“Black lace. Floor length and sleeveless.”
“Nice. You bought shoes for it yet?”
She laughed. “I assume that means you’ve noticed my shoe obsession.”
“I have.” His eyes sparkled in the last remainders of daylight streaming in through his windows. “What’s the deal with that?”
“My shoe fetish?”
He grunted. “Don’t say fetish.”
Cassie slipped her fingers beneath his lapels. God, she’d miss this flirting when their understanding came to an end—the brief, passing company of this delicious and powerful man.
“I’ll never be a size two, but shoes I will always fit into. And they make me feel sexy and confident.”
“You’re confident and sexy regardless of what’s on your feet.” He skimmed his nose along her neck. “What’s your shoe size?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Why do you think?”
She slipped backward. She should’ve said no—she wasn’t comfortable with him buying her anything more than the hotel room she’d agreed to—but she couldn’t stop herself. “I hope you’re not planning on buying me glass slippers, my friend. I’m no Cinderella.”
“And I’m no Prince Charming. But I like fucking you in fancy shoes.”
“That’s a deal I can’t pass up.” Cassie kissed him. “Size seven. See you later tonight.”
23
The day before Thanksgiving, Cassie was on a late-night flight to Miami with Patrick.
It had been a stressful couple of days at work, but it looked like Grant Books was going to come out on top. A new investor had finally come on—a CEO of a private equity fund with a share in a new e-book publishing software platform, one Hudson would use as part of the deal. The investor was also interested in finding new representation, and had his eye on Forrester, Schaeffer and Pierce.
It was the trifecta of deals, an exchange of handshakes that would make everyone happy. She had a meeting bright and early Monday morning putting everything into motion, but for now she could leave it all behind her.
She glanced out the window as they hit cruising altitude and the glittering New England coast faded away in the darkness. “I’m amazed you were able to get a seat on this flight.”
“And that I was able to bump us to first class?”
“That too.”
She’d never flown first class before. She would’ve felt bad about it, but fuck it. She had a blanket on her lap, and legroom for miles, and she was going to enjoy it.
“Coming down was easy,” he said. “Coming back I can’t do, since someone wouldn’t change her return flight and everything else was booked.”
“I told you, I can’t take a redeye. I need to be rested for that meeting.”
“And that’s why I’ll need to take a later flight home, you silly pain in the ass.” He grinned and went back to the newspaper he’d been reading. “It’s fine. It’s not like I won’t be seeing you when we get back anyway.”
That was far more comforting than it should’ve been. “What did you tell your mother?”
“About Thanksgiving?”
Cassie nodded. She’d found it strange that he wasn’t expected to spend the holiday with her, regardless of the state of their relationship.
“I said I wanted some warm weather, and that I was going out of town with a woman.”
Her heart seized. “How’d she react to that?”
“With mild interest. I’ve never done that before.”
“Never?” He shook his head. Cue more seizing. “Well, I’ve never taken anyone home with me, so be prepared. I’m sure everyone is eager to crawl up your butt with questions.”
He leaned in, eyes sparkling. “There’s only one butt I’m interested in.”
A rush went through her, excitement and relaxation combined. It was as if he had magical powers, because she always felt better when he was around. He made everything seem lighter and easier to manage. She’d thought about sharing her ob-gyn’s diagnosis, thinking he could probably help her work out her feelings on it, but it wasn’t something she felt like talking about now. For the moment, she didn’t want to overthink or plan. No strategizing and measuring. She wanted to enjoy his company, and the four days of eighty-degree weather.
By the time they touched down, it was close to midnight. A buzzed kind of exhaustion and airport coffee kept her awake as Patrick secured their rental car. Stepping outside for a moment, Cassie stood with her suitcases and closed her eyes, basking in the warm, breezy weather of southern Florida in the fall.
She’d missed it here.
She dozed on the drive—he’d rented something sleek and expensive that suited Miami perfectly—and when Patrick nudged her awake, they were turning off the palm tree-lined streets of South Beach, passing cool white buildings lit with colorful lights and into the roundabout entrance of the Ritz Carlton Bal Harbour.
“You did not,” she muttered.
“Surprise.” He shrugged with that irresistible boyish charm Cassie had first hated, then adored. “Told you I was going to spoil you.”
She was too tired to argue. And part of her wanted to be spoiled by him. They parked, and a glittering fountain two stories high and a team of valets greeted them. The hotel lobby was as lush and extravagant as the outside promised, as was the suite he’d booked.
“This is almost like being in your apartment,” she said. “Aside from the curtains.”
With huge windows adorned with sweeping white drapes, its own private balcony overlooking the ocean, and a bathroom the size of her living room, this was luxury at its finest. Patrick came up behind her, his thick arms surrounding her, facial hair offering a bristly tickle to the back of her neck.
“Curtains can be opened, but I might keep them shut. Make sure no one but me sees all the ways I’m going to defile you in here.”
Pinpricks sparked along her skin. Cassie shuddered despite her fatigue. When his hands found her hips, she turned around in his arms.
“No condoms, right?” His voice was gravelly with the question.
