me what happened at the coffee house," he began, and watched closely as Nick blinked and then looked away. "She said that you helped her," he added with a hint of desperation, because he still didn't understand why.

"It wasn't a big deal," Nick said defensively as he stood up and started to walk away.

Oh, hell, no. No, they were done with that game.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" he demanded, because he needed to know. He deserved to know, dammit!

Nick stopped and Sam went still, observing his son carefully.

After an interminable pause, Nick finally made a decision and turned around, his face full of resignation even as he met his father's eyes.

"You never would have believed me," he stated.

And that cut Sam to the bone, because . . . because he was right.

Not that night, definitely, and not the next day. He would have assumed that Nick was just trying to get out of being in trouble. And while that wasn't an unreasonable assumption, he still should have asked. Hell, he had noted not too long ago that Grace seemed be having a little bit of positive influence on Nick, and yet he had never once considered that.

But before he could even try to talk, Nick kept going.

And finally, finally, told his father the truth.

"You just see me as a screw-up, or bad, or both," he said bitterly, his voice ringing with conviction, and Sam's entire being turned to ice.

Was that really what Nick thought? Did he actually believe that Sam didn't think anything good about him at all?

Didn't love him?

Oh, God.

Sam thought he might actually throw up at this realization.

And dear God, it explained so fucking much.

"Wow," he finally whispered, the word raw in his throat. "That's how you feel?"

He did not want to hear it again, but he needed to, or they would never be able to — to fix this, to finally understand each other as father and son.

"Well, it's the truth," was the unintentionally-cruel reply, his eyes never wavering, and Sam swallowed down his nausea.

"It's not even close to the truth," he managed to say in denial, still reeling with shock and pain, and finally dropped down on the couch because his knees would no longer support him.

Nick didn't move other than to look away and after a second, Sam sighed heavily.

He had some serious thinking to do, but first, he needed Nick to understand, to KNOW, that his father loved him. That Sam didn't think he was bad, or too far gone. That Sam wanted him.

So, it was time for a clean slate. Now that the major, massive misunderstanding had been exposed, maybe they could finally get it right.

"Look," he began, spreading his hands in supplication. "We came here to get a fresh start." He paused, waiting for a reaction he didn't get, and after a few seconds, he accepted that and said — pleaded — "Let's try starting over."

And that finally got a response.

"Oh, man," Nick moaned tiredly. "How many times can we start over?"

And that was fair, because Sam had said it before, only for both of them to go back to the same bad habits.

But this was different, because now Sam knew. He knew, and he understood, and that made all the difference in the world.

"As many as it takes," he replied with full confidence, because he got it, now, and he wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

But.

He could not, should not, and would not do it without help.

"But you have to give a little, too," he told Nick. Something. Anything.

A blink.

"Can you do that?" he begged softly. "Just meet me halfway?"

An eternity of stillness.

And then a nod.

{{**}}

When Ryan showed up at her door the next evening, Cassie had just hung up with Stephanie and was waiting for him. He'd texted about an hour ago, asking if she was home, and she'd told him 'yes.' Thankfully, he looked a lot better, which was good, and she greeted him cheerfully as she let him in, only to pause for a second at the confused look he gave her.

"Abigail said you weren't home," he told her, "but then I got your text saying come around the back."

Which she had known, of course; hence, 'come to the back.'

Subtlety was not in Abigail's wheelhouse, and given that Cassie was aware of her . . . well, anti-matchmaking goals, it was obvious that she would continue trying to keep Cassie and Ryan apart.

And Cassie was damned if she let her succeed.

"How did you, uh . . ." he tried to ask, only to trail off when he realized there wasn't a good way to finish that sentence.

There was also no answer she could give that would be satisfactory, so Cassie merely smiled coyly and laughed at the resultant expression.

"Never mind," he said hastily. "Never mind, I'm here."

Yes, he was. But why? Oh, right.

Keating House.

Did she want to go there right now?

Then again, he looked happy and calm.

She wanted to know why.

"Good," she replied. "Come in."

He did, and there was that slightly odd dance of 'he wanted to kiss her and she didn't want him to' that they did almost every time he came to the house.

This did not strike her as odd.

"So, what happened with the project?" she asked with genuine curiosity, hoping that they could finally put this argument to rest.

"Oh, well, I told Jones that if he had the mayor and the zoning on his side, well, that's one thing."

Yes, which she had told him.

"But if the project isn't really wanted in Middleton, and I think that we both know it's not . . ."

Both?

Really?

Well, but that was Ryan's thing. Ignore something until it could no longer be pushed aside, then take credit for the solution. He had been like this the entirety of the three years she'd known him.

Getting annoyed about it now was like being mad at a cow for opening the barn door after you showed her how to do it.

