by Camden Leigh
“Curtsey before and after each dance.”
“Never say no to a dance request; it embarrasses the hostess.”
My head spins as Ellie and Kat call out rules. I grab my head, shaking it. “I can’t do all that. I can’t even do one of those. I think I feel sick?” I fake cough.
“Oh, stop it. Let’s finish getting you dressed.” Ellie pulls me in front of the full-length mirror. She straightens my dress on my hips and ties the silk ribbons across the back. “You’re a dream. Quinn’s going to flip.”
“I’m not doing this for him.” I pout. “This is your party. This should be about you. Maybe you should’ve selected me a more subdued gown.” I lift the bushy skirt, then drop it. It must weigh fifty pounds. “I hear camo’s popular around here.”
“If it weren’t for you, I’d be wearing that godawful dress with the train out the door, using glassware I hate and carrying flowers that make me sneeze just so Momma doesn’t get pissed.” She tucks a diamond-studded comb into my hair twist and twirls a ringlet around her finger. “If it weren’t for you, Quinn wouldn’t be here, Kat wouldn’t be smiling, and let’s face it, we’d all be as unhappy as we were the day before you arrived.”
I survey the gown in the mirror, tracing the vines traveling across the indigo bodice in black velvet. “I’m glad I met all of you, too,” I whisper, not one to share feelings.
Ellie leans in and hugs me hard. “Now”—Ellie wipes her cheek—“we have a ball to attend.”
“I can’t wait to ride in the carriages.” Kat dances across the room.
I fumble with my purse-reticule thing.
“Relax, Cass. Turn off the work clock and have fun tonight, okay?” Ellie rubs my arm, then pulls out her phone.
“I don’t . . .” I don’t want to let go of the baton. If something happens, it’s my head. I suppose if nothing happens, it’s still my head. “I don’t think they texted in the 1800s,” I say instead.
Ellie laughs. “I suppose not.”
When we arrive, the driver helps me avoid an awkward dismount. He situates my feet on the skinny steps before assisting me out of the carriage. My gown, wider than Cinderella’s pumpkin, should be deemed a hazard. Caution tape should decorate the hem and be strapped across my chest like a sash.
Feet firmly planted on the ground, I huff out a half-breath. Wish this stupid bodice was looser. I inhale deep, trying to stretch it. One hour down, four to go.
Looking around, I hardly recognize the place. Nighttime shifted the entire atmosphere of the grounds. The plantation home breathes southern charm, antebellum history and the sweet jasmine coursing through the air intoxicates me into believing I can pull tonight off without error. I’m two breaths away from believing it when I spot Quinn standing under a swaying willow tree off the drive. The hacked-off coattails he preferred wave in the breeze behind him like freshly painted brushstrokes. A thin tie made from the same embroidered silk as my bodice marks us as a couple. I inhale sharply, not realizing he’s taken my breath away. Touching my hands to my cheeks, I look to his sisters for help, but they’ve disappeared through the candle lit doorway.
A hot flush washes over my skin. I grab the railing, descending one step as I search for the carriage. What was I thinking? I don’t belong here. It’s easy believing I’m his when we’re alone, but here? In front of the world? If I enter with him, all eyes, minds, and words have the potential to execute us right on the spot. This isn’t just my life we’re messing with, but his, too.
Maybe this is what Mrs. Covington foresaw—me, a nobody to these people, screwing up her perfect little life. Maybe she was right to request I step back, stay away and keep my hands off. Could’ve just said so before I fell for her son.
“Looking for something?” Quinn asks as he cradles my elbow.
“Thought I left my fan in the car. I mean carriage. Whatever. But I have it right here.” I turn slowly around.
He extends his hand and I take it, letting him guide me up the last few steps. His silence is deafening, both filling me with trepidation for what’s to come and complete and absurd wonder because I’m the one he chose to be with. There’s something seriously wrong with that. I don’t land the nice guys.
I scan his face, the simple dimple that hardly ever leaves his cheek, and his eyes dyed the finest and most concentrated indigo ever harvested. Covington through and through, right down to the bones, his heart, his words. I’m so screwed, because as much as this scares me, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Once inside he pulls me to the side, dipping us into the corner shadows. “You’re crazy beautiful.”
