Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
CASSIE
I stare at the pile of half-unpacked boxes in my living room and sigh.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to have a guest in the house already? I mean—look at this place. My junk is everywhere.”
Jackson leans against the kitchen doorway like he owns the place, arms crossed and smug as hell. “Trust me. This is a good idea.”
I arch a brow. “How did you meet this guy anyway?”
“He was an athlete at Riverbend University years back.”
I blink. “But he plays baseball, not football. You coach football.”
“Obviously,” he deadpans. “But I ended up taking him under my wing. He’s a good guy.”
“Is he clean?” I clear my throat. “Like, is he neat and organized? I can’t handle some messy, chaotic bro coming to live with me.”
Jackson gives me an are-you-serious look. “He’s only going to be here half the time anyhow. The other half he’s traveling, playing games.”
“And he pays rent but I…have to cook for him?” I gesture vaguely at my kitchen, which currently contains a bag of spinach, three yogurts, and a bottle of sauvignon blanc. “What is that? It’s like he’s a foreign exchange student or something.”
“It’s the home stay program,” he says, like I should’ve heard of it.
“A lot of minor league players do it. They actually don’t make huge salaries until they get to the majors, where they’ll make millions.
But in the minor leagues, they’ll be making, like, fifty thousand.
So, you know, they’re not living in mansions or anything.
Plus, it gets lonely when you’re out on the road half the season. ”
“That’s outrageous. I made more than that in my corporate job…which I quit to come live in this small town.” I wave an arm toward my window, where a very aggressive squirrel is judging me from the maple tree.
Jackson softens. “Well, we both appreciate having you around, you know? Thanks. Anyway, speaking of kids, I need to go pick up your home stay guest and bring him back here. See you in, like, two hours?”
“Oh?” I say, forcing my voice casual as I shove a lacy thong deeper into a laundry basket with my foot. “Where is he now?”
“He’s in Davenport.”
A funny little jolt skitters through my ribs. No. No. Couldn’t be him. That’s impossible. Davenport is a big enough area. This is Iowa. There are at least…what, six hot cowboys? Ten? Plus he didn’t give me ballplayer vibes. Though I didn’t ask about his profession…
“What?” Jackson asks, studying my face.
“No, nothing.” I shake my head, too fast. “I’m going to tidy things up here. See you in a couple of hours.”
He studies me for another beat like he wants to call bullshit, then shrugs and heads for the door. “Text me if you think of anything you need. Preferably not a new roommate.”
“Ha. Hilarious.”
The door shuts, and I’m left in the silence of my house.
I exhale, hands on my hips, and look around at the chaos of my allegedly fresh start. Boxes. Boots. A flannel—the one from last night—crumpled over the back of a chair. My cheeks heat. I grab it and shove it into the hamper like it’s evidence.
Hey, at least the place is already furnished, thanks to Jackson’s help.
My mind goes back to the night in Davenport, and how we exchanged no last names and no numbers. A classic no-strings arrangement.
No way it could be him.
I clap my hands once, loud, to break the spiral. “Okay. Cleaning montage,” I tell the room. “Focus on what you can control.”
I start moving. I take the trash out, put the sheets on, get the bra off the doorknob. I light a candle. I open a window. I sage the place again.
I try not to think about hands on my hips, a low voice in my ear, or how my body still hums from a night I promised would mean nothing.
Two hours, I tell myself.
Two hours and I’ll meet some polite, baseball-playing stranger who needs a room and some home-cooked meals, and definitely not the man who kissed me like he meant it in the rain.
Not the man whose name I can still taste.
Right?
Right.
The roast is probably overcooked.
The potatoes are definitely undercooked.
And I have a weird sweat going that’s 90% stress and 10% fear that I somehow manifested the hot stranger from last night into my kitchen via reckless daydreaming and mild dehydration.
Jackson texted twenty minutes ago. Be there soon. Which means any second now.
I smooth my sundress, fluff my hair, and sniff my pits. We’re good. Mostly. The table’s set. There’s a candle burning that smells like “Cashmere Rain,” whatever the hell that is. Everything is almost presentable.