"It's not smart business to anger the community in which you're trying to sell something. I thought that Blairsville might be a better fit," he added somewhat pompously. "They have more money, less trouble, and he agreed."

And Cassie just mentally rolled her eyes, because again, who had turned him on to that little piece of wisdom?

But his calm acceptance was new, and startling.

"So you lost the deal?" she asked, surprised.

His grimace was a little comical, though she held back her smile when he said, "Yes," without any regret.

Huh.

New . . . and a very good sign.

"But Jones said that he liked my integrity and honesty," he added, giving her a rather smug look, and pulling a smile from her. So Ryan wasn't gone, he just . . . had maybe grown up a little. "So he would like to work together on something else."

Well, good for him! She was happy that his efforts to grow professionally were starting to pay off, though she did fervently hope that he would keep this near-disaster in mind before agreeing to something.

"Sounds win-win," she said, truly pleased for him.

He nodded and then thanked her, which, again, was his thing.

"What did I do?" she asked, following the script, albeit with much less annoyance than usual.

"The same thing you always do," he replied. "You point me in the right direction."

Which, she did, but . . . well, she wasn't a compass. And she really needed to find a way to make him understand that. Sam did, and even Grace had figured that out after one mistake, so why was it so hard for Ryan?

"And even when I don't want to," he continued, "you find a way of making me see the truth."

And that was supposed to be warm and romantic, she suspected, but it . . . wasn't. Not for her.

Not after everything that happened.

"You are a good friend," he finished. "And a good girlfriend."

That made her heart ache a little, because she wasn't sure it was true. Would a good friend really enable this kind of behavior, especially as long as she had?

And that wasn't taking into account her actions as his girlfriend.

But he didn't need to hear that, at least not until she understood herself a little better, so she simply told him he was a good friend as well (which was true, mostly), and started to bid him farewell when he changed the script.

"Well, I was wondering," he said a little too casually, looking down.

"Yes?" she asked, her smile wide but uncertain, because she suspected what was about to happen.

"Well . . . your boyfriend would like to take you out for dinner."

And there it was.

He was finally asking her to make a decision.

And . . . and he was right. It was time.

"Well, your girlfriend would like to accept your offer."

His entire face lit up and Cassie was suddenly afraid he was going to try sweeping her off her feet, much like the romance novels she refused to admit she read.

Thankfully for everyone, he refrained and left quietly, his face split with a huge grin and whistling something she didn't recognize, too happy with her agreement to push any further.

And for the life of her, Cassie could not fathom why her overwhelming emotion was dread.

Or why, when Sam texted and asked her to come over, she felt guilty.

It wasn't like she was cheating on him.

But she wanted to see him, so she headed out her door and resolved not to mention her upcoming date with Ryan.

She didn't have anything to hide, but, well, why stir the pot?

{{**}}

Sam was so shaken from his encounter with Nick that he actually did something completely out of character: he washed, dried, and put up the dishes from dinner before he needed to call a hazmat team.

Then he broke his own promise and texted Cassie, because he needed something sane and stable to hold on to.

While he was waiting for her to arrive, his old guitar caught his eye and Sam suddenly remembered how soothing music was for him. And he hadn't played in . . . God, months. Since before they'd moved, actually. Since . . . wow. He hadn't played a note since that damned beach house.

The lack of his music suddenly hit him hard and Sam picked up the guitar with reverent hands, plucking a few chords and smiling in genuine delight at the bright sounds of the Beatles falling from his fingertips. But he wanted something a little softer right now, so he reached for an old love song, but his memory was a bit rusty, prompting him to pull up the chording for the song in question and begin to work it over, letting the repetition soothe his still-agitated emotions.

The knock on his door vaguely registered and he called back an easy "Yup!" while strumming his way through a tricky bit of fingering. Ah, he'd forgotten the joy he'd always taken in music, and God, he missed it. He was so involved in his practice, in fact, that he completely missed the fact that Cassie had just entered the room.

"Hi!" she said a little loudly, and that finally jolted him out the haze he'd been in.

"Oh, hi," he replied with a slightly-uncomfortable laugh, a little embarrassed at having not noticed her.

"Um, I got your message," she said, her eyes glued to his guitar.

Message?

Oh, right, her dishes.

Wow. He really did not want to leave this musical bubble he was floating in. But he had to, if only for a moment.

"I didn't make the dinner," he said, his tone almost completely free of sarcasm (at himself, this time). "But I did clean the kitchen. All your stuff is right there on the counter. Thank you," he said, this time with utter sincerity.

And because this was Cassie, he knew she wouldn't mind if he played some more — actually, from her expression, she was about to die from curiosity.

"Thanks," she replied with a smile, slowly moving to sit down. "I, uh . . . I didn't know that you could play guitar."

