Chapter 29 #2
“Blue. Razorbacks for college, Chiefs for pro, and “Nobody” by Dylan Scott,” I say automatically, then take a long, slow sip of my latte like I didn’t just answer like a damn Tinder response.
He flinches a little bit, probably at the choice of song and the memory of Nashville, but then he laughs and damn it, he has a nice smile. One of those easy, genuine ones that reaches his hazel eyes. The kind that makes it hard to stay annoyed.
Cade grins, still watching me. “See? That was way less terrifying.”
I stir my latte, staring into the swirl of caramel like it’s going to give me answers. Dr. Monroe’s voice creeps in uninvited. “Bella, if there was someone out there who could give you both—the release and the connection—wouldn’t that be worth letting in? Even just a little?”
I’d rolled my eyes when he said that. Thought it was romanticized bullshit wrapped in a copay.
I exhale slowly. “Okay, fine. Let’s get to know each other.”
His brows lift, hopeful.
“Favorite color?” I ask.
“Green,” he says.
“Team?”
“College, Wexley.”
“Obviously, you Whitmore’s and your legacy shit,” I say.
“Pro, please don’t hate me, The Bills.”
I pretend to clutch my pearls. “That’s disgusting, but it tracks. I remember being the only Chiefs fan on Sunday Nights at your parents’ house.”
He laughs again and my chest does this annoying flutter thing.
“Song?”
“Far Away,” he says without missing a beat.
“Nickelback?”
He grins. “Don’t mock it. That song ruined me in high school.”
I smile over the rim of my mug. “You’re such a walking contradiction, Whitmore.”
“What, because I like sad rock ballads and turn emotions into brushstrokes?”
“Because you like Nickelback and somehow made it sexy.”
Cade smiles and leans forward, hands wrapped around his coffee cup. “So… what’s the dream, Bella? After school. What do you want?”
To kill Vince. To destroy every man who sees a child as currency and sleeps just fine. But I probably shouldn’t say that over lattes.
I tilt my head. “Honestly? Haven’t thought that far ahead.”
He raises a brow.
“If I had to guess.” I swirl my spoon through the foam. “Something with dance. Maybe the KC Chiefs if I’m feeling extra sparkly. Or maybe open a studio one day. Teach little boys and girls how to kick ass in rhinestones.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, eyes locked on mine like I’m some kind of mystery he’s determined to solve.
I clear my throat. “What about you? Going to carry the Whitmore torch into the nearest Wall Street boardroom?”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “God, no. That’s Cal’s dream, not mine. I just want to paint, draw.”
He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been there.
“I want to travel,” he says. “See how light hits stone at Giotto’s Bell Tower in Florence, sketch the shadows in Santorini, paint the skyline in Tokyo. I want to capture those moments, not to sell. Just to keep them. Maybe open a little gallery someday. Nothing big. Just mine.”
“That sounds perfect, Cade.”
We talk for the rest of the hour, back and forth, easy. Shows. Music. Most embarrassing high school moments. All the things we somehow never talked about even when I was crashing in their guest room after practice.
Then he asks about my family and my smile slips.
Cade notices. “Sorry,” he says, voice quiet. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. It’s just not a happy story.”
He nods. “Ellie told me enough to know it hurt. I remember when Zeke died, but she didn’t tell me every—”
“Murdered,” I cut in. “Zeke was murdered.”
Cade’s eyes widen, the words catching in his throat. “Shit. Bella, I’m so sorry.”
I take a breath and sip my coffee. “It’s okay. Just not really… first date talk.”
He smiles, warm and a little sly. “So you do agree it’s a date.”
Despite myself, I laugh. Just a little. And just like that, some of the ache lifts. “I guess it is a date,” I say, a little breathless from laughing.
I glance at my phone and curse under my breath. “Shit. A date that’s officially about to make me late for practice.”
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to go,” I say, grabbing my bag.
“Hey, let me take you.”
I hesitate. “It’s okay, I can run.”
“No seriously,” he says, already standing and grabbing his keys. “Wexley’s got hills. And I’ll get you there on time, trust me. My car is pretty fast.”
“Careful, Whitmore. One of the last times I got into your car… it was technically stolen.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well at least this time you won’t be driving.”
We head outside and he leads me to his car. Of course, it’s not just a car. It’s a brand-new Aston Martin Vantage, all matte black and wicked curves. Sleek, low to the ground, with blood-red brake calipers and carbon fiber trim.
A Whitmore-mobile if I’ve ever seen one.
He opens the door like a gentleman. “After you.”
The short drive is quiet but warm, filled with little glances and charged silence. When we pull up outside the gym he puts the car in park but doesn’t shut it off.
“I had a great time,” he says, voice softer now.
“Me too.”
He holds my gaze for a second longer. “Can I call you later?”
I nod, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. “Sure.” I turn and head up the stairs, heart still thumping like I’m mid-performance. But just as I reach the top, my phone vibrates in my hand.
@LucaWasHere
What do you think you’re doing, Izzy?
Cafés and coy smiles? Don’t get me dizzy.
He touched your wrist like he had a right.
Next time, I’ll show him how I bite.