8. Cassandra
CASSANDRA
M y hand was sweaty around the doorknob as I peeked through the crack, watching Christian from a distance.
Something had gone down around the enclosure where the ranch hands had turned out the horses.
I’d never seen him like this. So rough and brusque.
I almost turned to go back to the desk, then Christian said my name. Miss Parker.
He didn’t call me Cass.
Truthfully, I didn’t mind it coming from him.
Growing up, I was Cassie to my friends and family. But I let go of shortening it after the millionth lecture where Tripp hounded me about using my full name.
Cassandra is much more professional. You want to be taken seriously, don’t you?
So I became Cassandra.
My attention was glued on Christian as he spat fire and brimstone at some kid who had been running his mouth within earshot of me for most of the day.
It’s not like I hadn’t heard it all before.
“She carries the weight of my name. She’s a Griffith to you.”
I froze, paralyzed with shock.
I hadn’t heard a man talk about me like that before.
Crickets serenaded me as I checked the time … again.
I had skipped the picture-perfect family sitcom dinner Christian had invited me to partake in, and waited out the dinner hour in the privacy of the office.
To my dismay, Mickey slept soundly in the corner.
I pored over stacks and stacks of financial statements, building a reasonable working budget for my pet projects while eyeing my phone every few minutes.
I had finally gotten Tripp to respond to a message I sent to his work email, where he said he would give me a call at five. It would be the end of my work day and midnight for him.
But my phone never lit up.
Tripp never called.
I just needed … something. Reassurance maybe?
This was outside my wheelhouse. I had been stripped of my regular responsibilities and Tripp had shouldered them in the aftermath.
It made sense, I guess. He was my boss.
Lillian’s people probably wanted someone more senior from the firm to clean up the situation.
Although it was her fault. Not mine.
I shut down the computer and gathered my things. It was just after eight, which meant Christian’s kids would hopefully be in bed.
Tripp had just gotten busy. That had to be it.
My phone rang, and I dropped the files in my hands as I lunged for it.
“Hello?”
Static crackled as I caught my breath.
“Sorry for calling so late,” Tripp said over the laughter in the background. “Dinner really got away from us, but you know how things are over here. I don’t think we started eating until 10:30. ”
“Right. Yeah,” I said as I loosened my bun and ran my fingers through my hair. “How are you? How are things in Spain?”
Selfishly, I wanted him to ask how I was doing, but it was easier to let Tripp talk about himself first.
He laughed. “You would have loved it over here. Bummer you couldn’t do the trip.”
Bummer? It was a bummer that I had my career ripped away from me?
It was a bummer that I was exiled to motherfucking Texas?
It was a bummer that my fiancé was representing my client while my name was being dragged through the mud?
It was a bummer that I had been put on ice and wasn’t supposed to defend myself?
I choked down the cocktail of rage and humiliation that hung in my throat. “I miss you.”
Or at least I thought I did.
I was supposed to miss him. To miss my life. To miss the bells and whistles that I was supposed to love.
I was stressed, uncertain, and insecure. I wasn’t reacting to anything well because of it. Especially Christian’s kindness .
But in the last twenty-four hours I had done something that I hadn’t done in a long time.
I breathed.
“What was that?” Tripp asked.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t hear me. He just wasn’t listening.
“I said I miss you.”
“Oh. Yeah. I miss you too.”
My fingernails bit into my palm, leaving shallow crescents in my skin. “You seem distracted.”
“Yeah, uh—well—dinner’s wrapping up. The wine over here is great.”
By my guess, Christian would sic his dog on me at the ass crack of dawn again, so I wrapped it up. “When can we talk about this?”
“About what? The gig in Texas? I thought I told you to report to Mike?”
Whereas Tripp was the head of public relations for individual clients, Mike McDaniels was his business development counterpart.
“About us ,” I clarified.
“Now’s not a good time. We need to let things cool down before?—”
“I’m not talking about the wedding, Tripp! I said we need to talk about us .”
“Look, I gotta go.” He let out a laugh. “Lillian is a handful and she’s had a bottle of wine.”
The call ended without a goodbye.
Mickey huffed in the background as I stared at the dark phone screen and wondered where it all went wrong.
Christian found me on his porch, sitting in a rocking chair with a cereal bowl on my lap.
Moths flitted around, dancing high in the porch light. Shadows were cast at my feet.
“I’d have to ask Becks about normal New York City dinners, but I don’t think that’s a proper meal, Princess.”
