by Karen Kincy
Dear God, he’s never serious. “She wants sex. Nothing more. Just—sex.”
Dad doesn’t reply right away. “She asked you for that?”
“Yes.”
“And you aren’t on your knees thanking sweet baby Jesus?”
“Why would I do that?”
“She’s a gem among women! She wants you and she doesn’t want your money.”
I don’t have anything to say to that. Nothing polite, anyway. My parents divorced when I was sixteen and it wasn’t pretty.
“Don’t let her get away,” Dad says, with devotion usually reserved for religion.
My stomach sours. “I may have left her in the yew labyrinth.”
“After you fucked her?”
I wince. “Yes.”
“Christ, Bram, buy her something. That’s the best way to apologize.”
I frown at the sky. “Is it?”
“Trust me. And good luck keeping this girl.”
22
Cassia
My hands stained red, I kneel by the strawberries. I eat one and drop another into a basket, but my stomach still feels hollow.
Rolling in the grass with a whore.
What a bitch. But I must have looked like an even bigger bitch. A girl she never met, fucking her brother in the garden.
I concentrate on the strawberries. Tender baby weeds peek between their leaves. I tear them from the dirt, sweat rolling down my neck. The hollow ache in my stomach grows like a black hole, sucking in my thoughts.
You bitch.
Why can’t I stop hearing Spencer? I clench fistfuls of dirt and stare at the ground. It’s over. It’s all over. It can’t hurt me anymore.
But I can’t escape the pain.
“Cassia.”
Standing, I dust off my knees so I don’t have to look at Bram a moment too soon.
His smile doesn’t touch his eyes. He’s holding a little white box topped with a lavender ribbon. “This is for you.”
When I take it from him, our fingertips touch. Adrenaline spikes my blood. “What is it?”
“You haven’t opened it yet.” His smile warms into something more real.
I loosen the knot in the lavender ribbon and pry the lid off. A tiny crystal bottle sparkles. I unscrew the silver stopper.
Lilacs.
The perfume invades my senses, my mind.
I’m in my bedroom. Lilacs bloom outside my window, the shadows of leaves and blossoms patterning my skin. I’m naked on my bed. Smiling, I curl against a pillow. I can’t wait to show Spencer my newest tattoo.
“Cassia?” Bram’s voice returns me to reality.
I jam the stopper back in and twist it shut tight. My hands are trembling, and I clench them so he doesn’t see.
“You said lilacs were your favorite flower,” he says.
My skin feels too tight. Like I don’t fit who I am now. “I can’t take this.”
He studies me for a moment. His eyes look hopeful and sad at the same time.
“Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes.” It’s hard to be angry at Bram. But it’s harder to feel anything else for him.
“Cassia,” he says. “Please—”
“You don’t need to bribe me. I’m not your mistress.”
“I meant to apologize.” His face tightens. “I don’t think of you like that.”
I shove the lilac perfume back into his hands. “Keep your apologies.”
He cradles the perfume as if the bottle holds something precious. Like all his hopes. “I shouldn’t have left you in the labyrinth.”
I smirk, armoring my smile against him. “I found my own way out.”
“I shouldn’t have let my sister talk to you like that.”
I shrug like I don’t give a shit. “What a gentleman, Bram Winterbourne.”
“But you wanted what we did.”
Sourness rises in my throat. “Sure. I’m just like a hooker. Fuck me and walk away whenever you feel like it.”
His eyebrows descend. “I didn’t mean—”
“You were right.” I lock stares with him. “We shouldn’t do this.”
His face softens, and he touches my arm. “Are you all right?”
Shit, he can see how much I’m still trembling. “No more fucking. You’re my boss.”
“I want to start over.”
“Let me spell it out. I will never be your girlfriend.”
The truth of the words chokes my throat. I wish I hadn’t said it. My eyes stinging, I inspect the dirt under my fingernails.
He looks so intently at me. “If that’s what you want.”
I abandon him before I can change my mind.
23
Bram
Nightfall quiets Wolfenwold Hall. Outside, a wood dove coos and its mate replies. I lie on my stomach in bed, reading a textbook on statistics. I bloody hate maths, but I need to refine my calculations for the gardens.
A spray of gravel clatters on my window.
I prop myself on my elbows and peer outside. I can’t see who did it, so I roll off the bed and walk to the window.
Cassia stands outside, dressed in nothing but her pajamas. She scoops another handful of gravel from the path.
I slide open the window. “Cassia!”
She waves at me. “We need to talk.” It’s almost a shout.
“I’ll be right down.”
I tug a shirt over my head, yank on my shoes, and run downstairs. The front door groans open under my hand.
She hugs herself, rubbing her elbows, and sways back and forth. “There you are.”
This close, I catch a strong whiff of liquor. “Have you been drinking?”
“Ding!” She makes it sound like I’ve won a prize. “I’m fucking trashed.”
“Jesus. Really?”
She tilts her head to look at the moon. Her eyes gleam in the light. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you today.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I like you a lot, Bram, especially your naughty bits.”
