by Remy Rose
Then a female voice, anxious and apologetic. “Oh! I'm so—”
Turning toward the person, I feel my breath catch in my throat when I see who it is.
Cassandra stares at me, her eyes round with disbelief and mouth slightly open as she takes a step back. She has a sky blue headband in her hair which matches the color of her sweater. The material looks soft and thin, clinging to the swell of her breasts. God. I allow myself the slightest of exhales as my gaze travels down the curve of her hips. She’s in jeans and clogs with a generous heel, giving her the illusion of height. The young-girl effect of that headband, with her hair pulled away from her face and falling down her shoulders, is completely captivating.
And I’m completely lost.
My eyes search hers, and it hits me that she’s struggling with what she feels in this moment. I see surprised pleasure, innocence and a flicker of want in those beautiful blue-green eyes...and I see a flash of pain.
It seems like time has stopped and this moment is hanging between us. I’m totally oblivious to any sound or movement—aware of nothing except Cassandra standing in front of me—and then she breaks eye contact, and Olivia’s talking in my ear.
“Carlo?” Liv’s voice is upbeat, but just in saying my name, I know she wants answers. Why are you just standing here? And who the fuck is this girl?
“You two obviously know each other.” Olivia smiles and looks expectantly at me.
I quickly pull myself together. “We do. This is Cassandra Larsen. She—” How to introduce her? “She's an employee at my horse stable.”
Cassandra blinks, and a coolness pools in her eyes as she extends her hand to Olivia and smiles sweetly. “Yes. I basically deal with Mr. Leone's shit.”
Ouch. But I know I deserve it.
Olivia laughs as she takes Cassandra's hand. “She's feisty—I like her. Hang on to this one, Carlo.”
“I plan to.” Cassandra won’t look at me, but I can feel Liv's eyes on me. “Olivia Malstrom is the new district manager for one of my suppliers,” I continue. “She's here on business but wanted to see what the Manheim area nightlife was like.”
“I'm sure you'll give her a wonderful experience.” Cassandra smiles again at Olivia. “I hope you enjoy your stay. Nice to meet you. If you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to the restroom.”
After Cassandra walks away, Liv raises an eyebrow. “Stable employee, hmm? Sounds like some unfinished business there.”
“Let's go grab that table before someone else does.” I lead Liv to the other end of the pub, help take off her coat and pull out a chair for her as I wonder where Cassandra is sitting. Part of me wants her nearby so I can look at her, but I know it would be less stressful for both of us if she was in another part of the restaurant.
Liv orders banana bread ale, and I get a Guinness Irish Stout. With the way the night’s started out, I could use a few of them, but I won’t...have to stay on top of my game where Liv is concerned.
As I’m opening the menu, I see Cassandra across the room. She’s walking with her head held high, careful not to look in my direction, and takes a seat at a table in the center of the pub. There are three other people: a petite blonde leaning her head on the shoulder of a bearded, dark-haired man, and a rugged-looking guy with brown hair and a plaid shirt, raising a frosted mug of beer and grinning at Cassandra as she slides in beside him.
Jesus. Is she on a fucking double-date?
My jaw tightens. Rationally, I know I have no claim to her, and I always thought that someone as beautiful as Cassandra would have men lining up to date her. But thinking this and seeing the reality a few tables away are two different things. Our situation is already complicated; the addition of a romantic interest for her makes it even worse.
And the thought of someone else touching her...
“Hey. Carlo.” Liv is poking me. “Allied Packing would like to know if Miller Valve wants an appetizer.”
I force a smile and tear my gaze away from Cassandra's table. “Sure. You decide.”
“A bit preoccupied, are we?”
“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude.”
“You're not being rude. Do you want to talk about anything? I'm here for you—in several ways.” She winks, her dark eyes sparkling as she puts her hand on my leg under the table.
“My stable employee is not the only woman I know who's feisty.”
“I'm a female in a very penis-populated business, remember? I've learned how to stay on top.” Another wink. “So to speak.”
“I can see that.”
“But seriously—if you want to talk about anything, I'm a very good listener.”
The waiter brings over our beers. Liv opens her menu and asks him about an appetizer. While they’re talking, I can’t resist looking again at Cassandra. She’s smiling as she listens to her presumed date who seems to be telling a story to their table. The blonde girl and her date are also listening to him, and the three of them suddenly burst out laughing.
My guts are churning. It’s completely fucking wrong for me to feel jealous that she’s happy. But as selfish as it sounds...I want her to be happy with me.
Olivia decides on an appetizer, and the waiter leaves. Thankfully, Liv didn’t notice me looking at Cassandra. I start a conversation about Gianna’s spring wedding, and Olivia tells me about her older brother who’s a professor at U-Conn. Safe topics.
The waiter comes back to our table, a glass of beer on his tray. “For you, sir.”
“Thanks, but I didn't order this.”
“That young woman with the red hair did. She wanted me to be sure to tell you the name of the ale.” He pauses, flashing me a nervous smile as he sets down a cocktail napkin and the mug. “It's an...Arrogant Bastard.”
Christ. Larsen 1, Leone, zero.