“Right.” She reached up and threaded her fingers into his hair. “When’s the last time you did it without?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“Not once.” The flush of excitement was clear on his cheeks. “You?”
“Same.” None of her relationships had lasted long enough to warrant it.
“Well then. We’re both virgins tonight.” He walked her to the bed, yanking clothes off them as they went. “I’m warning you, I may not last long.”
Neither of them did. The feeling of contact, of bare, hot skin against skin was so intense Cassie didn’t need the fantasy of danger or a fight. The sex was quick and dirty, and Patrick’s groans and hard thrusts jerked the climax straight from her.
She dropped off to sleep in the king-sized bed with a smile.
* * *
The next morning, they ordered room service, which Cassie waited for while lounging in the bed and watching Patrick’s morning push-up routine. After eating a delicious breakfast, they ventured into the sunlight. As they waited for the valet to bring the car, Cassie stretched her arms out, smiling at the sky. They didn’t need to be at her parents’ house until later, and she was grateful for the alone time together.
“Are we starting my official Miami tour?” he asked.
“Yes, and we need to find you something to wear for the rehearsal dinner before the stores close.”
“I still don’t understand why you vetoed my suit.”
She flipped open the sunroof and grinned. “Your tux is fine for the wedding, but you’re going to want something more casual for tomorrow. Besides, you’ll need to match me in my guayabera dress.”
“Remind me what that is again?”
“It’s traditional Cuban formal wear—short, and kind of see-through.”
“I like it already.”
As they drove down Collins Avenue, Cassie was able to get a passing gli
“I want to check out that shore-side patio restaurant,” she said.
“We’re having brunch there tomorrow. It was supposed to be a surprise.” A devilish smile turned up the corners of his lips. “I also have a few other surprises for you.”
“The shoes?”
“Maybe.”
“But that’s not a surprise.”
“Who said that was my only one?” He popped on a pair of shades. “And my surprises aren’t all PG-13.”
Cassie winged her legs open, craving contact. She’d worn a short, flouncy sundress, and Patrick’s hand found a home above her knee. Once they’d made their way over the Causeway and through the brightly painted walls of Wynwood, she directed him down a side street and to a parking lot.
“Welcome to Calle Ocho, the main drag of Little Havana.”
Dade County, Florida was the exile capital, a glittering refugee camp with over a sixty percent Cuban population, and this spot was the center of all of it. It was a place where Cubans and other Latinos attempted to recreate a world that no longer existed but came alive for a small strip of shops, art galleries and restaurants.
Patrick took her hand and curled his fingers around it as they meandered down the street. Hispanic culture permeated everything, from the colorful murals to the pulsating beats of traditional music to the rich aroma of Cuban coffee. When they came upon one of the many life-sized painted rooster statues dotting the avenue, Patrick stopped walking and looked at it with curiosity.
“Okay, explain the roosters to me.”
Cassie had to drag her eyes away from the cut of his forearms. He’d worn a dark, short-sleeved polo, and his well-hewn muscles stood out in stark contrast against it, as much a work of art as the sculpture before them.
Why had she agreed to give him this tour? They could’ve stayed in bed.
“Roosters are an important symbol in Cuban culture. They represent strength. Local artists were commissioned to paint them. They’re all over the city.”
Pulling her close, he murmured, “Now I get why you like it here—all the cock.”
She laughed, then led him into a touristy shop on the corner. He reached for a T-shirt and read what was on it. “‘How To Keep Your Cubanita Wife Happy: Tell Her She Is Always Right.’”
“It’s the truth.” Cassie grinned and reached for another one. “‘Made in America with Cuban Parts.’ Oh, look. It’s me.”
“No.” He held up one with a drawing of a woman bent over in fishnets and heels. “This one is.”
Cassie dissolved into giggles. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun over something so silly. She handed him a magnet that read, “Keep Calm and Don’t Piss Off a Cuban Girl.”
“I think you need that,” she said.
He shook his head and put it down. “I already know it.”
They went through an art gallery, stopped at one of the street-side windows for tiny shots of strong espresso before going into a shop filled with linen tops and short-brimmed panama hats. Cassie picked out a classic look for him—a black, short-sleeved, pleated shirt and matching, pinch front hat with a white sash. Then they were back on the street and at the entrance to Maximo Gomez Park.
“This is where the locals gather to play dominoes,” she explained as they stopped to watch. The tables were full of senior citizens hunched over their games, the movements of their dominoes as fast as their Spanish. “It’s become a bit of a tradition. These people are serious business about their games. There’s rules and everything.”
“Did your grandfather teach you here?”
“No, we did that at home.” But the click-clack noises and the conversations about politics reminded her of him. As did the smoky-sweet scent of cigars, puffed on by men and women alike. “But the smell makes me feel like he’s here, now.”
Cassie let the aroma wash over her, grief mixing with comfort.
Patrick kissed her cheek. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
They returned to the hotel, and when they arrived at their room, he handed her an envelope. “Surprise number one. You’re getting a massage at the hotel spa.”
