Cardboard boxes, worn from years of wear, and large plastic storage bins packed with decorations littered every surface of Samantha Sweeney’s sitting room as she sat against the wall next to an electrical outlet testing strands of white lights one by one. Sam had a standing appointment with her son, Jamie, for the Saturday after Thanksgiving to string the lights up on the outside of the house. She’d taken the day off from her family’s seafood business with this purpose in mind, but he had disappeared right after lunch. And, after hauling the boxes and bins down from the attic, she lacked the energy to do it herself.
The back door in the kitchen creaked open. Seconds later Eli entered the room, stopping short when he saw her sitting on the floor in tattered jeans, a USC sweatshirt, and a baseball cap pulled low, hiding much of her face. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I think you look hot in your work clothes. But I hope you’re not planning to wear them out to dinner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m not wearing this out to dinner.” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It’s only five thirty. I thought you weren’t coming until six. And why are you so dressed up?”
Dressed up for Eli meant his khaki pants were pressed and he wore the nicer of the three flannel shirts he owned—the plaid one from the men’s store on Main Street that she’d given him for his birthday.
“Since when is it wrong for a man to want to look nice for his girl?” Holding out his hand to her, he pulled her to her feet. “We have a reservation. They’ll hold it for us, but you’d better put it in gear.”
“What reservation? I thought we were going to the Pelican’s Roost for dinner?”
“Change of plans. I’m taking you somewhere special tonight. Go!” He smacked her on the rear. “Put on something pretty.”
“Please tell me I don't have to wear a dress,” she said, walking backward as she exited the room.
He let out a bark of laughter. “Since when do you own a dress?”
“Funny, ha-ha. I actually own two.”
“A dress isn’t necessary unless you just feel like wearing one. Which I’m sure you don’t. Hurry.” He shooed her out of the room. “We’re gonna be late.”
Sam went in the bathroom. She was turning on the shower when she heard the sportscaster announced the score of the Alabama-Auburn game on the TV in the other room.
Maybe I can convince him to stay home, order a pizza, and watch football. What man doesn’t want to watch the college teams play their big rivals?
Wishful thinking. She stripped off her clothes and stepped in the shower. She’d seen the determined set of his jaw. He had something up his sleeve.
Despite Eli’s insistence that she hurry, she took extra time with her appearance, styling her short hair and applying a touch of makeup—a swipe of clear gloss to her rosy lips and a hint of blush to her pale cheeks. She slipped on her one pair of designer jeans and a white silky blouse that clung to her slight figure before tugging on her cowboy boots.
When she emerged from her bedroom twenty minutes later, Eli was waiting for her in the hallway. “Turn around and place your hands against the wall.”
“Ooh . . . I like the sound of that. Are you planning to frisk me, Officer?”
“No, ma'am. I'm placing you under arrest.” After a quick pat down, he covered her eyes with a blindfold. “You’ll need this. It’s cold outside.” The familiar weight of her Barbour coat cocooned her body.
“I guess this means we can’t stay home and watch football.”
“No football tonight. Sorry.” He spun her around and fastened something cold and hard, which she assumed were handcuffs, around her wrists.
“What exactly do you have in mind for me tonight, Lt. Marshall?”
“You'll have to wait and see.” He scooped her off her feet and carried her outside to the car—her Jeep judging from the squeaky passenger door and the smell of mildew inside.
“Where are we going?” she asked when he set her down on the seat.
“Stop asking so many questions. You'll find out when we get there,” he said, and slammed the door.
