by Holly Hart
Honestly, I’m not even sure that I would place a bid. It would almost feel like cheating. Maybe, just maybe, I could get involved to save the poor woman from the clutches of one of my less savory colleagues.
“How did your date go last week?” Tricia asks out of the blue, and I almost spray coffee all over her apron. I manage to choke it down instead.
“You know about that?”
She rolls her eyes. “Cassie is my BFF; I know everything.”
Everything?
“So she told you about the coatroom,” I say, wincing.
Tricia leans back in her chair.
“The coatroom,” she says with a knowing nod. “Mm-hm. Yup.”
“Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.”
“Why, uh, why do you say that?”
My eyebrows go up. Maybe Tricia’s into kinky stuff and public sex isn’t a taboo. In any case, she’s not judging me. It’s good to finally be able to talk about it with someone.
“Well, I mean, I don’t normally go pawing women in public places, especially on the first date.”
“Uh-huh.” She picks up a toothpick and starts gnawing on it. “Of course not.”
“Although, I guess it wasn’t technically our first. I mean, we were together for almost two years in high school.”
“Why did you guys stop?”
“Stop dating?”
Should I tell her? Hell, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Cassie stood me up on our prom night and disappeared. Her family moved to another base, and she never got in touch with me.”
Tricia frowns. “She did that?”
“Yeah.”
“I was talking about the coatroom. Why you stopped – well, you know.”
Oh, shit.
“But really? She just ran out on you at prom?”
“It was bad timing,” I say. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”
I wish I’d never sat down. Now I have to backtrack on all this. It didn’t mean to turn this into a Cassie-bashing session.
“Let me guess: Cassie stopped things in the coatroom when they got heavy.”
My eyes narrow. “I thought she told you all about it.”
“Look, we’re past that now,” she says. “Was it Cassie that put a stop to things?”
“Well, I sure didn’t. It was all I could do to put on the brakes.”
“And she was all weird after it, right?”
I nod. “I have to admit, I’m not used to that. Usually it’s the woman who can’t stop.”
Tricia grins. “If you do say so yourself…”
“I own a mirror, Trish,” I say with a shrug and a grin of my own, so she knows I’m joking. “Full length, too.”
She breaks up cackling at that, which does a lot to ease the tension I’ve been feeling since she sat down. Tricia is a good friend; I’m glad Cassie has her in her corner. She’s never really had someone like that to rely on.
Well, not as far as I know, anyway. Lately, it seems like I’m constantly reminded of all the things I don’t know about her.
Tricia’s laughter trails off and she leans forward again. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper.
“I think I may know what the problem is,” she says.
“You do?” I whisper back.
What’s with the conspiracy?
“First, you need to know that I would never break a friend’s trust under any other circumstances,” she says in a lecturing tone. “I’ve got Cassie’s back, you feel me? And if you ever hurt her, I’ll be the first one coming at your balls with a pair of live chainsaws.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” I say. It’s the truth. A part of me wonders how she could go about holding two chainsaws at once, but I quickly focus my attention.
“The reason Cassie’s being so weird is that… well, she doesn’t have the same level of, you know, experience that you do.”
I frown. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Think about it: you’re – well, you’re you. You said it yourself, you own a full-length mirror. And you’re rich and successful and super-cool and everything else that comes along with it. Private jets and supermodels and God only knows what else.”
She’s right. I know how that sounds, but I don’t have any illusions about myself. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished; I worked incredibly hard to achieve it all.
“Now here’s Cassie, on a date with you, and she doesn’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “How does she not know what to do? It’s pretty simple.”
Tricia leans in close and lays a hand on top of mine. I glance down and see the tattoo of Tinkerbell that rests on the crook of her thumb.
“Carson, you’re too smart to be so dense,” she says with a soft smile.
I sit there, blinking at her.
“Obviously I’m not,” I say.
But that’s not true. Dawn is breaking somewhere in the back of my mind. I can practically hear it cracking, like a monstrous iceberg of stupidity that’s finally hit warmer waters.
“Cassie’s never been with a man in that way,” Tricia says. “She’s a virgin.”
And suddenly my heart is pounding so hard I fear it’s going to burst right out of my chest.
Chapter Thirty-One
31. CASSANDRA
The roses my new Texan boyfriend bought me survived the subway ride back home yesterday, and they’re still doing well in their vase on my dining table this afternoon.
That probably has something to do with all the natural light my apartment lets in. It may be small – find me one in Manhattan that isn’t, outside of Carson’s – and overpriced, but it’s bright. Southern exposure bathes the kitchen-living room space in sunshine most of the day, and the east-facing window in my bedroom wakes me with the rising sun every morning.
The exception, of course is the panic room. The only source of light in here is the single bulb that illuminates my work laptop. The green text on the screen shows me something that has become something of a talisman for me over the past two weeks: my Cayman account balance.
$2,500,000.00 USD.
