Chapter Nine
Cassidy
I answer as soon as Luke’s out of earshot.
“Good Gracious, Cassidy. You’re stranded and renting a car?”
My jaw immediately clenches. A simple hello would have sufficed, but I brush past Mom’s attitude as I feed my credit card to the gas pump. “Good morning. How’d you know?”
“I woke up to a panicked text from poor Isabelle.”
Drunk Isabelle texted Mom. Great.
“Well, long story short—”
“Heaven forbid you spare a moment to give your mother the long story.”
“—we were flying and suddenly they announced a landing, and everyone was freaking out. Then we had to wait while they came up with a plan. And the plan was a flight out today, which was then canceled. Don’t worry, I’m handling it.” I shove the gas pump into the gas hole with unnecessary gusto.
“I knew that budget airline would fly you to an early grave. Didn’t I tell you not to fly Atlas? Are you still at the airport? Oh, you must be so anxious to get home.”
The edge in her tone suggests she’s far more anxious than I am. I’m on the road with Merrill Lynch’s long-lost son, Luke Lynch-Carlisle, and yet it’s the idea of home that fills me with dread. At least Luke is intermittently nice, when he’s not telling me to employ my filter.
I flinch like he’s pressing the bruise all over again.
Filter yourself.
Did that my whole life. I thought I’d be able to stop when I moved away and started fresh, but apparently not.
“Yes. Totally. Can’t wait to get home.” I force the words out through my teeth.
“So what’s the new plan?”
Mom is to plans what cats are to large, carpeted towers: obsessed. She wants every detail of everyone’s itineraries, at all times. The FBI should employ her for their more tedious people-tracking endeavors.
“I’m driving home from Missouri.”
Her laugh grates. “You can’t drive that far. That’s ridiculous. Is it too late to fly Delta?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered what airline I chose with the weather. And I’m already on the road, so what’s done is done.”
“Of course it matters. Other airlines aren’t making emergency landings. This is terrible timing for avoidable travel drama. We’re already in crisis mode over here.” I can hear her booting up her billion-dollar espresso machine she just had to have after her next-door neighbor Sylvia got one. “Isabelle is having a meltdown trying to take care of everything herself, and Mikael is too busy with work to help his bride-to-be. She was counting on you to do the final walk-through at the venue tomorrow while she’s at her dress fitting. I would do it myself, but I have to pick up Aunt Bea at LAX. Her walker won’t fit in any old Uber.”
I yank the pump out, and it dribbles gas on the ground. “I’m sorry. I’ll handle things from the road. I’ve got a phone.”
My first call will be to the nail salon to schedule appointments. Hopefully it’s not too late to get everyone in at once.
“You could drive to Kansas City and get on a plane. A major carrier, preferably.”
As if I have a thousand dollars to throw at a last-minute ticket. “I’m doing my best,” I mutter miserably. “It’s under control.”
Her exhale is eternal, floating through time and space, never beginning or ending. An infinite sigh.
She’d loan me the money—with strict repayment terms—but it’s not worth the crushing weight of defeat that follows. Accepting money from her is a mutual transaction: she hands me dollars; I hand her ammunition. It confirms to her that I don’t have an emergency budget or any sort of disposable income.
If plans are her cat towers, then stacked bank accounts are her catnip. Being a choreographer is my dream come true, but it doesn’t pay for a Francesca Bliss-worthy lifestyle. Which she only affords, I might note, with the money she married into when she tied the knot with my stepfather, “Riggety” Rand Hamilton, a pharmaceutical company executive who dresses and acts like an oil tycoon caricature. She’s always wanted me to choose a safer career with a clearer upward trajectory like Isabelle, newly minted MBA.
Even if I wanted to borrow money from her in a pinch, it’d end in a lecture. If you’d just change your life and dreams entirely, you could afford whatever you want, and wouldn’t it feel nice to be secure?
I hurry to fill the conversational lull while she undoubtedly restocks her supply of unhelpful suggestions. “Everything will get done. We’ve got plenty of time. Isabelle will be okay.”
