6. Cassandra
CASSANDRA
“ G irls. Bed,” Christian growled. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
“But, Dad ,” Gracie whined.
God, that sound made me want to stuff my head into a paper shredder.
The space behind my eyes throbbed as a migraine made its debut.
Christian cut her a look so severe that it startled even me. But his voice was gentle and steady. “No arguing.”
Bree huffed. “But we?—”
She clammed up with a raise of her dad’s eyebrow.
“I’ll come up and turn off the lights in a minute. Go on.”
The Bobbsey Twins turned and loped up the stairs without another word.
Christian had dropped his hat on the hook by the door when he walked in, leaving his disheveled bun uncovered. I didn’t move, opting to stand and watch as he dug his hands into his thick hair.
He tugged on the elastic holding the bun together, letting light brown hair spill past his shoulders. One hand delved deep into the locks as he let out a breath, assessed the situation, assessed me, and formed a plan in his mind.
“Just—uh—make yourself at home. I gotta make sure they’re good to go for the morning, then I’ll get your room set up.”
“Take your time,” I said with as much neutrality in my voice as I could muster while Christian climbed the stairs.
The optics are more important than our comfort . I could hear Tripp’s haughty voice in my head, and I hated it.
I found my cell and opened it up, hoping for some small connection to the outside world.
I had two measly bars at Christian’s house, which was enough for texts and grainy calls to come through. A few voicemails peppered the screen.
But nothing from Tripp.
No I’m sorry text. No voicemail explaining why the hell he had abandoned me.
Three years ago, I had been dreamy-eyed at the prospect of marrying him. His proposal had been planned by the best wedding planner in the industry.
He wanted to do it right.
He wanted to give me the fairytale moment.
He didn’t have time to come up with something on his own.
He loved me, but planning how he would ask me to marry him wasn’t in his wheelhouse, so he outsourced.
I hated the ring. It was hideously gaudy, but it was the right size karat to make a statement without being the headline. It was the right cut. The clarity was unmatched. It checked all the boxes for the perfect optics.
Three years ago, we had talked about dates and venues.
But something always came up to push it back until we stopped talking about it altogether.
And when I brought it up, he’d blame the delays on work.
Once, he offered a quick courthouse wedding just because he thought I would say no.
I said yes.
He didn’t show up.
Of course, Tripp blamed it on work.
His meeting ran late.
His client was inconsolable and he couldn’t slip away.
I should be more committed like he was.
I should be putting my clients ahead of my personal life.
Twisting the ring on my finger, I wondered what I was doing with it on my hand in the first place.
Voices carried down from the upstairs bedrooms.
“Can you do my hair like Miss Cassandra’s tomorrow?”
That sounded like the older one.
Christian gave a well-worn sigh. “Your hair isn’t long enough for big curls like that.”
“I know,” she pressed. “But can you try?”
“I don’t know how to do it,” he said.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the slick microwave door. My voluminous Marilyn Monroe bangs had fallen after a day of travel and ranch-induced trauma, but the length of my tresses still sported a nice bounce.
“You know the rule,” Christian said. “I need at least five days to learn a new hairstyle before you can wear it to school.”
“Do you think Miss Cassandra could do my hair?” Bree pleaded.
“Absolutely not,” I muttered under my breath as I studied the dog lounging on the couch.
“No,” Christian said. His voice turned to mumbles as he moved around upstairs. He was probably kissing their foreheads and giving out heartfelt “I love yous.”
How freaking nice.
Lights turned off upstairs and I looked at the time.
It was barely eight in the evening. Usually I would have been getting ready to wrap up my workday.
Maybe I’d be slipping out to a dinner reservation before going home to manage the lives of the rich and famous from my couch.
With wine because Lillian Monroe was a ladder-climbing lizard woman.
Maybe my current headache was really the detox after being released from her orbit.
I had started my career with the Carrington Group at the bottom in strategic business development consulting before landing my dream job in public relations.
Being a publicist was my dream. Or so I thought.
I wanted the private jet lifestyle, the Michelin-starred restaurants, the camera flashes and shouts for attention, all while being the master puppeteer.
I wanted to be the wizard behind the curtain.
But one empty-headed starlet decided to rip the curtain down, strangle me with it, light the fabric on fire, then throw me off a cliff.
Now I was in cowboy hell.
Heavy boots thundered down the stairs, and Christian appeared. He grabbed the stack of linens he had carted in from his mom’s house and disappeared into the spare room.
“Question,” I said, moving to linger in the doorway as I watched him put sheets on the queen-sized mattress.
Christian looked up, deep brown eyes boring into mine for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. “What’s that?”
“Where’s the woman in the photos?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is she going to come in here and slit my throat because I’m sleeping in your house?”
He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t look angry either. “She died when the girls were little,” he said calmly as he shimmied a pillow into a fresh case.
Christian’s tone wasn’t begging for pity. He had simply stated a fact, so I responded in turn.
“Well, then I’m sorry to hear that.”
He unfurled a large quilt and neatly draped it over the made bed. It was all so … quaint .
“There’s a full bath down the hall. It’s next to my room. Holler if you need anything. The girls have a bathroom upstairs so they shouldn’t bother you. Help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen.”
