The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(53)

“I’m sorry.” An inadequate bouquet of words, but they were all he had.

Trevor swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have help. There are guys out there who are way worse off than I am. I want to help them. I’ve assembled a good team. Please, will you meet with the whole group? Then decide.”

Slowly, Samson shook his head. Ice had seeped through his veins, leaving him cold. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s organization or his problems. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s son. “I don’t want to work for you. When this gig with Matchmaker is over, I’m going to—” He stopped. He was going to . . . what?

“You could save lives, Samson.”

Samson wanted to laugh at that, but not because it was funny. He hadn’t been able to save his own father, or a man he considered a father. What good could he do for anyone else? “Goodbye. Good luck.”

He was sweating by the time he got outside, and he ripped off his light jacket, though there was a nip in the air. He pulled out his phone to call for a ride, and that was when he saw the text from Rhi.

Can I come see you?

He didn’t know what she wanted—they didn’t have anything scheduled today—but it didn’t matter. Could she come see him? What a ridiculous question. The answer would always be yes, but especially right now.

He typed out his reply. I’ll be at my place in an hour. He gave the address and hit send. Her response was immediate. See you then.

He knew he needed to sort out the complex tangle of emotions in his brain, but not now. Not yet.

For now, he wanted Rhi.





Chapter Fifteen


RHIANNON’S FRENZIED panic had cooled a little on the drive from Santa Barbara to L.A., especially after Samson had finally—finally!—texted her back, but not enough for her to cancel seeing him. The edge of fear and anger was still there when she pulled up in front of Samson’s high-rise condo.

She avoided looking at herself in the mirrors in the elevator on the way up. She didn’t want to think about what she looked like. Probably a mess, since she’d intended to lounge the day and weekend away and not see anyone but Katrina.

Her knuckles barely hit Samson’s door before he opened it. Angels didn’t sing, but a halo of light surrounded him.

Or he’s backlit by the sun, calm down.

He opened the door all the way, and his biceps looked so big and strong and sweet. She wanted to bite them and lay her head against them. “Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.”

She stepped inside and glanced around. Curiosity pierced through her other emotions, though it was misplaced. There was nothing personal in this open-concept corporate-furnished condo. It was all black leather and metal.

“Do you want me to take your sweatshirt?”

She rubbed her hands over her arms, letting the worn material hug her closer. “No.”

He didn’t insist, only gestured at the living room. “Have a seat. Wine?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Water?”

She hadn’t realized it until now, but her throat was parched. “Yes. Please.”

He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge door, grabbing a bottle of water. Restless, she walked to the couch, but didn’t sit down. There were three framed photos on the side table, the only personal effects in the entire room, as far as she could tell. That curiosity reared its head again, and she welcomed the diversion from her darker emotions.

One photo was of Samson crouched next to a wheelchair with who she assumed was his uncle Joe, with the ocean in the background. The older man looked tired and fragile, but happy. His smile was identical to Samson’s, down to the tiny dimple.

She didn’t want to prick his grief by asking about his late uncle. She ran her finger over the photo of Samson and a handsome young couple. Samson held a baby in his arms. The same baby from his Matchmaker profile, the one that had made everyone in the ballroom at CREATE sigh. “This is your goddaughter, right?”

“Yes. My best friend, Dean, and his wife, Josie. Their daughter, Miley.” He walked out from around the granite island and handed her a glass of water. She drank it in a few gulps and handed it back to him. “Thirsty, huh?”

Rage took a lot out of a person. Rhiannon ignored him and touched the last frame. A young Samson, maybe at twelve or thirteen, smiled out at her from a football field.

She could see where he got his size and looks from now. A couple stood behind him, both beaming. The big man’s hand was on Samson’s shoulder, his pride evident. The woman was almost as tall as her husband, statuesque and gorgeous, her hip-length hair in a braid, love radiating off her. Sweet and loyal and kind. This was the type of woman who inspired that kind of description.

“Those are my parents,” he said, and there was an odd tone in his voice. Banked grief and something else.

“I’m sorry. They look lovely.”

“It’s been a while. My dad died right after I was drafted to the Brewers. My mom lasted a couple months after him.”

He’d lost them almost at once? She inched closer to him. “That’s tragic. I didn’t realize your mother died so quick after him.”

“They said it was a heart attack. She was a lawyer, worked a lot. She’d been under a heavy stress load for years.” He grimaced. “But I really think it was losing my dad that did it.”