Mom’s laugh is a bark. “Her maid of honor is stranded somewhere and your cousins are useless as bridesmaids. I’m not sure she’ll be as understanding as you’re imagining. Brides cannot be held responsible for their lack of logic. Your brain goes to mush until you walk down the aisle. You’ll see. Someday.”
I jot down a mental note to be as emotional as possible someday, and blame it on bridehood.
“I’ve got to go. I’m going to start driving,” I lie.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cassidy. You are a terrible driver. You can’t really think you’re going to make this whole trip by yourself?”
Air balloons in my lungs. One time, I rear-ended someone on my way home from high school. One. Time. Because they slammed on their breaks, and it’s L.A., a lawless traffic quagmire. Sure, I was only sixteen. But none of my mistakes are ever forgotten. “I’m making this drive. I’m twenty-six years old. I can handle myself.”
No need to clarify I’m not alone. Doesn’t change the fact that I am taking care of business. In my own way.
And how brave I am, to risk it all with a stranger who hates games. And probably most forms of joy.
“Let me know when you’ve changed your mind. Plenty of airports between here and there.”
I hit her with the tonal equivalent of finger guns. “Will do.”
“Take care, Cassidy.”
I lower the phone to my lap, exhaling properly for the first time in minutes. Nothing like the warm vocal embrace of Mommy Dearest’s “take care” to make a girl want to race home. Not for the first time, I wonder if I’ll have to pry an “I love you” out of her cold, dead, manicured hands.
As I throw myself back in the passenger’s seat, Luke emerges from the Love’s station. Several plastic bags dangle off his arms, and he clutches two large coffee cups. He steps sideways to hold open the door.
An older man with a giant blue slushie in one hand, a soda in the other, and a toddler nipping at his heels follows him out. The toddler darts underfoot, and the man stumbles. The slushie arcs through the air, raining blue ice all over the sidewalk. The cup lands on its side, shooting the rest of its contents on the concrete.
The kiddo’s face morphs into a portrait of pure agony.
Luke’s gaze darts between the poor toddler and the puddle. His mouth is moving, but I can’t read his lips from this distance.
He juggles our cups and the bags, freeing one of his hands to take the man’s soda. The man bends to tend to his sobbing child, who is now standing in the frozen remains of his treat.
Luke puts all three unspilled cups and his bags on top of the man’s Corolla—parked right in front of the store, luckily—and throws up a finger before running back inside.
A minute later, he re-emerges with a new blue slushie. He kneels in front of the kid and delivers it with the utmost reverence, both hands cradling the cup.
The dusty organ in my chest rattles to life.
For someone who is so closed off, he’s quick to leap into action to help people. Me included, come to think of it.
Huh.
I frown as I shake off the buzzing sensation in my body.
When Luke arrives a minute later and hands me my coffee, I quickly take a sip to reset my brain.
He twists to place his bags on the floorboard behind us. The center console is so narrow I have to lean back to avoid an accidental mouthful of his hair. His big body overwhelms the space.
“Is the coffee good?” he asks when he’s done. “Tastes as it should?”
I nod, avoiding his eye. “Definitely.”
He makes a gruff noise of satisfaction.
“What’s in the bags?”
“Snacks.”
I put my cup down to turn and study his haul. “I thought you didn’t like snacks. You were very clear on that point at the airport.”
He tracks my gaze to the well-stocked vending machine that is now our back seat. “Sure I do. Who doesn’t like snacks?”
“But you said you didn’t!”
His mouth curves into a half smile. “Agree to disagree.”
Infuriating man.
I rustle around the bags, taking inventory. A cup of grapes, a cotton candy Go-Gurt, a hard-boiled egg, chips, cheese, donuts…
“Wasn’t sure what you liked. Take what you want, as you want it.”
My cheeks heat. Is sharing food a thing we do?
He starts the car and maneuvers toward the air compressor. “Out of order. Fan-fucking-tastic,” he grumbles, whipping out of the spot. “Wish I would’ve known before I got quarters. Though the fact it needed quarters and doesn’t take cards should’ve tipped me off—”
“Luke, this is a lot of food. I hope you didn’t buy extra on my account.”