She started to protest, but accepted it at the hint of warning in his eyes.
“Good. Now, on to surprise number two.”
He went to his suitcase and retrieved a shoebox. It had a name on it that despite Cassie’s love for heels, she’d never been able to purchase. Her hands trembling, she flipped open the top. Her breath caught at the black patent-leather heels and signature red soles.
“I can’t accept these.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” Because they had to have cost half her mortgage payment. It was too extravagant.
“Because you think it’s some kind of charity?” He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s a gift, Cassie. And an entirely selfish one, because I can’t wait to see them on you. And do other things with them on you.”
She flushed, then ran a finger over the elegant craftsmanship. The peep-toe, five-inch sandals were embellished with black bows and were made of a sheer mesh that created the illusion of lace. “I’ve never worn Christian Louboutins before.”
“Well now you will.” His voice was quiet. Soft. Not at all how he sounded when he was demanding and rough in bed. “Do you like them?”
“I love them.”
“And will they match your dress?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good. Then they’re yours. Now get your butt down to that spa.”
Once she’d stretched out on a heated massage bed, Cassie wondered if this was how it would be all the time, if she were with him for real. Pinching her eyes shut, she pushed the thought from her mind. This was never going to be real. It was sex, nothing more. She’d never wanted to be Cinderella, and he wasn’t her real-life prince. He was her momentary man. Her make-believe boyfriend. So this line of thinking needed to stop right the hell now.
By the time they got to her parents’ house, she’d almost gotten her head on straight.
“I hope you’re ready for this.” Halfway down the walkway, and Cassie could already hear her family’s raucous voices coming from inside.
His brows lifted in amusement. “Now I get why you always sound angry.”
She shrugged. “We’re not yelling. We’re Cuban.”
The second they entered, a shouted chorus of greetings in both Spanish and English started. Elísa practically tackled her, then kissed Patrick’s cheek and led them both into the kitchen. Cassie was swept into her mother’s boisterous hug, followed by her father’s gentler embrace, then ones from her niece, nephew, brother and future brother-in-law. As Patrick received the same welcome, Cassie took a minute to stand back and take it all in.
The decor hadn’t changed a bit over the years. Warm orange walls were decorated with plates and artwork, upside-down wine bottles were broken open and used as hanging lights. The stereo in the background was booming with the heavy tinges of salsa, and on the stove, spicy and savory foods simmered in a myriad of pots and pans. But her father’s Miami Dolphins memorabilia was present too—a framed, signed jersey that he always said was the first thing he’d grab if the house was on fire, and the giant jar of peanuts he loved to snack on while watching games was stashed in its usual spot on top of the fridge. It was everything her apartment in Boston wasn’t—wild, colorful. Cuban and American.
Home.
“So, Patrick,” her mother said. “We haven’t heard how you and Cassandra met.”
Cassie cringed. Let the inquisition begin.
“Through mutual friends, actually,” he replied.
“When did you meet?”
“The beginning of the year. January.”
“January! Why are we meeting you now?”
“Because I couldn’t stand him at first,” Cassie said.
Elísa laughed. “That should���ve been a sign for you, Patrick. Cassie never does anything easily.”
“I’ve picked up on that.”
Cassie made a face of exasperation at him. “You couldn’t stand me either.”
Her mother gave him a playful, accusing look. “Is that true, Patrick?”
Patrick’s gaze met Cassie’s. “A little. We butted heads a bit at the start—”
“More than a bit,” she interrupted.
“—but then one night, everything changed. And I realized what an amazing woman was behind that spitfire attitude.”
A floating sensation flooded Cassie’s chest, a bubble of hope that she hid behind a smile.
Mr. Allbright pointed to his wife. “She gets the spitfire attitude from her mother.”
They all went into the dining room, each carrying a plate of food.
“Welcome to a Cuban Sanksgiving,” Cassie told Patrick. “Dinner will be masas de puerco, ropa vieja, and arroz con frijoles.”
He worked through the translation. “Fried pork chunks, shredded beef, and rice and beans.”
“Well done. And flan for dessert.” She stared at the plates and sighed. “I’m gonna gain ten pounds on this trip.”
Patrick nudged her shoulder and winked. “I’ll work it all off you.”
Cassie tried to hide her shudder. They sat down to eat, and she watched in amazement as he fit in beautifully, easily switching from English to Spanish. Her brother winked at her from across the table, and it came up like a wave that knocked her down—how much she’d missed all this. When it was time for dessert, she and her sister cleared the table while Patrick was dragged into the living room by the kids to play a game of dominoes.
“He’s perfect,” Elísa said. “Anglo like Dad, but completely fluent. You’ve gotta keep this guy.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”
She couldn’t keep him—that wasn’t the deal. She’d known all along this was going to end. That she was going to have to watch him return to his normal behavior, luring other women into the bed she’d spent so many nights in.
The idea made her sick.
Her sister leaned in by her as Cassie stared across the kitchen to the couches where Patrick sat, laughing with Annalisa and Antonio. “No way, Cass. You’re gonna marry that guy. I know it.”
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