15. Trina
TRINA
It’s been over a year since I’ve been to Casey’s condo in Old Town, but it’s easy enough to get there.
After fiddling with my outfit for half an hour, reapplying my lipstick, and fluffing out my hair, I walk the few blocks to the Brown Line and hop on the train that takes me to his neighborhood.
It’s hard to believe he’s only been about twenty minutes away from me this whole time, and I’ve only run into him that one time with Isabella at the coffee shop.
I step off the train in Old Town and am immediately reminded why I love this neighborhood almost as much as I love Lincoln Park.
It’s still light out, and hot as hell. The long, summer days stretch languidly through the middle of July, even though the daylight hours are technically getting shorter.
The bars and restaurants lining the street have their windows and doors open, and people spill out onto sidewalk patios, leaving only a narrow path between the buildings and outside tables.
Music and the scent of beer and the clatter of silverware on dishes waft through the air as I stroll along the sidewalk.
I love this city.
By the time I make it to Casey’s condo, I’m in the type of good mood I haven’t felt in a long time—the kind where everything seems easier and relaxed, like I’m at the top of my game.
I could take on anything anyone wanted to throw at me with ease and grace.
And it’s only heightened by the smell of garlic and the sound of bacon sizzling in the pan that hits me as soon as he opens the door.
He holds the door open, leaning against the edge like some kind of bronzed god, the light from the late afternoon sun streaming in through his balcony doors behind him and casting him in a glow.
He’s still wearing his work clothes from the video call, but there’s an extra button undone at the top of his crisp, white shirt, and his sleeves are rolled up.
There’s a towel over his shoulder, and his feet are bare.
Dammit, bare feet are sexy as hell.
“Warn a girl next time you’re going to open the door looking like that,” I tease as I step past him and into the space.
“Looking like what?” He closes the door behind me.
I wave my hand up and down in his direction. “Like you walked out of a photo shoot for an editor-at-home spread in a magazine.”
Casey blinks a few times and wipes his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you Starlight sent photographers to do a publicity feature on me before the call with Imani today?”
Pausing as I slide my purse off my shoulder, I give him an incredulous look. “Really?”
He chuckles, low and deep, the sound radiating out of him. “No.”
I drop my purse and swat him in the shoulder. “Dammit, Casey.”
In a flash, he grabs my hand and pulls me into his chest. His other hand comes up to rest in the curve of my lower back, and his gaze dips to my lips. “I hope you’re hungry.”
My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds against my ribcage. My body melts into his of its own volition, and I’m vaguely aware of the desire building in me to stay right here.
The hand that was holding mine comes up to brush lightly along my jaw.
His thumb drags over my lips, gently pressing them open.
I gasp and my eyelids flutter closed as he captures my mouth with his, his tongue teasing and exploring.
Unlike the other day in his office, he’s taking his time, savoring me with his lips as his other hand drifts slowly up and down my back.
When he pulls away, I’m drunk on him. Woozy and lightheaded. Desperate and heated and ready for more.
He swallows hard, and I can tell he’s restraining himself. He used to do this sometimes—get me all riled up and then make me wait. The waiting was always just as delicious as the sex itself, so if he wants me to be patient, I will. I’m sure he’ll reward me for it.
“Wine?” he asks, voice husky and about an octave lower than it usually is.
“Please.”
With what seems like a great effort, he drags himself away from me.
He steps into the small kitchen area and opens a cabinet, pulling down two glasses and filling them with white wine.
Condensation immediately builds on the outside of the glasses in the heat of the kitchen, and I’m glad to see it’s not just me who is feeling overheated.
He hands me a glass, then clinks his to mine. We both take a sip, and the crisp flavors explode on my tongue.
“Mm,” I hum as I swallow. “This is really good.”
“Pinot grigio,” he says as he turns back to the stove. As he stirs, he dips his chin toward the bar-height chairs that face the U-shaped counter to indicate I should sit, which I do. “It pairs well with carbonara, or so I’m told.”
“A wine pairing with dinner? You’re really pulling out all the stops for a silly little bet. I didn’t even know you could cook.”
He shrugs, not looking up from his task. “I can cook one thing.”
I cackle loudly, the laugh ending in a little snort, which would be embarrassing as hell if it weren’t for the way Casey’s smile stretches across his face as he reserves some pasta water and drains the rest of it into the sink.
He adds the reserved water and what looks like an egg mixture to the pot and stirs quickly, his exposed forearms flexing as he does.
Which is almost enough to distract me from what he’s doing, but not quite.
“Wait, eggs?” I frown.
“What about them?”