“You’re crazy, crazy, but don’t look too shabby yourself.” I dust his lapel as he squeezes my waist and presses his lips against my collarbone. “Not here. We have to be on our best behavior.”
His laugh vibrates deep in his throat. His eyes turn wicked dark. “Define best behavior.” He leans into me, his lips a kiss away from mine.
I flip out the fan Ellie attached to my wrist and brush it over my chin, feigning embarrassment but needing a second to gather control so I don’t turn into potter’s clay under his touch. He needs only to spin me around once to mold me into something profoundly personal and unequivocally his.
His tongue grazes his bottom lip so slowly I melt. His nose sketches infinity symbols over my cheek. “Since we can’t escape, waltz with me?”
“Any other options?” My whispers are barely distinguishable between breaths. Pull it together. I push back, disconnecting from him. “It’s just . . . this dress is tight, and I’m under strict orders to stick to this dance card.” I rifle through the beaded bag until I find the folded card.
Before I can hand it to him, Ellie sweeps in, pushing Dean toward me.
“I believe I have a dance saved.” He holds his hand out.
I glance at Quinn. Ellie. The card. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
Ellie pushes my card into my bag and rings her brother’s arm. “Care to spin me, Quinn?”
Dean grabs my hand, slaps it way too hard onto his and guides me across the room and out double doors to the terrace. A few steps later, we’re taking position behind another couple in a circular line on the dance floor. Lanterns and white lights adorn the overhead branches. Giant gilded pillars decorate the paths.
Dean clears his throat and bows, drawing my attention back on him. “Curtsy,” he whispers.
The orchestra plays a slow melody with an easy beat. We dance small box steps around the outside ring. Inside the circle, Ellie and Quinn throw out intricate dance moves.
“Show-offs,” I whisper.
“What’s that?” Dean asks.
“Look at them.”
“Oh, did you want to dance in the center?” He nods toward the inner circle.
Hell no. That’s the guillotine! “Are you crazy?”
“Just move with the music.” He talks about the barbecue rehearsal dinner plans. Apparently it’s on his family’s property down near Beaufort. They dig a pit and dress a pig. In what, I don’t know. He pushes my interest too far when he tells me about smoking swine heads and ripping off the crispy skin. I tune him out and count my steps, praying the song ends soon.
Quinn twirls Ellie around like she’s a feather boa. He dips her and she giggles as he extends her out with one arm, keeping tempo with his steps. He reels her back in, a smile on his face.
Finding my gaze, his tempo slows. He positions Ellie’s back to me. I lift my fingers off Dean’s arm in a small wave. When the song ends, Quinn bows, eyes on me, then passes Ellie off to the old gray-hair next to him without hesitation. Dean asks me something but I just hear a murmur, a quiet hush as I block everything around me out.
My heart stutters in my chest. I wrap my fingers around a glass someone hands me. Flattening my other hand on my stomach, I wait for Quinn’s approach, watching his silent strides. With each step closer, I grow uncomfortably weak. Clammy skin. Flushes of heat in my cheeks. Hesitant breaths.
I’ve never see
n someone so clearly before, so perfectly. This guy is my one chance at maybe. I press my fingers against my lips and cast my eyes down. The pink in my skin will show everyone exactly how much I love this guy if I’m not careful.
The glass slips from my hand, shattering into glittery fragments. Love? I jump back, lifting my skirt to avoid damaging the silk. A waiter tosses a napkin over the shards and suggests everyone move back. We do as a whole, Quinn on one side, me on the other, separated by the waiter. The spilled champagne. The broken glass.
The waiter sweeps the mess into a dustpan. “Need anything, Miss?”
The light catches in the broken crystal. I hear him. I see him, but I can’t answer. “I . . . I—”
Quinn steps past the waiter, glass crunching underfoot like dried acorns.
Before I can call out, Wes grabs my hand, pulls me away from the puddle, and laying fingers lightly against my back, guides me away. “A dance, Cassidy?”