Two and a half million dollars. One million away from my goal. Four more days. So close, I feel like I could almost touch it.
The computer whirs softly as I shut it down and hit the light switch. As always when I leave my office, I think of the Pevensie children from the Chronicles of Narnia, leaving the wardrobe and returning home.
Of course, my Narnia is a paranoiac’s wet dream, not a magical kingdom.
The light shrinks my pupils as I emerge into my bedroom, and I’m blind for a moment. I stop at my bed and sit for a moment as my eyes adjust. As I do, I think about yesterday: about the flowers, the Texan, Betty’s advice.
“Oh, the troubles some girls has,” I say out loud.
My phone chooses that moment to vibrate. At first I think it’s my alarm, telling me I’ve spent enough time at home and better get my butt out the door and onto the streets, so as not to violate the rules of the Chase.
But then I glance at it and see Carson’s number.
Do I really want to answer?
I hit ignore call and drop it into my purse, then scoop up my keys and head for the front door.
The walk to Patty’s is a good fourteen blocks from my place, but I need the exercise to keep my head clear. The cadence of my heels clicking against the sidewalk sets a rhythm that lets my mind become passively aware, noticing but not thinking. Meditating, almost.
After several minutes of this, I turn off the avenue and onto an adjoining street, just to keep myself from falling into a pattern. As I do, my breath catches in my throat.
Walking right toward me is the man from the theater.
I can’t slow down or I’ll look suspicious. As I close the gap, he seems to notice me. Recognition dawns in his eyes. I wish I had my phone in my hand to pull the same trick, but I don’t.
Our eyes meet as we pass, and I surprise myself by steppin
g toward him and raising my arms in a menacing pose.
“D’ja get a good look, you fucking perv?” I holler. “You think I don’t remember you? Maybe I should call my husband to come talk to you, is that what it’s gonna take?”
His eyes nearly pop out of his round face as he speed-walks down the street away from me.
“Yeah, you better fucking run!” I call after him. “Creep!”
I head back toward my original route and let the adrenaline flow back out. I realize now that I was pushing things by using the same routine twice. I also realize that the Chase is still on, and that I need to be on my guard at all times.
My phone buzzes. Carson again. I ignore it again.
The blocks flow past me: trees, people, flowers, architecture, all the things that make New York City so unlike any other place in the world. Thomas Wolfe once said you belong to this city as much in five minutes as in five years, and I believe it. It’s hypnotic, especially on a beautiful day like today.
Which makes what happens next that much more jarring. As I turn the corner to head back onto Forty-Second Street, I run face-first into a tall wall of man heading the other way.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to recover my bearings.
When I finally do, I look up to see Carson Drake’s gorgeous gray eyes looking down into mine. He’s out of breath.
“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he pants.
Chapter Thirty-Two
32. CARSON
“Look, I just wanted to invite you to dinner again tonight,” I say, propping my hands on my thighs.
I’m more out of breath than I’d like to admit. Sprinting eight blocks will do that to you, even when you spend three hours a day in the gym. Then again, I’ve always been more into strength training than cardio.
Cassie’s fiery brows draw down over her eyes and she looks away. I don’t blame her.
“Carson, we’ve been over this,” she says. “I can’t. Not right now.”
That’s my cue to surrender. I hold up my hands, palms forward. You got me, sheriff.
“Just dinner,” I say. “At a restaurant. Nowhere near my apartment.”
She gives me a sidelong look.
“I really would like to discuss Tricialicious with you,” I say. “That’s where I was running from. I was just talking to Tricia about … a bunch of stuff.”
I was also using my smartphone to confirm that you did, in fact, graduate from the Citadel at the top of your class.
“I was hoping to catch you at your place, but here you are.”
“What’s so urgent all of a sudden?” she asks warily.
“I just think that there’s a situation that we need to discuss. It could have a drastic effect on your deal and how you move forward with it.”
She sizes me up. I’ve never really noticed it before but Cassie can look pretty intimidating when she wants to.
“This isn’t about you putting money in, is it?” she asks. “Because if it is, the answer is no.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Not right now, anyway.
“I just think there are some aspects to your situation that you might not have considered. I’ve sort of got … insider information that I think you’ll find very valuable.”
She shakes her head, tossing those blazing curls, and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I don’t want to get involved in anything that isn’t above board. Insider information is a slippery slope. And I’ve already told you, I want to do this on my own.”
“It’s definitely not illegal,” I say, although a lawyer and a prosecutor would probably argue all day over that. “Tell you what: I’ll give you the information, and you decide whether it’s ethical or not to use it. That way, the choice is entirely up to you.”
Her azure eyes soften.
“Welll….” she says.
I hold up my hand in a Boy Scout salute.
“I solemnly swear that I won’t try to get you back to my place.”
That does it: she finally cracks that radiant smile. Phew. I haven’t had to work that hard in a long time.
Then again, I’ve never cared about another woman the way I care about this one. For as long as I’ve known her, practically as long as I’ve been alive. And this is far and away the most important date of my life.