I laugh before frowning at myself. “Let me walk you home.”
“You care too much about me.” She waves away my comment and takes an unsteady step forward. “It’s a bad idea.”
“Drinking as much as you did is a bad idea.”
“You drank four pints before you would sleep with me. Am I such a bitch?”
I clench my jaw. “I’ve never called you a bitch.”
“Spencer did.” She looks away and sucks in a shuddering breath. “I didn’t want to ruin your life, not even when you hurt me.”
I don’t even want to think about hurting her. It’s painful enough to imagine.
“Cassia.” I catch her by the wrist. “I’m taking you home.”
She doesn’t resist me, but when I tug her forward, she stumbles and braces herself on me. Her breathing sounds shallow.
“Are you too drunk to walk?” I say.
She smiles. “I made it this far.” A tear rolls down her cheek.
God, why is she crying? With a sigh, I sweep her off her feet and carry her in my arms. She shrieks and clings to my shirt.
Deafened, I wince. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to drop you.”
She nods against my chest.
I start walking, gravel crunching under my footsteps. Her tears soak through my shirt. She snuffles loudly. “You have a tissue?”
“No, and I’m not worried about a few bogeys.”
“What the fuck are bogeys?” She pauses. “You mean boogers?”
“If that’s what you call it.”
The rising moon pours silver onto the path to her cottage. An owl hoots in the forest, and a slow wind rustles the trees.
“Am I fired?” she says.
“Not for bogeys.”
She laughs through her tears. “For being a bitch?”
“You aren’t a bitch.”
“Spencer was right,” she whispers.
“Spencer can go to hell.”
She tenses aga
inst me. Her fingernails mark my arm with crescents.
Her cottage appears round the bend. Light spills through the ajar front door. “Did you leave the door unlocked?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Let’s hope there are no bandits waiting for us.” I nudge open the door with my toes and carry her over the threshold. “No bandits.”
Her laugh sounds a bit broken.
I bring her to the bedroom and drop her on the bed. She scoots back against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest. The lamp by her bed casts soft shadows on her face. Her eyes glimmer in the dark.
“Good night,” I say. “Get some sleep.”
“Bram?” she whispers. “Stay with me.”
I sit on the edge of her bed. “I can’t do that.”
“Not sex. I’m not that slutty, I promise. I just don’t want to be alone.”
How can I say no? I look into her eyes and nod. She climbs under the blankets, and I tug the edges straight.
“I’m not telling you a bedtime story,” I say.
Her smile wobbles. She looks like she’s on the brink of passing out.
I toy with the blanket. “What’s your favorite color?”
“What?”
“I’m curious.”
“Blue. Like ocean.”
I smile. “That’s a good color.”
“Are some colors better than others?” She giggles. “Racist.”
I roll my eyes. “I like yellow.”
“Together we make green.” She wrinkles her nose. “Actually, that’s disgusting.”
“People aren’t like paint.”
She snuggles against the pillow and pats the mattress. I climb into bed and bend my legs so they don’t hang over the edge.
“You’re too tall for my bed,” she says.
I glance into her eyes. “You’re too much for my heart.”
It’s a joke, and a bad one, but she meets my gaze. There’s something between us, something almost like understanding. She closes her eyes and leans against me. Her hand finds mine and holds it tight.
We lie together in silence.
I wait for her breathing to slow. When I’m sure she’s asleep, I slip out of bed, tuck her in, and kiss her forehead goodbye.
I’m uneasy in the hush of the night. My throat aches with unanswered questions.
Who is Cassia? Will I ever know?
24
Cassia
It’s cloudy today, rain sprinkling from the sky, but the light still makes my eyeballs ache. I enter Wolfenwold Hall and hesitate outside the library door. Bram bends over an impossibly thick book, his hair rumpled.
When I rap on the doorframe, he glances up. “Cassia.”
“About last night.” My muscles won’t obey me. “I drank one too many shots of vodka.”
He bends over the book and keeps reading.
I’m tempted to bolt through the doors. “I swear I won’t do it again.” A nervous laugh escapes me. “Or throw rocks at your window.”
Still he says nothing. He flips a page in the book.
“Thank you,” I say, “for bringing me home.”
He lifts his gaze. “What happened to Spencer?”
The headache pounds against my skull. My tongue tastes sour. I don’t remember talking about this last night. “What did I say?”
He speaks in an even voice. “Spencer called you a bitch.”
I blow out my breath, trying to talk, but emotion throttles my throat. I don’t know how to tell him any of this sober.
Bram pushes his chair from the table. Standing, he folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what happened between you and Spencer, but if I see him, I can’t promise I won’t punch that piece of shit in the face.”
“Don’t worry.” My stomach churns. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
Some pain never dies. It sits in the bottom of your guts, rotting away, turning you to garbage whenever you touch it.
Saliva rushes into my mouth. I hold my knuckles to my lips. “Where’s the bathroom?”
He frowns. “Down the hall on the left.”
