The second time they did it, Freddie was a little more prepared. That was not to say, of course, that he’d figured anything out as to why Sam had suddenly decided she wanted to be fucking him. Aside from that one night, the memories of which seemed so distant and far away, as though they had happened to some other person and Freddie himself had only listened to that person recount the tale as a hunter recounts how his prized moose head trophy came to be hanging above his mantle, yet the images of which were so burned into his mind that he had to close his eyes and shake his head to dislodge them whenever he hazarded to think back, neither Sam’s treatment of him nor her attitude towards him had changed in the slightest.
The next day, for example, Freddie had met Sam and Carly at the Groovy Smoothie, as was usual for a summer afternoon. Freddie had to try his hardest to not blush and to not wonder whether Sam was wearing those same bra and panties under her yellow shirt and plaid pants as he sat down at the table; Sam, on the other hand, seemed completely unperturbed by him, greeting him in her usual way, continuing on comfortably her conversation with Carly, and not flinching in the slightest when Freddie joined in.