She looked up at him, studying him. “Of course I came tonight. It’s important to you, but I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. Are you mad because we haven’t seen much of each other—”

Bending his head, he captured her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.

“—the last few days,” she muttered against his lips, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed anew with color that had nothing to do with cold or exertion.

“If you lived here with me, we’d see more of each other.”

“Nick.”

He rested his forehead on hers. “I know. You don’t want to talk about that.” Releasing her, he went to find his shoes.

“You’re pissed. I knew it.”

“I’m not pissed.” He shoved his feet into loafers. “I’m frustrated.”

Sam nibbled on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me,” he snapped, his tone sharper than he’d intended.

She came to him and slid her hands up over his chest. “Why? It’s my fault. You’ve offered me so much, and I’m holding back. I know that bothers you.”

“I want this to work so damned badly,” he said, surprised by the urgency he heard in his own voice. “I want it more than anything.”

“I do, too.” Her eyes implored him to believe her. “We knew it was going to be crazy.”

“I don’t want to go days without seeing you. I can’t stand that. I need you, Samantha.”

“Do you think it’s not working?” She massaged his shoulders. “Is that why you’re so tense?”

“It’s working,” he said but hardly managed to convince himself.

Her hands fell from his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively, a gesture that tugged at his heart. “Wow. You’re really wound up. I’m sorry I had to work so much this week.”

“You’re apologizing again.”

Her eyes flashed with anger and what might’ve been panic. “Then tell me what I’m supposed to say, Nick! What do you need to hear? That I love you? You know I do. If you’re doubting that—”

“I’m not.”

“Ugh!” She threw her hands into the air. “This is exactly why I haven’t gotten involved with anyone since I split with Peter. I can’t deal with this!”

A blast of fear charged through Nick, leaving him staggered in its wake. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve been burning the candle this week, and I’m fried.” He ran a hand through hair still damp from the shower. “I don’t know why I’m taking it out on you.”

“Do I need to be worried?” she asked, her face a study in vulnerability, which was in sharp contrast to her usual confident, cocky demeanor. He hated that he had given her reason to question him—to question them.