Olivia covers her mouth to stifle a laugh and then leans in toward me. “What the hell did you do to piss her off? Can you at least tell me that? Let me guess...you broke up with her.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Liv. Let's just say I fucked up, and I deserve what she gives me.”
“All right. I won't keep hounding you. We've all been there—regret will eat your soul, Carlo. I hope you can move on.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
The Flirtini Liv drinks with dinner makes her even more giggly and forward—and true to its name, flirty. She can’t seem to keep her hands off me, and since I’m buzzed as well, I find it more amusing than annoying. Sneaking glances at Cassandra, I notice that she’s also apparently feeling the effects of her drinks. I can hear laughter from their table, and Cassandra seems to be leaning in closer to the guy next to her, even twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she talks to him. Definitely flirting, and the way she’s smiling at him...
Now she’s getting up from her chair, flipping her hair off her shoulders and heading in the direction of the restroom. I watch as she turns the corner, wait a minute and then tell Liv I’m going to use the men’s room.
She swirls a French fry in ketchup and nods. “Okay. I’ll need to visit the little girls' room myself before too long.”
I walk to the back of the pub, glancing over at Cassandra's table. The blonde girl is looking at me like she knows something. For some reason, this gives me hope.
The men's and women's restrooms are down a short hallway. I lean against the wall and wait. The women's door opens, and Cassandra comes out, stopping in surprise when she sees me.
“What are you doing here?” Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright.
“I'd tell you I was here to use the bathroom, but that's only partly true.”
“Oh, so you're going to be honest.” Folding her arms and lifting her chin, she speaks in an even tone, although I can see her chest moving up and down like she’s breathing hard. “Does it feel weird? You know, to actually tell someone the truth?”
“I'm standing here because I wanted to see you. I’m ready to tell you the truth. But it's an impossibility if you won't let me talk to you.�
� I take a few steps toward her. She backs against the wall, and now I can see her trembling.
“What are you so afraid of, Cassandra?” God, how I want to take her in my arms, hold her tight. Not let go.
“I'm not afraid.”
“You're shaking.”
“It's just...it's stressing me out, you being so close.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because I don't want you near me.”
“Are you being honest with me?” I take a step closer as she draws herself up against the wall. To be only inches away from her and not touch her is fucking agony. “Because I feel like you really do want me near you—so much that it makes you tremble.”
She’s breathing even harder now, and I feel my own heart rate climbing. “Cassandra—let me come see you tomorrow. And we can talk. Please.”
Her eyes search mine almost helplessly, like she’s trying to find an answer she knows is deep inside them.
I feel like I’ve almost got her. “After you hear what I have to say, it might change the way you feel about me. But if not, then maybe it will give us some closure.” I pause. Total, raw honesty here. “I just can't keep going like this.”
These last words seem to have an effect on her—probably because she realizes that she can’t keep going like this, either.
A stocky, curly-haired man walks past us tentatively, flashing an anxious smile and keeping close to the opposite wall. Cassandra looks down at the floor and then back up at me. Her eyes are brimming with tears, and Jesus, again with the urge to wrap my arms around her.
“Can you promise me that if I say yes, you won't...” She exhales shakily, closing her eyes for a few seconds before speaking again. “You won't try anything? Meaning, you'll keep your distance and won't touch me in any way.”
Looking down at her now, seeing her beauty and that deep emotion simmering on the surface, I want to be able to promise her the world. But I made the commitment to be honest with her.
My eyes linger on her perfect mouth, and I’m fucking aching for her. “I can't promise you that I won’t,” I answer, smiling ruefully. “But I can promise that I'll try my best not to.”
I’m not sure what I see on her face. Gratitude, maybe, that I’m telling her the truth, and maybe a bit of relief.
I wait, and then come the words I’ve wanted to hear for months.
“All right. We can talk.”
chapter thirty ~ Cassandra
It was the alcohol. That must have been it. I drank too much last night, and that’s why I agreed to let Carlo come over when he basically cornered me outside the bathroom.
I won’t let myself believe I was swayed by his words, or the way his shoulders and chest looked in that charcoal-gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Or what I saw in his eyes. But whatever was the cause...he’ll be at my apartment in fifteen minutes.
I finish brushing my teeth and turn off the faucet, scrutinizing my image in the bathroom mirror. My face looks tense—the opposite of what I want to portray. It didn’t help that I had this entire Friday to freak out over this. Carlo texted me that he'd come over at 5:30, after work. So I found ways to keep busy: reading for my intro business class, which just started this week. Making an appointment to meet with my advisor at Wilson College. Cleaning my entire apartment and dusting the living room, which is where I’m determined Carlo and I will spend the entire visit: him on the couch, me in the armchair. I thought this through carefully; if I am on the couch, he could easily join me...but in the chair, it would be me alone, with no room for anyone else.
Kind of like a metaphor for my life right now.
In the far corners of my mind, I realize that thinking a chair can actually provide protection from Carlo Leone is lame as hell. But it makes me feel better.