His ears tinge red. “Nah.”
A hot cocktail slithers through my stomach. Gratitude. Hunger. An acute awareness that he’s now done four nice things in a row—sweatshirt, a carpool, slushie, snacks—which upsets the Luke Carlisle schema I thought I’d assembled.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Don’t want you passing out.” He pokes at the AC. “That would slow us down, and I don’t want Berkeley to Mace me should she ever find out I let you starve.”
“Don’t worry.” I tap the rim of his glasses, and he recoils. “You’ve got built-in shields.”
“Clearly you’ve never been Maced.”
I snort. “Why do you sound disappointed by that fact?”
He jacks the music way up and yells, “Quiet time!”
Seems someone can’t accept a simple thank-you.
My stomach aches from emptiness. I return to my back seat foraging.
My mouth waters at the bag of powdered donuts, but I opt for protein first. I grab the individually wrapped hard-boiled egg and switch on maid-of-honor mode. “I’m going to make a few calls.”
“I’d be shocked if you didn’t. You should invest in AirPods or some kind of headset so you can go hands-free.”
“And waste these?” I flash him my palms. “No way, mister.”
When this fails to garner a response, I dial Lush and Lather Salon.
Time to check off the first of many boxes.
…
I click off the phone and groan as my head falls back against the seat. That was way more time consuming than I’d anticipated, but it’s done.
Appointments: check.
Lush and Lather was full, but since eight a.m. tomorrow is the only time the bridal party and “moms” are free between now and the wedding, I had to call four salons until I found one that could take such a large group at that time.
I forward Isabelle the booking, hoping the change in salon doesn’t trigger a meltdown. While I await her response, I plunk a donut in my mouth.
“Eight people for a nail appointment?” Luke says in a tone that suggests he couldn’t even name eight people if there was a reward on the line. “What’s that about?”
I swallow, contemplating how much of the truth he needs to know. “My sister is getting married this weekend.”
“Oh.” He drums the steering wheel with his fingers. “A wedding. That’s big.”
“Yes.”
Understatement of the century, I would add, if I wasn’t filtering myself.
Instead, I flick open the mirror and check my mouth for donut dust. After mainlining snacks and dealing with several curt receptionists, I’m ready for a break. “Can I drive?”
I glance at Luke and catch his eye.
His head snaps back toward the road.
“What, did I miss some crumbs?” I pull the mirror back down and run a finger over my lips.
“No. I mean, I wouldn’t know— You want to drive? Are you sure?”
“I’m certain. We may even get there faster.”
His mouth turns down at the corners. “Have you ever had to pay a speeding ticket in a state you don’t live in? They often have strange laws and requirements. Not fun.”
I barely clock what he’s saying because I’ve zoomed in on his hand, which has finally retired its tenure on the wheel to rest on his leg. I thought he’d never abandon his trusty nine-and-three-o’clock death grip.
His pants fit him like a glove. He absently rubs his palm up and down his thigh.
Sit next to someone long enough and you start noticing things like this. It’s either observe the steady rhythm of his hand or watch the mottled brown landscape out the window.
After five indecent seconds of leg-staring, I drag my attention up to his face. “You got it, Buzz Killigen. I’ll only go twenty over the limit.”
“Maybe I’ll just continue on, then. For your own safety.”
I swivel in my seat as far as my seat belt will allow me and poke him in the arm. There is zero give in his bicep, no spare softness whatsoever. I retract my finger, somehow chastened by his muscle. “Pretty please? I ate so much sugar. I have energy to burn.”
“Fine. I’ll nap so I don’t harass you about your driving. Because customarily, it’s nice to let the driver do their thing without needling. I know this probably surprises you.” A self-satisfied smirk breaks out on his face as he pulls off at a very depressing “picnic” stop for our switch, as if he really stuck it to me with that little barb.
We circle the car and take our new spots. The driver’s seat is warm from him. The heat creeps up my back as I adjust his entire setup, from the seat position to the mirrors.