I didn’t look up from my bowl of ice cream. “You told me I could help myself to whatever I could find in the kitchen.”
The rocking chair beside mine creaked as he lowered himself into it. “Yeah, to the pantry or the fridge or whatever leftovers were in there.” He leaned over the rocking chair arm and studied my bowl. “Really? Mint chocolate chip and… whiskey?”
I swirled my spoon around the spiked float I had fixed myself when I snuck back from the office. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it,” I said as I shoveled in a spoonful.
Christian disappeared without a word.
What was it about men and their propensity to walk away unexpectedly?
I was one silent exit away from losing my shit.
Utensils clanked and clattered inside as I stared at the melting mound of mint ice cream swirling into warm brown whiskey. Was this was rock bottom?
I took a big scoop and let the burn of liquor be cooled by the sweetness of peppermint.
“I’ll trade you.”
I looked up and found Christian standing in front of me with a matching bowl full of chili. It was topped with a wedge of cornbread dripping in butter.
“You missed dinner,” he said as he took the ice cream from me and replaced it with the chili bowl that was warm from the microwave.
“I was working,” I lied.
Christian took a testing bite of my ice cream concoction and grimaced. “That’s repulsive.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” I retorted without much enthusiasm as I poked at the chili.
The wooden slats of the porch creaked as Christian gently rocked back and forth.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He rested comfortably; knees wide and boots flat, leaning back in the chair. His hair was still in a bun, but it was loose after a long day. Tendrils spilled out across his shoulders.
It was unnerving to be around someone so relaxed.
Tripp was always running around, so I was too.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” I asked as I took a meager nibble. The buttery sweetness of the cornbread, the earthy warmth of cumin, and the acidity of the tomatoes blended perfectly.
“I don’t sleep until everyone in my house is settled.”
“You don’t have to wait up for me. I’m capable of going to bed and getting myself to your office in the morning.”
Christian tilted his head and looked at me. “I didn’t say asleep. I said settled.”
“And you don’t think I’m settled?” I asked before shoveling in a bite. I didn’t realize how hungry I had gotten.
“Are you?”
If this was the “gentle pressure” he talked about using on cattle and children, I could admit that it was effective.
“I finally talked to Tripp,” I admitted.
A dissatisfied growl simmered in his chest. “And how is the world’s most pretentious asshole?”
I gritted my teeth. “Living it up in Spain with my cli—my former client.”
He lifted a finger off the arm of the chair and pointed at my ring. “When’s the big day?”
Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so hungry. “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said as I set the bowl on my lap.
“You done?” he asked, picking up the ice cream and reaching for the chili.
“Yeah.”
Christian took both bowls inside and came back with a pair of socks and cowboy boots. “What size do you wear?”
“Sevens.”
“These are sixes. Put ’em on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put the boots on. We’re going on a ride.”
I studied them, taking in the scuffed-up leather. “Please tell me you are not asking me to put on your dead wife’s shoes. That’s just weird.”
I half-expected him to get offended, but Christian cracked a smile. “They belonged to Becks. She got ’em, but they were too small so she gave them to Bree to grow into.”
Oddly curious, I took the socks and toed off my high heels. Blisters had broken my skin in angry red circles.
“Cass…” Christian said in a scolding voice as he knelt in front of me. “You told me you could handle yourself in those shoes.” He pointed to the heels.
“I can.”
Calloused fingers gingerly cradled the sole of my foot as he took another look. “Your feet say otherwise.”
“I’m fine. Walking in pastures, dirt, and gravel is a little different than sidewalks and offices. I’ll deal with it.”
“I’ll take you into town tomorrow. You can get a pair of boots while I pick up supplies.”
I wasn’t arguing with that. I wanted to get back to civilization—even if it meant settling for small-town USA.
The cotton sock abraded my blisters. I hissed as I slid it on.
Christian looked up with concern in his eyes. “You okay?”
The bite of discomfort was welcomed. It kept me from crying about the million other things weighing on me.
I could be angry about a few blisters, especially if it distracted me from Tripp.
Christian waited patiently as I squeezed my feet into the boots. My trousers and blazer didn’t exactly scream “cowgirl chic,” but it was dark, and the ranch was asleep.
I followed Christian to the stables and waited while he saddled Libby.
My body was present with him, but my mind was a thousand miles away.
“You ready?”
Suddenly I was acutely aware of the fact that he expected me to ride that thing again.