Except for the gnawing sense of dread in my gut that keeps whispering what if.
What if it’s him?
No. Stop. That is so ridiculous. Davenport is full of people. There’s zero chance.
I light the last tea candle, step back, and give the table a look that says, Yeah, I live here now. I do adult things like hosting minor league athletes in exchange for rent and light trauma.
The door opens.
“Cass?” Jackson’s voice. “We’re here.”
“Kitchen!” I call, already half-reaching for the plates. “Hope you’re hungry.”
And then I hear it. The second voice.
It’s low, cocky, and a little too familiar.
“Damn. Something smells good in here.”
I freeze. Yeah. I definitely know that voice.
I turn around, still holding onto my disbelief.
No.
No…
“Cassie, this is Logan. Logan, Cassie,” Jackson says.
My heart beats as if I were sprinting, suddenly.
He’s still tall. Still infuriatingly handsome. Same jaw, same biceps, same smirk. His hat is backward again. And those blue eyes? Yep. Still should be illegal.
And why wouldn’t he be? It was barely more than twenty-four hours ago that we were on top of each other.
My mouth opens. Closes. I forget how to speak English.
“Oh,” I say, clearing my throat. “Hi.”
“Oh,” he says, clearly fighting a smile. “Hi,” he imitates.
“Uh…everything okay here?” Jackson quips, looking between the two of us.
And then, of course, because God has a sense of humor, the burner starts smoking.
“Shit!” I yelp, spinning back around just as flames lick the edge of a rogue paper towel I must’ve set too close to the burner.
“Move!” Logan’s suddenly at my side, yanking open the oven and grabbing a towel to smother the tiny fire. He moves like he’s done this before. Calm. Efficient. Way too hot for someone putting out a literal emergency in my kitchen.
Jackson stares between us. “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing,” I blurt. “That was…just a…sacrificial offering to the dinner gods. Totally intentional.”
Logan lets out a quiet snort.
Jackson’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Why are you two acting so weird?”
“We’re not acting weird,” I say too fast. “You’re weird.”
“Wow,” Jackson mutters. “Excellent deflection.”
“I’m gonna—uh—just check on the, um, vibes.” I point vaguely toward the hallway and cough. “Be right back.”
Then I flee.
I shut the bathroom door and grip the counter, staring at myself in the mirror.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. You are fine. You are cool. You are a grown-ass woman who had one night of unholy, mattress-denting sex with a stranger who just turned out to be your temporary roommate. This is fine. Everything’s fine.”
I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face.
Of course it’s him. Of course the universe has jokes. Of all the baseball boys in all the cornfield towns in all of Iowa…it had to be Logan.
I knew I should have stuck to my no-men-for-one-year pledge.
Apparently I would never make it as a nun.
I stare into the mirror like maybe it’ll give me an escape route. Perhaps some sort of trapdoor or a new dimension.
But no. This is real life. I’m wild-eyed and lightly flushed. With my lip gloss smudged. My cherry-brown hair is barely clinging to the loose ponytail I threw it into twenty minutes ago. And the sundress?
The sundress is feeling like way too much right now.
Thin straps, low neckline, little white flowers scattered across a background of soft blue. It was supposed to say approachable small-town hostess.
Now it says remember when I rode your face last night?
“God,” I palm my face, embarrassingly. “You couldn’t have worn jeans and a hoodie like a normal emotionally damaged woman?”
I adjust the neckline, which of course makes it worse. My nipples are definitely saying hello. I grab a paper towel, dab at my cheeks, then try to smile at myself in the mirror.
I get a quiet knock at the door.
“Cassie?” Logan’s voice. “You alright?”
Nope. Not even close.
But I plaster on a voice that sounds like someone who totally has their shit together.
“Yep! Just had to…reapply deodorant. You know. For ambiance.”
“Right.”
His voice is warm. Way too warm.
And from behind the door, I swear I can hear him smiling as I hear his steps carry down the hall.