Free All-American Girl by Justine Dell Page A

Lance.”
    “Remember to go see your grandmother,” Lance called out. “And remember what I said about Sam.”
    Lance jumped into the seat of his truck and rubbed his head, a dull ache looming behind his eyes. With Cole back in town and obviously looking to start trouble, Lance had more than Samantha to worry about. As much as Lance had tried to pull Cole back from the grips of the bottle, nothing had worked, and now Cole seemed ready to take his anger out on someone else. He hoped it wasn’t Samantha. Lance would hate to have to pound Cole into the ground for that.
    Lance didn’t understand Cole’s frustration, but he understood the cause. Alcohol was an evil catalyst. He knew that firsthand.
    The truck roared to life, and he headed toward the antique shop. He didn’t want to think much about why Samantha had left; the memory of Cole’s words alone tore his heart. To this day it didn’t make sense, and he guessed that’s what bothered him. Lance wasn’t blind. He remembered the years of longing he’d seen in Samantha’s eyes before that fateful night. He’d tried to block it out. The last thing he’d wanted to do back then was cause a rift between his best friend Cole and Samantha. Not only that, his sister was Samantha’s best friend. It was a recipe for disaster. So he did the only thing he could think of, calling her “Sam” and treating her like a brother. It had worked, until she grew up and filled out. Then, she started to touch him when she passed by, smile seductively and leave her sweet scent of lavender behind. It was more than a man could handle.
    When she’d helped him get through one of the worst nights of his life, he’d caved, giving in to his need for her. It was wonderful, blissful, heat-inducing magic. Clumsy—but life changing. Until the n, he’ d never known what it was like to be touched by someone who had wanted him for so long. He’d never known what it was like to touch someone he’d wanted for so long. He’d been looking forward to whatever the future had held.
    When she left two days later without even saying goodbye, he’d been crushed. She’d left him with more questions than answers, and he’d been trying to figure them out ever since.

    Samantha’s happiness in the aftermath of having breakfast with Jax and Candice hadn’t lasted long once she went back to the antique shop. Jason Newburg, the carpenter she had invited for a quote, was anything but polite. He was about her age, but his too-tight clothes were dirty and his two-day-old scruff made him look like a bum.
    “Mr. Newburg,” Samantha said. She was already irritated with his lack of professionalism. The man wasn’t very smart or prepared for their meeting—he hadn’t even brought a pen or pencil. “I think you need to see the house before giving me some random quote, don’t you?”
    They were seated on stools next to the counter. Mr. Newberg brushed his hand across Samantha’s leg. It wasn’t an accident. She gritted her teeth.
    “Standard ADA guidelines,” he replied. “Three foot doorways, lowered kitchen counters, a front ramp, lowered stool with handle bar on the side—same type thing for the shower. I’ve done it all a million times. All I need to know is how many bathrooms and doors, and I can give you a firm estimate.”
    Samantha chilled at the word “firm.” He made it sound foul. His eyes flickered, and his hand swept across her thigh again, making her jump up and take a step back.
    “I think,” Mr. Newburg said, rising from his stool, “that you should come to dinner with me tonight. We could work out more of the details.”
    Samantha did her best to keep her temper in check. All men were scum, especially overweight, stinky contractors who had no concept of boundaries.
    “I’m a practical person, Mr. Newburg, but I find it hard to believe you can give such an estimate. Not only that, I’m a numbers girl. I need numbers—hard and real numbers—before making any decisions. If