like a drawing affect me. I could’ve told her it was great; pretend like I do with my sisters. I drag my hand through my hair, then rub my knuckles back and forth against my chin. Harder. Harder.
Cassidy grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. I can’t look at her. I grit my teeth, grind them against each other, waiting for her to just . . . leave.
“I’m sorry.”
Her words catch me off guard and I spin toward her, about to snap, but her eyes convey how sorry she feels, like she knows what her drawing did to me. “For what?”
She rips the sketch out of her spiral pad and holds it out. Her gaze locks on mine.
As much as I hate the shit clashing inside me, I can’t hate her. I’d rather drag her to me, press her against me, hold her for hours. I’d let this girl draw every inch of me on that fucking house if it would take
her
sorrow away.
I force a smile and take the drawing. “You know you’re dealing with a great artist when something like this”—I turn the sketch around to show her— “brings your past crashing down around you.”
Her teeth bury in her bottom lip. Her grass-green eyes flutter crazily, keeping her gaze from me.
“Cass—”
Her lips still my words. Warm, velvet lips against mine, mixing her sweet strawberry breath with salty sweat from my run. I lean into her, ready to explore the depths of Cassidy. I reach for her and she flattens her palms against my chest, heat on heat, fire on fire, until she pulls away.
She presses the back of her trembling hand against her mouth, hiding her lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Her face, a beautiful shade of cherry, says the opposite. I’m glad she kissed me. We should do it again. Real soon.
“I’m not complaining.”
She shrugs. “But it will mislead you. I—we can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry. Just pretend that never happened.”
I study her eyes, looking for an earthquake of a chance she’s kidding. Perseverance rims her irises. Determination narrows her pupils.
“Good-bye, Quinn.” She heads back to her blanket.
“Wait,” I call, but I have no clue what to say to change her mind. “Umm, may I keep this?” I hold out her sketch.
She nods.
“And can we at least have a friendly dinner?”
She shakes her head no. Her cheek hollows like she’s nibbling it on the inside.
“You wouldn’t have kissed me if there wasn’t something happening between us.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t again.” Her freckled chest turns pink.
I step back, ready to have the last word, which won’t be good-bye. “I’m irresistible,” I tease.
“Yes, you are, but it isn’t you I’m trying to resist.”
With that, she leaves me speechless. Last words stolen by her pure honesty. Ego wounded and my damn pride lying mutilated somewhere beneath the broken pecans.
Chapter 8
Cassidy
Spreadsheets cover my bed. I fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling. How is it I can solve Harvard’s math problem of the week in ten seconds but can’t find solutions for Ellie’s growing list of changes? She’s not one of those evil, tantrum-throwing bridezillas—thank God— but a little commitment on her part would be nice. Deadlines exist for a reason. I swear they do, but not for a Covington. Every time I say a deadline has passed and she can’t make a change, she calls her mom and gets me a name and number. I swear Mrs. Covington has her own underground wedding factory run by little minion robots for no reason other than to give Ellie exactly the wedding she wants.
After a quick shower to wash away the pecan dust stuck to my skin, I finish the food cards for the taste test scheduled for this afternoon, then change into Covington-approved attire and meet Ellie and Dean on the back porch. We wander through the gardens and discuss the shower she’ll have in the gazebo. It’s the biggest gazebo I’ve ever seen, more like an outside venue, screened in and wired for a sound system and even equipped with a built-in
Cassidy grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. I can’t look at her. I grit my teeth, grind them against each other, waiting for her to just . . . leave.
“I’m sorry.”
Her words catch me off guard and I spin toward her, about to snap, but her eyes convey how sorry she feels, like she knows what her drawing did to me. “For what?”
She rips the sketch out of her spiral pad and holds it out. Her gaze locks on mine.
As much as I hate the shit clashing inside me, I can’t hate her. I’d rather drag her to me, press her against me, hold her for hours. I’d let this girl draw every inch of me on that fucking house if it would take
her
sorrow away.
I force a smile and take the drawing. “You know you’re dealing with a great artist when something like this”—I turn the sketch around to show her— “brings your past crashing down around you.”
Her teeth bury in her bottom lip. Her grass-green eyes flutter crazily, keeping her gaze from me.
“Cass—”
Her lips still my words. Warm, velvet lips against mine, mixing her sweet strawberry breath with salty sweat from my run. I lean into her, ready to explore the depths of Cassidy. I reach for her and she flattens her palms against my chest, heat on heat, fire on fire, until she pulls away.
She presses the back of her trembling hand against her mouth, hiding her lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Her face, a beautiful shade of cherry, says the opposite. I’m glad she kissed me. We should do it again. Real soon.
“I’m not complaining.”
She shrugs. “But it will mislead you. I—we can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry. Just pretend that never happened.”
I study her eyes, looking for an earthquake of a chance she’s kidding. Perseverance rims her irises. Determination narrows her pupils.
“Good-bye, Quinn.” She heads back to her blanket.
“Wait,” I call, but I have no clue what to say to change her mind. “Umm, may I keep this?” I hold out her sketch.
She nods.
“And can we at least have a friendly dinner?”
She shakes her head no. Her cheek hollows like she’s nibbling it on the inside.
“You wouldn’t have kissed me if there wasn’t something happening between us.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t again.” Her freckled chest turns pink.
I step back, ready to have the last word, which won’t be good-bye. “I’m irresistible,” I tease.
“Yes, you are, but it isn’t you I’m trying to resist.”
With that, she leaves me speechless. Last words stolen by her pure honesty. Ego wounded and my damn pride lying mutilated somewhere beneath the broken pecans.
Chapter 8
Cassidy
Spreadsheets cover my bed. I fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling. How is it I can solve Harvard’s math problem of the week in ten seconds but can’t find solutions for Ellie’s growing list of changes? She’s not one of those evil, tantrum-throwing bridezillas—thank God— but a little commitment on her part would be nice. Deadlines exist for a reason. I swear they do, but not for a Covington. Every time I say a deadline has passed and she can’t make a change, she calls her mom and gets me a name and number. I swear Mrs. Covington has her own underground wedding factory run by little minion robots for no reason other than to give Ellie exactly the wedding she wants.
After a quick shower to wash away the pecan dust stuck to my skin, I finish the food cards for the taste test scheduled for this afternoon, then change into Covington-approved attire and meet Ellie and Dean on the back porch. We wander through the gardens and discuss the shower she’ll have in the gazebo. It’s the biggest gazebo I’ve ever seen, more like an outside venue, screened in and wired for a sound system and even equipped with a built-in
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