I catch a glimpse of Quinn over my shoulder. His sisters surround him, dusting his lapels and straightening his tie, pulling his attention from me. Wes maneuvers me into position and leads me through an unfamiliar dance, leaving me no time to request a break, a drink, or a pause to figure out what just happened, what shattered the walls I’d built to protect my most vulnerable parts. My emotions, like the glass, lay scattered across the floor. So fragile. So easily trampled or swept up and discarded. The exact thing I’ve tried my damnedest to avoid.
“Cassidy?” Wes slows our pace.
“Sorry, just startled by the . . .” my words fade as I spot Quinn over his shoulder. “By everything.”
His sisters vie for his attention, tugging on his elbows and holding drinks in front of him, but his focus remains on me. Annabeth and Mrs. Covington join the sisters. Annabeth taps him on the chest with her fan, drawing his gaze away. I tuck my chin. What is happening? Why can’t I breathe? Why can’t I think?
“Please, a break.” I hold my hand out, hoping Wes doesn’t insist we keep dancing.
He looks at the Covington lineup. I follow his gaze and Kat twirls her finger. He nods an unspoken response.
“Wait, are you babysitting me?” I spot Quinn moving away from his sisters.
“Kat said to make sure you weren’t left alone.” Wes lifts our arms, turning me at the same time to undo our pretzeled hands and pulls me into a tight closed position.
I stumble over his foot but he catches me. “So I won’t embarrass the family?” Coming from her, that hurts.
I curl my fingers under, digging into Wes’s arm. Why did they push for me to be a guest if they see me as trouble? I’d offered numerous times to be a wallflower or to stay in the kitchen.
Wes clears his throat, glancing from my face to my hand. I smooth the wrinkled fabric and hamper the anger and disappointment rising in me.
“Listen, I get it. You’re an outsider trying to fit into someone else’s mold. Best advice I can give, is don’t. No one fits in Mrs. C’s mold. Not you, not me.”
“Annabeth does.”
“Yeah, well she’s been practicing for years.”
I spin under his arm and actually return to my spot without falling on my ass.
“This is Quinn’s first event since returning. Everyone’s nervous and still adjusting to him being here. They can’t decide if a word, a gesture, or you, might send him heading for the hills.” Wes’s bluntness surprises me.
“I think that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.” I sigh heavily.
He pushes me back, puts his hand in the air like a high five and gestures for me to do the same.
I press my hand against his, following his lead as we turn in a circle, switch hands and reverse direction.
“Covingtons are an interesting breed with a magnetic pull you can’t ignore. No one disappoints a Covington. The first time Dean visited, Mrs. C made him sleep in the barn. The second time, in a tent in the pecan grove. He didn’t argue, just said, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and kept trucking. Look at me and Dean next to Quinn. He’s vocal about what he wants, even after all this time. We’re weak, avoiding conflict, settling on a quick resolution even if it means tucking our manhood between our legs and acting like pussies.”
I choke out a laugh.
“If their mom told you to sleep in the barn, what would you say?”
“To fuck off, probably.” I frown, because most likely those would be my exact words. Or to join me and I’d consider it. Silence would fare better results.
“See the difference? You demand respect. You bite back with the fire and grace of a cobra.”
“Then she’s a two-headed cobra.” An unsettling ache tortures my stomach.
“If I can survive her crap, you can. She’s had it out for me since the day Kat wandered into my house for a cup of water. She doesn’t care that I’d do anything for Kat, but she does care that Quinn would do anything for you.”
“Talking about Mother again?” Quinn claps his hand on Wes’s shoulder.
“Raving about her hospitality.” Wes laughs, dropping my hand to stretch out his own to shake Quinn’s.
“Right. You’ve enjoyed my date enough.”
“She’s all yours, man.” He bows.
I curtsy and then I’m alone, yet surrounded, standing in the way of dancers, observers, and the wait staff, but most definitely alone, because the hubbub around me can’t compare to the sudden awakening warming me when Quinn cups my elbow. His eyes pierce me with a light so bright, I grab my chest for fear of not finding my next breath.
Chapter 24
Quinn
Cassie fidgets with her dress and rubs the tight seams with nervous hands. Her skin flushes and I step forward. “Cass?”