I click my seat belt and zip back onto the highway. Gas pedal control never felt so good.
Flooring it, I sing in my head so as not to bother him while he tries to nap. As I cycle through a few favorites on my playlist, the sky darkens from an uneven gray to a menacing gray. That’ll help Luke fall asleep.
Doesn’t bode well for the weather we’re trying to avoid, though.
I’m internally solo-ing Mariah Carey when the first droplet hits the windshield. I startle, returning my right hand—my coffee-holding hand—back on the wheel.
“Guess we didn’t beat the rain,” I say under my breath.
Luke un-reclines his seat.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” I add in a rush. “I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine.” He fishes for his phone. “Wasn’t sleeping. I’ll check the doppler.”
A spark of unease catches in my stomach when he makes a humming sound. “It’s spotty in this general area. Hard to tell what will actually hit us since we’re in motion. It’ll probably be fine.”
A clap of thunder punctuates his speculation.
The hairs on my arm jump to attention. A few fat raindrops strike the windshield. I tighten my grip, moving my hands to Luke’s nine-and-three positioning.
Those were awfully sharp and loud for raindrops. And they didn’t splatter.
Hail.
“Are you comfortable in a storm?” he asks. “Do you need to pull over?”
“I think I’m fine.”
The slight shake in my voice is from the caffeine, not fear. Because this is no big deal. I told Mom I could handle driving home, and that includes a little inclement weather.
Our phones start ominously beeping. Not even beeping—screeching. Warnings, of some kind.
I saw my lip between my teeth. “What is that? What’s wrong?”
Luke checks the alert and swiftly buries both phones in the center console. “It’s okay. The bad stuff is a little south of here.”
At once, the sky unzips. Marble-size hail falls out in an avalanche, but it continues after the initial onslaught. In the time it takes me to drum up some positive self-talk, the storm gains strength. It’s a mighty beast of a thing, unloading its rage.
The balls of ice get bigger. The pelting is merciless, pinging the windshield. I twist on the wipers, but they do no good. They aren’t fast or strong enough.
“Luke,” I say warily. “What if it dents the car?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
My whole body is tense, and I lean into the wheel.
“What do you need? Do you want to switch at the next exit?”
“No!” I blurt. “I can do this. I have to.”
“Why do you have to?”
I press my mouth shut. Filter, filter, filter.
“Cassidy.” His tone is coaxing. “Why?”
“My mother thinks I can’t handle this drive, all right?” I snap. “That I can’t go on a road trip by myself—she doesn’t know about you. But I can. I’m perfectly capable.”
He’s quiet for a few painful seconds as my admission reverberates between us. “You’re perfectly capable. But for what it’s worth, it’s okay not to want to go to war with hail. That doesn’t mean you aren’t still making the trip.”
I grind my teeth for a second before acquiescing. “Maybe.”
“And your mom isn’t here,” he adds. “And thank God, because where would she sit? You would’ve smothered her to death with your reclined seat and buried her in snacks.”
A tight laugh works its way out of my mouth, against all odds.
But the relief is short lived as the pelting gets louder, a crescendo that mimics the rise of my panic. My heart does the wrong kind of dance in my chest, missing steps and falling over itself.
Another, louder burst of thunder vibrates the car.
“Oh no.” I suck in a shallow breath. “This is bad.”
The creeping warmth of embarrassment piles on to my breakdown. I’m losing it over a damn storm in real time, failing to stay calm, and he’s watching me do it.
Luke’s tone drops into a soothing timbre, his words curling around me like an embrace. “It’s okay. You’re doing just fine. Nice and steady.”
“I feel like I can’t see. I can barely make out anyone’s brake lights. Am I going too fast?” I squeeze the wheel harder as my hands start to shake. “What do I do?”
“What do you want to do? You’re in control.”
Pain radiates from my clenched jaw. “I think I need to pull over.”
“Okay. Do you want to try and wait for an exit?”
A pellet of ice cracks the windshield. My entire body flinches. “Oh God! Now. I want to pull over here.”
“Talk through it,” he urges. “It’ll help.”
I can only hope he’s right.