Chapter Seventeen
Cassidy
Wow, his hands.
I know it’s criminally weird to make him do this, but my body doesn’t care. My muscles hum with relief. My head still hurts, but it’s subsiding at his touch.
But a different kind of ache crops up in other parts of my body the longer his hands are on me. The less pain I’m in, the more the rest of my body stirs. It’s as though he’s diverted all the blood from my head lower, lower, lower.
I wriggle uncomfortably, trying to shake off the sensations. It’s been such a long time since anyone has touched me. It has nothing to do with Luke. Or the sound of his voice in my ear.
Even if the image of him dressed as a hot, happy Doctor Who nerd did lodge itself in my brain. Even if I have the strong urge to lean into him, press my back to his chest to feel his heat.
A hot flush of embarrassment renders my skin a permanent blush.
Enough of these thoughts.
Though they aren’t thoughts. Not fully fledged ones.
Just cravings.
My brain is babbling. That must be where my mouth gets it from.
“Tell me more about the wedding,” he murmurs. The coarseness of his voice sends goose bumps skating down my back like he’s just said something filthy. “Themed? Big? Small? Destination?”
“It’ll be the event to end all events at the Bel Air Bay Club. Killer views for an outdoor ceremony, gorgeous ballroom. Four-course dinner, a release of doves, all that crap. Palate-cleansing sorbets, the groomsmen are wearing Gucci. It’s going to be ridiculous. When it comes to my sister, everything is bests, mosts, and firsts.”
“Firsts. So she’s older?”
“She sure is.”
“You two must get along well, since you’re her maid of honor.”
A hundred flashbulb images of my and Isabelle’s past flit through my mind, a blur of laughter, secrets, and movie marathons. “Isabelle is pretty cool. Everyone loves her.”
He makes his favorite sound, a noncommittal hum.
“Her wedding will be fun. I didn’t mean to imply I’m not excited. Even though it’s Gucci and doves.”
He slides his thumb lower on my back, isolating a new knot. He pushes hard. An inhuman noise leaves my mouth.
An actual moan.
“Sorry, you— That feels good,” I blurt. “Your hands are good.”
As if the moan didn’t adequately explain it. If there was an edit–undo command in conversation, I would smash it so hard right now. My skin, already hot, grows a thousand times hotter.
“You didn’t,” he says carefully, “imply you aren’t excited. And who wouldn’t be, with Gucci and doves? Hallmarks of a great wedding.”
I gobble up his words, grateful for the diversion. “I’m stressed about going home, in case that isn’t obvious.”
“Not a big fan of events?”
“Not a big fan of home. Not because of my sister—it’s my mom. She thinks every single thing I do is a mistake, everything I love is pointless, and my life is ‘meandering.’” I wince at my own admission. “Sorry, that was TMI.”
My eyes fly open, and I find him in the mirror, staring back at me. A different kind of knot coils itself in my body. This one in my chest.
“Not too much information.” He breaks eye contact, peering down at his hands. “Keep talking.”
“She told me to come to California last week to help with the wedding, but I knew that was her way of getting early access so she’d have time to properly dissect me before the festivities began. My job, my weight, my life in Asheville—whatever crumbs I drop, she uses. She told me she’d pay for my flight, which was a test to see if I needed her to. When I rejected the offer, she went after my ‘track record of crappy choices.’”
“Choices?” he asks gruffly.
It’s a palpable relief, getting all this out. Or maybe that sensation comes from the way he’s now working the tight space between my shoulder blades. “She’s been extra mad lately because I won’t take her up on her offer to pay for an MBA or law school, so it’s all fuel for her. I didn’t even want to finish undergrad, and only graduated by the skin of my teeth, motivated by the fear I’d spend the rest of my life hearing about it from her.”
“I’m hearing you don’t want to go back to school.”
“Never. School has always been Isabelle’s thing. And I’d never want my mom to pay for it, even if I were to pursue something. But she doesn’t get it.”