She covers her lips, then presses her fingers against her cheeks. “Excuse me a moment.” She fists her skirt, revealing sexy as hell heels and bright pink toes.
“Holy shoe-shit. You’ll have to wear tho—” She spins and takes off before I finish, weaving through the crowd like a copperhead.
I take off after her, calling her name but she doesn’t slow. The crowd doesn’t bother giving me room to follow and after several attempts at niceties, I make it through, searching the grounds for anyone moving in the opposite direction. I spot her under a huge magnolia tree, pushing open a rusted gate.
“Quinn, there you are.” Annabeth wraps her arm around mine. “Mr. Sleek Feet on the dance floor. Not too shabby. Come on, let’s see if we still have it.” She steers me around.
“Not now, Annabeth.” I push her hands off, but she doesn’t get the hint and crawls her fingers up my tie.
Chills run over me. The lost-in-the-swamps-with-no-bars-on-my-phone kind. I grab her arms and move her to the side. “Take a hint, AnnaBee-Beth.” My pet name for her slips out and I swear she eats the shit up. “We were done when I left. Before then really.”
“You can’t mean that. We were perfect; everyone said so.” She brushes her fingers under my sleeve, petting the black swirl near my bicep.
I grab her hand and push it against her side. “You have one agenda: marry, make babies, and retire before thirty. That’s not mine.”
“It might be.” She smooths her finger over her glossed lips. “Our parents readied us for a future on the plantation. We were supposed to move into the GQ and add a third story, remember? Your dad’s business was to be our future. His office, our family home.”
Her eyes beg me to give in, to remember. And I remember everything. How I loathed the thought of turning into my dad—all business and no fun. How the thought of waking up every day beside a woman who drained my energy just by being in the room stuck a sharp tack in my heart, deflating my dream of working in quiet stillness. Where bringing detailed focus to the apparently normal through my camera lens was a petty hobby she hoped would pass. I loved the plantation, but Annabeth took away its appeal. Her bigheaded ideals, the changes she wanted to make, none of them kept with the history. She doesn’t belong in Lucas Hill; I barely do.
Settling for the girl who n
ever supported my ideas to begin with won’t fix anything. Neither will taking over the family business.
“What do I do for a living?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You take pictures, try to sell them. Move a lot?”
I spit out a disgusted sigh. “Yeah, and you can live with that?”
“That was a hobby. I can help you find your feet again. We can do this together. We can be a family.” Her eyes play with me. Like a kitten who won’t get the message to leave a lion the fuck alone.
“I’ll ask again, Annabeth. What do I do?”
Her lips pop open. She bites her lip and her forehead creases. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Why did I leave?”
“It was a rough time. You lost your dad.”
“That’s not why.”
“You were upset. We all were.”
She’s got it all fucking wrong. If she knew me at all, she’d have guessed the truth. She practically lived here that summer. Observed firsthand how my family disintegrated like a felled tree into sawdust—Mom’s depression eating us like termites.
Cassidy gets me, figured me out faster than the people who were supposed to know me best. She saw me clam up in front of my family, knew I was giving them a punching bag, hoping they’d beat the shit out of me with their hate, get it out so we could forgive, forget, and move on. She calls me on my bullshit. She’s familiar with it because she’s lived it. That’s what I need. Someone who gives a fuck. Annabeth will never be my someone.
“Tell me something. Get the answer right and I’ll walk that way”—I point over my shoulder toward the dance floor—“with you. Get it wrong and you’re taking a hike on your own.”
She nods. “Anything, Quinn. I’ll answer anything.”
“My tattoos. What are they?”
Her eyes drift to my arm. She pushes up my sleeve and traces the vine. “Besides barbed wire and thorns? Maybe a drunk night at a bar? A lost bet. Maybe an attempt at recklessness, but you were never good at reckless. I say you’re telling a story, telling the world—most of all your mom—how she suffocated you like thorny wire and left you to deal with your sisters. So maybe . . . revenge? But you escaped; these were for naught.” She shakes her head and rolls my sleeve down. “At least you can cover them at events like these.”