I pinned myself to the door frame as he lugged my suitcases in from the living room.
After a quick look to make sure there wasn’t anything that still needed to be done, he wiped his hands on his jeans and paused in the door.
It was a tight fit with the two of us face-to-face.
Christian’s stomach brushed mine as he stared down at me intently. A small groove formed between his eyebrows. A low growl of frustration reverberated in his chest.
“What am I gonna do with you?”
His gruff timbre sent shivers racing down my spine. The breath snaking off his beard was intoxicating.
Christian Griffith was not my type. Besides, I was taken.
Kind of.
But my body didn’t give a damn about logic. My skin prickled like I had touched a live wire.
He looked safe. His arms looked comforting. And after the day I’d had, it took every ounce of my professionalism not to lean into them for support.
I lifted my chin. “I’m here to do a job.
“Yeah,” he said with one last heated look as he stepped out of the doorway and headed for the kitchen. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
I woke to the sound of children. It was awful.
Their shrill morning shrieks of “I can’t find my other shoe!” and “I don’t want pancakes for breakfast!” immediately gave me a headache.
Need caffeine.
I rolled over and buried my head under the pillow to try and block out the cacophony of prepubescent chatter.
It wasn’t even light outside yet.
The pillow and bedding were clean, but smelled a little musty—like they had been sitting in a closet for an unusually long time.
I stretched, flexing and curling my toes beneath the heavy quilt.
Christian had only been in here for a few minutes while he made the bed last night, but his cologne lingered in the most delicious way.
Was it actually cologne, or was it just him?
I breathed in the masculine scent, letting it wrap around me like a hug, and drifted back to sleep.
“Rise and shine.” Christian’s deep bass floated in as the door creaked open.
Politely, fuck him.
No. On second thought, not politely.
Fuck him.
I lifted the corner of the pillow and glared at the clock. “I’m available between the hours of nine and five. Outside that, you’ll need to send me an email that will be answered during the following business day.”
Christian’s chuckle was dark. “Not how it works around here, Princess.”
The slide of ceramic on wood caught my attention. I cautiously peered through sleep-laden eyes and spotted the mug of coffee he had left on the nightstand.
“Nice pajamas,” he clipped as he turned away from the door.
A breeze danced over my bare shoulder where the strap of my satin camisole kissed my skin.
But the breeze didn’t stop there.
Crap.
I tugged the quilt up, covering the side of my boob that had spilled out of my top.
“I’m leaving in ten,” he hollered across the house.
“My workday starts at nine,” I reminded him.
Christian let out a sharp whistle. “Sadie. Bring ’em.”
The click-click of dog paws on hardwood floors was instantaneous. Sadie—the annoying Aussie wiggle butt—scrambled up the stairs. Muffled thumps echoed all over the second floor as she scrambled from room to room like a fur tornado.
I was fairly sure she had tumbled head over tail down the staircase, then quickly realized the sound was from how fast her paws carried her back down the steps.
The incessant barking was worse than the children.
Earplugs were at the top of my to-do list this morning.
I’d get up, beg Becks to let me use her vehicle to go back to civilization, grab a proper latte somewhere in town, make my phone calls and send my emails, and find somewhere to stay that had significantly less wildlife. And that included the children.
The barking grew closer.
And closer.
And closer .
I wrapped the pillow around my head and briefly contemplated smothering myself.
The headache grew. It was half-exhaustion and half-anger.
I hadn’t slept well. It was too quiet here. Too dark outside.
I needed the lights and noise of the city to drown out my thoughts so I could get some sleep.
Children stomped down the stairs and out the door, screaming, “Grandma!”
Finally, the house was quiet.
Paws clattered on the floor in a drumroll. I peeked out of the pillow just in time to see a ball of fur leaping onto the bed.
Sadie barked repeatedly as she attempted to trample me to death.
“Out!” I shouted as I curled into the fetal position to protect my vital organs.
“Leave! Down! Back!”
I tried every command in the book to get her to stand down. I screeched in horror, blocking my face as she lunged for my head over and over again.
Ten minutes later, I was storming out the front door of Christian’s godforsaken house, only to find him—arms crossed and smirking—as he leaned against the door of his truck.
“First of all,” I bellowed, stabbing a finger in his direction. “Fuck you.”
Sadie nipped at my ankles, and I jumped away.
Christian looked so damn pleased with himself as he took me in.
My unwashed, day-old curls had been slicked back into a tight bun that accentuated my cheekbones.
The linen blouse I usually would have taken the time to steam was mussed.
I tucked it into wheat-colored trousers that tied in a bow at my waist and hid the rest of it beneath a white blazer.
With the yapping, I had to rush through my makeup routine, and made do with some concealer for the bags under my eyes, a coat of mascara, and a plum-colored lip.
My phone was in one hand, and my Mary Poppins bag was slung over my shoulder. “Happy?” I shouted over the barking. “Will you call off your canine alarm clock now?”
Christian grinned from ear to ear. “Down.”
I glared at Sadie as she immediately turned into a rug. “Seriously? I said that at least thirty times!”
“You’re not me,” Christian said as he rounded the truck and opened my door. “Let’s go. We’re late.”