“You want to do things on your own. Your way. Without hearing about why they’re right or wrong.”
“Yes.” My heart stutters. “That’s exactly it.”
His hands slow to a stop, lingering on my back. My breath catches at the feel of his rough palms as they slide once more over my skin, not massaging.
Just…touching.
They drift lower, landing above my elbows, before returning to my shoulders. The ache I thought was under control explodes everywhere in my body all at once.
No. This is not an attraction.
His fingers skate up my neck.
The man goes out of his way to point out how Something Else you are at every opportunity. If you were attracted, it would be one-sided.
“Did it help your headache?” He traces the hairline at the nape of my neck, shooting sparks across my skin. My head tips back involuntarily, seeking pressure. “Should I keep going?”
He is so far away from your type that your type wouldn’t be able to find him with a pre-programmed GPS. Because your type is…
What the heck is my type, again?
“I should—” I push to a stand, and my body immediately cries at the lack of contact.
He moves to the edge of the bed just as I turn to face him. I nearly smack him in the face with my chest. Electricity skitters down my spine as the inside of his legs brush the outsides of mine. He looks up at me, eyes searching. I’m gripped by the urge to run my hands through his hair and guide his face to the hollow of my throat. I want to feel the warmth of his breath on my skin.
“—set an alarm,” I whisper.
“You should set an alarm,” he echoes, his gaze fixed firmly on my face. Not once does it drop to my chest or lower.
Decidedly not his type.
“Thank you. For helping.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” he says in a rush, shifting positions.
I arch a brow as I take a step back. “You just did me a huge favor. I’m going to thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Cassidy.”
“It’s something. It’s five minutes of your life you’ll never get back, all to make me feel better.”
He leans his elbows on his thighs and glances at the television. “I would’ve done it for anyone.”
Dismissive. That’s the only way to describe his tone.
I swallow down a potent cocktail of vindication and embarrassment. It was because I was a person in crisis that he touched me like that. He would’ve done it for anyone suffering. His hands on me were the equivalent of a gifted blue slushie.
Touching me, in particular, didn’t light his body on fire the way it did mine.
“Right.” I smile the biggest fake smile anyone has ever fake-smiled. “Of course you would.”
…
When I return from the bathroom after brushing my hair and teeth, Luke is passed out on his back in the middle of my bed.
Not quite the middle. He’s not the diameter of the circle.
I shake my head. Math is as stupid as a circular bed. He’s taking up space is my point. His shirt is half untucked, and his shoes are still on.
With a heavy sigh for no one’s benefit but my own, I approach. This is my clamshell, and I intend to sleep in it. But not next to his shoes.
Setting to work as the theme song to Match Game ’76 provides a background score, I gently pull his shoes off his feet. The first one gives me no trouble, but the second hitches on the way off.
Luke stirs, and I freeze.
His hand moves over his face and stalls on his glasses. He grumbles something completely nonsensical, a string of sleep-addled sounds.
I crawl toward him and remove the glasses from his face and place them on the tiny alabaster end table.
He rolls to his side. His word is a whisper. “Mom.”
“Um…not your mom,” I whisper back, my nose wrinkling in confusion.
His eyes are screwed shut, and his mouth is gently parted like he’s sleeping.
“That’s why I’m going home,” he mumbles. He moves his hand beneath his cheek and exhales for a long beat.
I lie down beside him, leaving as much room between us as the bed allows. “Are you awake?”
No answer.
A sad laugh withers up and dies in my chest. I think I just got more personal information out of an unconscious Luke than I ever have a waking one.
His face is perfectly relaxed, such is the nature of sleep. I map the length of his golden lashes, trace the shape of his eyes. His lips.
I stare at him for so long, thoughts drifting, I have to force myself to roll onto my other side.
The last thing I need is to fall asleep thinking about him. My subconscious doesn’t need the fuel.