Chapter Eighteen
Luke
A laugh track bleeds into my dream, stirring me from sleep.
I’m sweaty and leaden, my heart racing. One by one, limbs come into my awareness.
My chest pressed against her back.
Our legs, threaded.
My face nuzzled in the crown of her head.
My arm draped over her. She’s so goddamn warm.
The television laugh track sounds again, snapping me from a haze. I lift my head an inch and get an eyeful of red hair.
Shit.
I passed out. Cassidy did, too, apparently. We must’ve rolled into each other, and our bodies notched together because that’s just how bodies fit.
I start to separate from her and she stirs, wriggling against me. I hold my breath and wait for her to settle.
Painstakingly careful so as not to jostle her, I ease my body backward. My heartbeat is so powerful I wouldn’t be surprised if she still felt it from a foot away. I glance at the clock. Just shy of midnight.
Uncomfortably alert, I force myself to stare at the ceiling and attempt to calm the racing in my chest by reminding myself it’s Cassidy I was touching, a woman who I’m fairly sure gets off on pressing my buttons, who I will never see again after this trip.
Gets off may not be the smartest term for me to be thinking right now.
I don’t need to think of Cassidy getting off, even metaphorically. Though the sounds she made when I was rubbing her headache away have taken residence in my brain and infiltrated my dreams. I bet that’s only a glimpse into the sounds she’d make if I touched her everywhere. She’s so vocal at baseline, I can’t even imagine—
I won’t imagine.
Frustration claws its way through my body, squeezing my bones. I fell asleep hard, woke up hard, and this is not the way to solve that problem.
It’s just Cassidy. She dances in public, gives absolutely not one fuck about a plan for her life, and wears every errant emotion on her sleeve like a badge of honor. Completely consumed by whatever moment she’s living in, with whoever she’s living it with.
She is sea shanties in a retro diner. She is this over-the-top motel room that could very well be a perfect replica of her bedroom at home and I wouldn’t be surprised in the least. Those jellyfish in the wall remind me of her, floating along, completely unencumbered.
Unburdened.
I’ve never related to anyone less in my entire life.
And yet, goddamn it, I do the thing I shouldn’t do and turn on my side to face her.
Fuck, she’s just as pretty when she’s sleeping as she is when she’s awake. Her hair, let loose from its earlier bun, looks as smooth as I bet it would feel if I touched it. I roll my eyes as the phrase fire mop turns over in my brain, the way Cassidy had described dyeing it with Sharpie ink back at the diner. Who would think to try that on hair this nice?
Cassidy. That’s who.
She rolls onto her back, as though she somehow felt me looking and wanted to give me a proper view. Her mouth steals my attention. I stall there, my gaze tracing the shape. There is no excuse for the way those lips affect me, just the cold hard truth of it: her mouth does it for me in a way not much else ever has. It unlocks a special interest I didn’t know I possessed. I want to pinch her lips between my fingers to see if they’re as soft and supple as they look. A part of me wants to test them with my teeth.
But that’s not the only special interest I have, apparently. In the past, when Will would say such poetic things as “I’m a boobs guy,” I never understood why the fuck that needed specifying. Who doesn’t like boobs? Seems like a foregone conclusion.
And then I saw Cassidy’s ass in yoga pants. Dance does incredible things to the human body. I now understand the primal need to announce your allegiance to a part.
Enough dwelling. She’s a pretty, sometimes infuriating woman, and if I don’t stop thinking about her, I’m going to do something stupid, like entertain ideas.
I don’t need ideas.
And I really don’t need this panic in my chest when I look at her. This sand-slipping-through-an-hourglass sensation that makes me feel unbalanced.
Touching her was a bad idea. Not that there was a chance in hell I’d have let her sit there in pain. But now she thinks I’m nicer than I am for claiming I’d do this for anyone.
I wouldn’t. For most people, I would’ve walked the streets and tracked down Tylenol, or at least tried harder to find another option before jumping at the chance to touch them.
I couldn’t let her know how much I wanted to do it for her because it screws with my tired brain. The whole thing is a non-starter. Relationships aren’t part of my reality.
Cassidy will not be a part of my reality after this trip.
And I won’t examine why that stings or why staring at her while she sleeps fills me with a sense of longing I’ve never felt, because none of my life circumstances are changing, and wishing things were different gets me nowhere.
I can’t have what other people have. I’ve tried and failed.
No woman will ever settle for being third to your family and job. They want to be your priority.
And when you can’t give them everything, apparently they have no choice but to fuck your coworker in your bed.
Cassidy’s eyes flutter open, and our gazes tangle. My stomach plummets, as though I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
She jolts upright and wipes her eye with the heel of her hand. “S’matter?”
“Just got back from the bathroom,” I lie. “The movement in the bed must’ve woken you.”
“The movement,” she repeats. A few seconds stutter by before understanding dawns on her face. Her cheeks tinge pink as the low light of the television flickers over her skin. “Sorry if I rolled too close.”
Something twists inside of me. She has no idea how close we truly were. “Please, I passed out in your bed. I’m the sorry one.”
She moves onto her side, hugging her pillow. Facing away from me.
I mentally commit to tracking down some sheets for the pull-out.
But first, I take the coldest shower of my life.