I lunge from the library, run to the bathroom, and fall to my knees by the dingy toilet. After puking my guts out, I wrench the handle and watch my breakfast swirl down. I hunch over the sink and swish water in my mouth.
“Are you all right?” Bram stands reflected in the mirror.
I spit in the sink. “You really want to know?”
“Yes.” To his credit, he doesn’t look as freaked out as I thought he would.
“I found Spencer in our bed fucking another girl.”
His face twists. “Christ.”
“After I caught him cheating, I keyed his BMW. Smashed up the windshield, too. Spencer tried to drive after me while he was drunk. Blood alcohol over point one percent. He totaled the car. He didn’t walk away.”
Every word feels like a shard of broken glass in my throat.
Bram doesn’t say anything for an eternity. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t say that.” I wipe my mouth on a musty towel. “Wasn’t your fault.”
He steps into the bathroom. The space isn’t big enough for the two of us. “Was it yours?”
My blood burning, I shove him back a step. “You’re way over the fucking line.”
He inhales through his nose. “You can’t blame yourself for Spencer. You can’t live with this much guilt and anger.”
“I’ll survive.” I wring the towel. “My life might be a trainwreck, but I’m holding on.”
He lowers his gaze, his eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. “I want to help you.”
“With what? Your magic penis?”
A corner of his mouth curves. “It does glow in the dark on occasion.”
“This isn’t why I wanted to fuck you. There’s no quick fix.”
His stare is too sharp for me to return it. “I don’t think you’re in need of fixing.”
“You like me just the way I am?” I curl my lip. “Okay, Mr. Rogers.”
He scratches his neck. “Who?”
“Whatever.”
“Can we start over?”
“You aren’t running for the hills?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Jesus Christ, you don’t even know my darkest secrets.”
His jaw tightens. “Will you tell me?”
“I went off the fucking rails. Studying hard and partying harder. Between passing exams and passing out in a stranger’s bed, I just wanted to forget it all. I can’t—I don’t want to remember that shit right now.”
He pauses. “I would appreciate that shit later.” He articulates it so carefully I smile.
“What makes you think there’s a later?”
Bram’s eyes look very blue. “We seem to be inevitable.”
25
Bram
Starting over. It seems to be a silent agreement.
Rain trickles down the windows as we read in the hush of the library. Cassia sits across from me, reading with a pair of green cat’s eye glasses. She looks beautiful in a melancholy way, and I want to make her smile.
I tap a page in a book. “Listen to this.”
“What?”
“There’s buried treasure in the gardens.”
She glances into my eyes. “If you mean potatoes, that’s not going to help us.”
“Not potatoes, silver.” I can’t help grinning. “Roman coins. The last owner of Wolfenwold Hall unearthed three of them.”
She snorts. “And you think there’s more?”
“The last owner swore to it. Spent a year digging around.”
“Did he find anything?”
“No.”
Cassia sighs and polishes her glasses on her shirt. “Buy a metal detector if you want one, but that’s a long shot.” She reaches across the table and tugs the blueprints closer. “Isn’t Wolfenwold Hall a listed building?”
“The building, yes, but the gardens aren’t protected.”
“I still can’t bel
ieve English Heritage would let you bulldoze them.”
“My mother can be quite persuasive.”
She wrinkles her nose. “She sounds like a total hardass.”
I clear my throat. Pointedly.
“It’s a compliment,” she says, the picture of sweetness and innocence. “I respect a woman who knows what she wants.”
“Do you?”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to beat her.”
I laugh and shake my head. “If we want to win, we have to play her game. We have to prove that the gardens are worth it.”
She watches the rain fall. “There are the roses.”
“What about them?”
“Mrs. Lennox catalogued all of the cultivars. Wolfenwold Hall has dozens of rare roses. They must be valuable.”
I search on my phone. “There’s a heritage rose society in Eastbourne that might help us.”
“Could they save the gardens?”
“We would have to talk with them.”
She gnaws on her lip. “Who’s we?”
I splay my fingers on the table. “You and I can drive out to Eastbourne.”
“You could just email them.”
“That would be a brilliant plan, if they had contact info online.”
She smiles. “We have to do this the old-fashioned way?”
“We do.”
“So a courier pigeon or a dude on horseback with a scroll?”
I laugh. “Wolfenwold Hall hasn’t had pigeons or horses for years.”
“Damn.” She snaps her fingers. “Guess it’s just the Audi.”
“What a hardship.” Stifling a yawn, I stretch my arms over my head.
She watches me in silence. I can’t decipher the look in her eyes. “Should we go now?”
“I don’t see why not.”
We leave the library together and make our way to the drive. It’s still raining outside, silver drops clinging to Cassia’s hair. Barn swallows swoop in our path as we walk by the grass; buttercups gleam in the lawn.
“They look like little fallen stars,” she says.
“They do.” I’m too familiar with falling, not that I was ever a star.
At the Audi, I open her door for her, and she thanks me with a nod. When I slide into the driver’s seat, she clutches her seatbelt and avoids my gaze. The Audi’s engine purrs to life. I flick on the windshield wipers.
“How far is it?” she says.