Her surprise was surprising, given how close they'd become, until Sam remembered just how . . . well, Linda had not appreciated or enjoyed his music, so he had quickly learned to keep it out of the house, both in practice and in conversation, and it was a habit he'd learned well.

Add to that the fact that he hadn't played in several months and . . . yeah, it wasn't surprising at all that Sam had never spoken of it.

But this was Cassie, so he grinned and told her what she wanted to know.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Um, I used to be in a band."

Hopefully, she wouldn't think too much of that.

To prove this (and as a minor distraction), he played an easy blues riff, again relishing the feel of music flowing so easily from his fingers.

To his delight, she head-bobbed in time with him and he found himself telling her about The Hair. And The Earring.

Which was something only Liam and his old bandmates knew about, because . . . well, it had been hideous.

No, it really had been awful.

Her laugh was a balm to him and he just basked in it for a second before laughing with her.

It was so nice to be safe.

"Wow," she finally said, delighted to have learned something new about him.

But behind it, he suddenly glimpsed a strong undercurrent of unhappiness and mentally frowned.

Well, this wouldn't do. She needed to talk — and so did he — but they were both in good moods that he didn't want to ruin.

What to do, what to do . . .

Oh.

Yes, that was perfect.

"Um, I don't have any herb tea," he started, playing a soft melody designed for background noise and fighting to hold back his smile at her start of surprise. "But I can steep some oregano for you."

"Ooh, tempting," she returned, not remotely fazed by his attempt to rattle her, "but I think I'll pass."

He could not have held back his laughter for the world, and considered that he was one lucky man.

So naturally . . .

"Uh, Stephanie called me," she said apropos of nothing, a strange smile on her lips.

Uh. What?

"And she told me she had a really great time."

Umm.

Well, that had been the plan — and Cassie had been instrumental (ha! No pun intended.) in making that happen, so Sam went with it.

"Oh, your chicken worked its magic," he told her. "Date disaster averted. Thanks."

He was still on the fence about how he felt about that, but her part deserved recognition and thanks.

They both chuckled at that, though the light, easy atmosphere had darkened a little.

He wondered why.

"Glad I could help," she said sincerely, and he nodded.

Before he could say anything else, his phone went off, and he reluctantly stood up to get it. There were occasionally times when being a doctor was a pain, and this was one of them.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he told her. "Excuse me."

She just nodded because she understood, and he felt another wave of gratitude wash over him. It was beyond nice to be with someone who understood his life — and didn't hold it against him.

Therefore, his failure to look at his phone before answering bit him in the butt.

Hard.

Because it was Linda.

And, seeing as he himself hadn't heard from her in . . . it had been more than a year, actually, he was wary and (to his annoyance) a touch concerned.

This changed to disbelief when she announced that she was coming to Middleton.

In two weeks.

To stay for 'probably' a few days, but she wasn't sure about the details yet.

Why? WHY?!

That question he asked, because if she was going to inflict herself on not just himself and his home but the people he cared about, he damned well wanted to know what her goal was.

"Any particular reason?" he asked, hearing his voice take on that dangerous quality that Linda inevitably brought out in him.

He didn't see Cassie hear it and straighten in response, concern filling her eyes.

Linda being Linda, she blew him off and repeated that she'd arrive at the beginning of next month, and he really didn't have anything else to say, other than a dry (and very unhappy), "Okay."

Then she informed him she had to go, Sam, she'd call him later with the arrangements, and he understood, right?, and Sam hated his life in that moment almost as much as he despised her, because he couldn't stop this. Stop her.

"Yeah, bye," he ground out, and really resented the fact that he couldn't slam the phone down to hang up.

Turning back to his living room, he blinked at seeing Cassie.

Good grief. Linda had knocked him off balance so badly he'd forgotten she was there.

She watched him slowly walk back to the couch, clearly wanting to say something and just as clearly unable to think of what to say.

He could sympathize.

"My ex-wife," he said, still feeling a little numb (and a lot angry; par for the course with Linda).

Her eyes lit with comprehension, as well as a great deal of concern.

"Oh, is everything okay?"

God, he adored her for that. He did. Because she was just that kind of person.

And he did not want her exposed to Linda. Not even a little bit.

"She's coming to Middleton," he replied, which was a non-answer, but it was all he knew, because that was all she would tell him.

Oh, God. What was he going to do?

He had finally had a breakthrough with Nick, and possibly Stephanie, and now Linda was going to come stomping through his life.

This just wasn't fair.

So he and Cassie stared at each other in silence for a minute before it became clear that he wasn't in any state to talk and she quietly excused herself, understanding that he needed some time.

A year might be nice.

But in all seriousness, Sam was a complete loss.

What was he going to do?

And how could he keep this — her — from destroying everything?