“Who the fuck puts eggs in pasta? And bacon. Is this like breakfast coded or something?”
Casey pauses his stirring to shoot me a sidelong glance, but he starts up again before too much time has passed. “You’ve never had carbonara before?”
“Clearly not.” I take another sip of my wine.
“It’s a classic dish.” Apparently happy with the sauce, he takes the pan of bacon pieces and pours those into the pot, gently tossing it all together and adding a bit more cheese. “If you want to get really technical about it, you’re supposed to use guanciale.”
“What’s guanciale?”
He smirks before pulling down two bowls and setting them side-by-side next to the stove. “Pork jowl.”
I grimace. “Jowl is such a gross word.”
Laughing, he fills the bowls with pasta. “It’s tasty, but this is the way my mom used to make it.”
He goes silent, focusing intently on slowly and deliberately adding pasta to the bowls.
I remember when his mom passed away three years ago.
Cancer, I think. She was really young. Casey was still at JMP, but he and I had been working together on a few titles.
He moved to Anastasios shortly after that.
All work and no play at that point, but I still considered him a friend.
And I know what it’s like to lose a mom.
So I went to the funeral, stood in the back so no one would see me.
But Casey did. His red-rimmed eyes found me as we were filing out of the church.
He nodded at me, acknowledging my presence.
I had intended to slip in and out undetected, but when he saw me, his shoulders straightened ever so slightly.
The skin around his eyes relaxed just a little. And I was glad he knew I was there.
“I’m sorry, Casey,” I say softly, because sometimes that’s the best thing you can say.
When my mom was arrested and I was shipped off to live with my aunt, everyone kept trying to tell me to look on the bright side, or insisted it was better for me to be with her than with my mom, or persuaded me that everything happens for a reason.
I was so young, but I remember wanting someone to admit that the whole situation was shitty and leave it at that.
Casey places a bowl and a fork in front of me and finally meets my eyes. “It comes out of nowhere sometimes, you know?”
Fuck. Do I ever. But while I know the bare minimum about his mom, he knows nothing about mine. I’m not about to open that can of worms, so all I can do is nod.
Normally, I’m pretty good at intuiting what people need from me.
I got good at it while living with my aunt in order to fly as far under their radar as I could and avoid being any more of a burden than I already was.
It’s probably why I’m so damn good at my job.
I flex that skill hard to keep my authors happy and negotiate with editors.
Casey is different. He’s sad, obviously.
Who wouldn’t be? But I can’t tell what he wants from me, what would make him feel better.
I’m sure he didn’t ask me over here to talk about his mom, but his face is carefully blank as usual and I don’t know which direction he wants me to pivot. So I decide to face it head-on.
“What do you need right now?”
His gaze dips, then meets mine again. “Distraction,” he says without hesitation.
That, I can do. After all, isn’t that what we’ve been doing for each other? A little shiver of anticipation runs up and down my spine, and I smirk at him suggestively.
“It would be a shame to let this food go cold.”
He considers this for a moment, then taps his fingers against the countertop. “I did work hard to make you this delicious meal.”
And just like that, the sadness is lifted. It’s still there, lurking under the surface, but I have a feeling that, for Casey—for both of us—it always will be. Best not to look at it too hard, or it’ll pull us under.
Without taking my eyes off him, I stick my fork in the pasta, twirl it, and bring it to my mouth.
Casey watches me intently, and there’s no small amount of eagerness in his body language.
I chew thoughtfully, making him wait for my feedback, but it’s delicious.
Warm, creamy, and comforting. I can see exactly why his mom used to make this dish.
It’s comfort food, and it’s a simple recipe that makes plenty to feed a family.
I take another sip of wine to wash it down, and he’s right—the pinot grigio pairs exceptionally well with the pasta, the acid cutting through the fat of the dish.
“Wow, Casey. This is really good.”
He huffs as he places his bowl near the seat next to me and comes around to sit. “Don’t act so surprised.”
“Not surprised at the fact that you can cook.” I point my fork in his direction. “Surprised that eggs and bacon in pasta isn’t weird.”
“Somehow, it works.” He glances at me. “Sometimes two things that shouldn’t go together actually blend pretty well.”
It’s a pointed statement, like he’s trying to tell me something about us, but I’m not sure what he means. We’re not very similar on paper, but our chemistry has always been off the charts—something I’m reminded of as his darkened gaze zeros in on me again.
But he doesn’t continue in that line of thought. Instead, we make small talk while finishing our food and wine, the energy between us electrifying the air with excitement.
I try to slow down and savor the food, but we both finish quickly. Casey said he needed a distraction, and I can’t wait to give him one.