Guilt rose, choking her. There was no way to assuage it—over the years it’d become her constant companion within the four walls of this house. Her amma was the best of mothers. She loved Samara beyond all shadow of a doubt and never once let so much as a whisper of accusation pass her lips. If she blamed anyone for her life, it was Samara’s sperm donor rather than the baby she’d ended up with, but even that anger had faded over time.
Samara’s guilt wasn’t going anywhere, though.
It was almost a relief to step out of the room and take the call. “Hey.”
“Hey, what are you doing after you leave your mother’s?” It didn’t surprise her that Journey King knew where she was—everyone knew that Friday nights were for her amma. Even Lydia respected this unless it was an actual emergency, probably because it was the only boundary Samara ever put her foot down about. She moved a little deeper into the kitchen. “Work.”
“Wrong answer. We’re going out. We’ve been working crazy hours, and knowing my mother, that’s not going to be changing anytime soon. Take a break. Come have a drink with me. Dish about what the hell is going on with my estranged cousin.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Talking about Beckett would only bring up memories of what they’d been doing in Thistledown Villa today—both the good and the bad. Journey knew her too well for her to hide the truth, and her friend wouldn’t hesitate to pry every last detail out of her.
“It’s funny. Sometimes you talk, and my mother’s voice comes out.” Journey laughed. “Come on, Samara. I’m not above pulling the best-friend card and kidnapping you for the night if I have to.”
She wasn’t getting out of this, and the truth was that she needed the break and the reminder of what was really important in her life. Her amma. Her friend. Her job. Not Beckett. “I have to go home and change, but I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“See you then.” Journey hung up.
Samara turned and found her amma standing in the doorway, a sad expression on her face. “You’re playing with fire, bachcha.”
“Amma, we’ve talked about this. She’s my friend.” Journey might be Lydia’s oldest daughter, but their friendship had grown outside of work into something real and important to her.
She shook her head. “King blood is like Patel blood. You might feel like you’re one of them—they might even feel like you’re one of them—but that can change without warning. If something threatens them, they will close ranks like a shoal of fish, and you’ll be left on the outside for the circling sharks.”
Just like her amma had been.
“Amma—”
She grasped Samara’s shoulders, her weathered hands aged beyond her years by the cleaning chemicals she used. “I love you, bachcha. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Nothing can hurt me. I’m bulletproof.” An old joke, but this time it didn’t make her amma smile.
“You might think you are. You won’t realize your mistake until it’s too late.”
After he got back from Thistledown Villa, Beckett couldn’t stay in the apartment. The thought of being closed in by those four walls made his skin crawl. He spent a useless hour trying to wade through his father’s paperwork on the proposal, but the words kept running together as he flipped between thinking about how good Samara had felt in his arms…and what plan he could put together to get the house back.
It was no use.
He thought better on the move, so he changed into a pair of shorts and running shoes and headed out. It wasn’t late enough for either the foot traffic or the humidity to have thinned, but he welcomed the struggle each breath became as he started to run.
Houston had its ups and downs and the traffic was bad enough to make even the most even-tempered person crazy, but he loved how full of life it was. The Theater District’s restaurants were some of the best in the state—in his completely unbiased opinion—and he inhaled the tempting scents as he passed tables full of people eating before they headed to shows down the street.
He ran until his legs started to shake and his mind was finally blessedly clear. Between Samara and Thistledown Villa, he’d let himself get turned around. Ultimately, both could wait. He’d spend the day tomorrow in the office. The presentation to secure the government contract was next week, which meant that had to take priority over everything else.
Back in his condo, he showered, already feeling better, and sat down to pick through the proposal. It would secure majority oil rights in the Gulf of Mexico for the next ten years—rights Morningstar Enterprise had held for generations. The only other company that came close to edging his out was Lydia’s, and he’d be damned before he’d let that happen here. If he lost the bid, it would hardly be the end for the company, but it would hit them at a time when they didn’t need more uncertainty. If their shareholders thought for a second that they might crash, they’d abandon the company in droves, and that could potentially send them into a nosedive they might not make it out of.
It won’t happen. I won’t let it happen.
His phone rang, and he tensed at the sight of Frank’s name flashing across the screen. News about my father’s death. If there was one thing that would take priority over the company, it was that. “Hey, Frank.”
“You have time for another beer?”
Not good news, then. He glanced at the clock over his oven. It wasn’t early, but it was nowhere near late enough that he’d manage to sleep. “Careful, Frank. You keep asking me out and I might start to think you’re sweet on me.”
“Never that.” Faint