Cassie doesn’t know it yet, but it’s the most important date of her life, too.
“All right,” she says. “Is this going to be a fancy restaurant?”
“The fanciest.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I’d be just as happy at Burger King, you know.”
“Humor me. I have a lot of disposable income. And I have to dispose of it somehow, since you won’t let me give any of it to you.”
“All right. What’s it called?”
“Have you ever heard of Piccolo?”
She scrunches her face. “Hm… nope, strangely enough, I haven’t heard of your ridiculously fancy restaurant.” The she quickly adds: “It’s in Midtown, right?”
“Yup. I guarantee you’re going to love it.”
“It better not have a coatroom,” she says sternly.
“No,” I chuckle. “No coatroom.”
“So I need to wear a gown again?”
“You could wear exactly what you’re wearing right now and I’d be over the moon,” I say. “But you’d be the only woman in the restaurant dressed that way. Now, I personally think they’d all be jealous of you, but you might not agree.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “If I have to.”
I clap my hands and do an abysmal end-zone dance. “Yes!”
“You are such a geek,” she giggles.
“Takes one to know one.”
Suddenly a shadow crosses her face. I can only imagine what she must be thinking. But whatever it is, I can understand.
“Everything okay?” I ask, placing a hand on her creamy shoulder. The sensation is incredible. Just laying a hand on her bare skin is enough to make me shiver.
“It’s nothing,” she says with a quick smile. “I can’t wait for tonight.”
That sparks a thought. I don’t really want to let her out of my sight until we meet for dinner. Not that I expect any problems, but there’s no point in tempting fate.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you let me take you out right now and buy you a dress?”
The shadow is back again in an instant.
“Carson, how many times do I have to tell you…”
“Hear me out: we find you a dress, you wear it tonight, and then I donate it to a charity auction. You get an amazing gown, the Left-Handed Cellists Guild or some such group gets a donation, and I get a tax receipt.”
Giggles again. That’s what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. As though Cassie’s laughter, her very happiness, is a drug that has me hooked. Hell, who am I kidding? I am hooked. Always have been.
She seems to be mulling it over. I’m pretty sure she’ll think it’s a good idea, too.
“All right,” she says. “If it will make you happy, I’ll go shopping for an expensive evening gown. But you so owe me, buster.”
There’s no way I could keep the smile off my face right now if I tried. I feel like this is our chance to finally go to the prom, and get it right this time. No jealousy, no bitterness, mulling over what could have been. Just Cassie and me, going on our very first date all over again,
I cock an elbow at her and she slides a perfect arm through it, clasping her hands and locking on to me. If I had my way, she’d never let go.
Please, whatever God there may be out there, let this night go as planned.
“Well then,” I say, looking up at the sky. “Which direction to Oscar de la Renta?”
She actually gasps. Not just an intake of air, an actual gasp, like in an old-tyme movie.
“You’re not serious,” she says, eyes like blue moons in her face.
“Sorry,” I say with a mock grimace. “It’s the only p
lace that’s close.”
She slams her shoulder into mine but doesn’t let go of my arm. We head north on Forty-Second, walking slowly. We’re not in any hurry. As far as I’m concerned, we can keep on walking arm-in-arm like this until, oh, say the year 2099.
“I should see if I can find a belt,” she says after a half a block.
“Yeah? Need a new belt, do you?”
“Well, I need something I can strangle you with in case you decide to try anything tonight.”
I feign shock. “I would never.”
She giggles again. If she only knew.
Chapter Thirty-Three
33. CASSANDRA
“I can’t believe I’m wearing $14,000 worth of clothes. That’s obscene.”
I smile like a little kid and look at Carson. “Isn’t it?”
He settles back into his side of the limo’s bench seat and gives me an appreciative once-over.
“Someone once told me wealth is relative,” he says. “Me spending fourteen grand would be equivalent to your average New Yorker spending eight bucks for a coffee, which they do all the time.”
I do some quick math. Whoa.
“Are you serious?” I ask. “Just how rich are you?”
He flashes mock annoyance.
“Rich enough to be able to afford it when my date chooses the most expensive dress in the store,” he gripes.
I slap him. “You chose it, you jackass! I was happy with that dark green one.”
“Yeah, but that ugly old lady said plum compliments red hair, and I wasn’t going to argue with her. She’s the expert, after all.”
“That was a man and you know it!”
I tap the reverse camera on my phone and check out our digital reflection. The old lady – I mean man – was right, the purple totally works. Carson is in another tux, different from the one he wore to Modern. I guess that’s another way to answer my question: he’s rich enough to need more than one tuxedo. Until Carson, I’m not sure I knew anyone who even owned one.
Against my better judgment, I snap a selfie. Like, I don’t want to be one of those girls. But sometimes it’s unavoidable. Like starting a sentence with “like.” Oh, gosh, I’m doing it again. How can one man have me so flustered?