I’ve applied and reapplied and re-reapplied deodorant and changed my outfit three times, hating myself for caring what I look like, because why should it matter? Yet it does. The high school girl in me wants to look so hot it will torture him, while the mature, sensible part of me wants to dress conservatively and show him that I didn’t put any real thought or effort into what I’m wearing.
Jesus, I’m seriously so fucked up.
I finally settle on a stretchy, mint-green boyfriend cardigan (oh, the irony) over a plain white cami and black yoga pants, and pull my hair back into a low, messy bun. No cleavage to be seen, and the sweater comes down below my ass, so he won’t be seeing any of that. Screw him.
Okay, so that really isn't the attitude I should have. This talk needs to be civil, respectful, and platonic. We are both reasonable adults. I have no idea what Carlo is planning to tell me, but I’ll listen, and respond. And maybe this will be the last time I’ll see him. This thought is honestly inconceivable. But finding closure—ending this—is my ultimate goal. Isn't it?
Ugh.
I leave the bathroom and go into the kitchen to light the sparkling cinnamon candle on the windowsill above the sink. My heart begins to hammer as I check the microwave clock. Ten minutes.
The skin on the back of my neck feels cold and prickly, and I scrunch up my shoulders to alleviate the sensation. I’ve been so jumpy lately. Driving home from my shift at Tucker's a few nights ago, I was followed by someone again. I couldn’t tell if it was the same car as before. I tried to tell myself that it most likely was not, and to stop being so goddamned paranoid. I took several turns down different side streets. The car followed. I made the decision again not to go to my apartment and instead pulled into the parking lot of the nearest convenience store, sitting in my car with the feeling of a thousand tarantulas crawling on my skin. My supposed stalker roared past, just like before, and just like before, I was unable to see the make of the car. After hearing about this, Teal suggested that I report it to the police, but I decided not to, because really, what would I say? It’s only happened a couple of times, the person hasn't actually done anything to me, and I have no further information to share. If it is Brock doing this shit, I wish he'd have the balls to meet me face to face, say what he wants to say and get it over with, although he seriously creeps me out.
It’s too quiet in here.
I can think of one thing that's missing.
Really. And what is that?
Music.
That was a deliberate choice. I want you to be completely focused. And I want to be able to hear every sound you make.
I shudder. God, that night. Tonight, though, things will be on my terms. There will be music.
I go to the small black boombox on the kitchen counter and click through the stations, deciding on soft country rock.
Which immediately reminds me of Josh. I enjoyed myself with him last night, despite the unexpected appearance of Carlo. Teal and Garrett had picked me up, and Josh met us at Bull Feeney's. He handled Teal's witty jabs like a pro, and it was like the four of us had known one another for years. After his second beer, he leaned in to me. “Don't get mad at me,” he said, his eyes earnest. “I really like your friends, but I keep having to make myself talk to them.”
I had wrinkled my brow at him in confusion, and he explained. “Because all I want to focus on is you.”
At that point, I was so flustered I had to excuse myself to use the bathroom. And then Carlo was there when I came out. God, my head was spinning and my heart was pounding, and I said yes to Carlo.
I check the microwave clock again. And the doorbell rings.
My heart is thudding wildly. He’s here.
This is a good thing, I tell myself soothingly. Teal wanted you to hear what he had to say. He needs closure. You need closure. This is a good thing.
Deep breath, clench and unclench fists. Another deep breath, chin up, and then open the door.
Carlo is standing on my doorstep in a black wool coat sprinkled with snow. The wind is ruffling his hair, snowflakes nestling in the tousled black waves, and he’s holding a bouquet of flowers—I can see the colors peeking out from their protective sleeve. And he’s smi
ling, as if he’s here to pick me up for a date.
“Hi—come in,” I manage, stepping aside.
“These are for you.” He hands me the bouquet, his smile broadening enough to show his dimple.
“You didn't have to do that. But thank you.” I look inside. Crimson Gerbera daisies—the same kind of flower at Gianna's engagement party—red tulips, scarlet amaryllis, and one white lily. One individual color, to stand out.
“Your mom,” I say quietly.
“No. You.” He’s still smiling, but there is intensity in his eyes, burning low, and I have to look away.
He hangs up his coat on a hook in the entryway and slips off his boots, leaving them on the doormat. He’s still dressed for work, wearing a crisp white shirt, dark blue pleated trousers and a navy necktie with gold flecks. Seeing him in socks makes him somehow less threatening.
I would be fine if I could just keep looking at his feet.
“Can I get you anything to drink before we sit down?”
“I'll take a water, please.”
Carrying the bouquet, I walk into the kitchen at the exact second I realize that Carlo will now have his choice of seating. I lay the flowers down on the counter and clench my fists in frustration. God damn, I’m already screwing this up. It’s too late now; I’ll have to deal with it.
I come into the living room with two bottles of water, giving an inner sigh of relief when I see that he took a seat on the couch. Maybe he’s expecting me to sit beside him. Handing him a water, I put my bottle on the end table and sit down in the flowery armchair across from him, holding a throw pillow in my lap. For safety.
He unscrews the cap and begins to drink. My insides clench as I watch his lips close around the opening of the bottle. Jesus. Socks. Look at his socks.
