23. Cass
CASS
I should have said something.
I should have stayed, should have looked her in the eye, should have found the words to make it right. Should have stayed to make sure she was okay.
But instead, I let my father’s poison settle in the space between us, let the weight of his words choke out whatever the hell was happening before he walked into the café. And then—I left. Like a fucking coward.
A fresh wave of shame and anger assaults me again.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours drowning in it—the sharp-edged guilt, the thick humiliation of letting her take a hit that was meant for me. Then being blindsided by how feral she looked defending Blake, like a Valkyrie, beautiful and fierce.
I texted her—got her number from Quinn—and got nothing back.
Quinn was pissed about it, too. Even JP’s been looking at me like I’m a first-class asshole.
I’ve spent every second since waiting for her to respond to my texts but giving her an opening to tell me off, to say something, anything.
She hasn’t. And I can’t fucking take it anymore. It doesn’t help that Quinn has basically refused to talk to me until I promised to make it right.
So now I’m standing outside Sterling’s house, heart pounding. Hands shoved deep in my pockets, about to do the last thing I should do. I have no business coming here, but I need her to know I wasn’t angry at her.
I want to explain why I stormed out. And hopefully ease some of the shame that has been coursing through me since yesterday morning.
I need her to know what happened at Dizzy D’s wasn’t about her. And I’d be lying if the urge to see her, to smell her again wasn't also a driving factor in carrying myself to her door.
I take a breath, the crisp night air doing nothing to cool the heat still simmering under my skin, and knock.
It doesn’t take long before I can hear her inside, coming to the door and undoing the dead bolt. The door swings open, and Sterling stands there, looking like a beautiful, hot mess.
Her hair’s a messy pile of chestnut strands on top of her head, a few loose pieces falling around her flushed cheeks. And she blinks up at me like she’s still trying to figure out why the hell I’m on her doorstep.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that looks like it’s been hacked off at the waist—probably because she’s so damn short nothing fits her right. Not that I’m complaining.
The way it sits gives me a perfect view of her waist, and those little sleep shorts clinging to her hips make my hands damn near twitch with the need to touch.
And God—she smells so fucking good.
“Cass?” Her voice is hoarse, her body blocking her doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh…I needed to check on you.”
“Why?” she asks, not accusing—just curious.
“I’ve been texting. You didn’t answer.” I scratch the back of my neck, eyes dropping for a second. “I felt bad about yesterday. At the café.”
She just looks at me—for a long, quiet moment. Long enough that I’m sure this is where she tells me to leave. To fuck off.
And then I’ll have to go back to the guys and tell them exactly how bad I fucked this up.
But instead, she studies me—really studies me—like she can see right through every defense I’ve ever built.
I feel dressed down and stripped bare under that look.
And then—softly, like she’s going against her better judgment, she offers, “Want to come in?”
Her words knock the breath right out of my lungs and light my insides up like fireworks.
The second I step over the threshold, she closes the door behind me, her scent flows around me. It’s warm vanilla, cinnamon, butter and honey. It’s everywhere. Sweet and rich, like honey melting over fresh bread. Like comfort. Like safety. Like every good thing I never thought I’d get to have.
It wraps around me, soaks into my skin, makes me feel everything.
I want to bury myself in it, curl up and stay there forever?—
Or lose myself in her and never come up for air.
Maybe both.
“You didn’t answer my texts.” I exhale sharply, dragging a hand over my jaw.
“I know.” She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest with a shrug. “I didn’t feel like talking.”
My gaze flickers over her, catching the way she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers fiddling with a loose strand of hair, then the hem of her shirt, like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.
She’s nervous. Hell, I’m nervous.
Sterling gestures for me to follow her into the living room, and I do—trying not to stare at how her ass looks in those tiny shorts…and failing completely.
The house is small, a quaint little 1940s cottage with creaky floorboards and crown molding that’s probably original. But it’s her.
It looks exactly like I’d describe her—sweet, cozy, a little disheveled, but in the best way.
Everywhere I look, there’s some splash of personality: soft, mismatched throw pillows on the couch, warm golden lighting, little vases of dried flowers, worn books stacked in corners like she reads five at a time.
Patterns and textures layered over each other, working together in this soft, whimsical way that makes the space feel like a hug.
It’s comfortable. Inviting.
Perfect.
I follow her down the hall to the living room where she plunks down on the couch and gestures for me to do the same.
“I don’t have much to offer, but I think I might have a beer or two in the fridge?” she asks, her voice casual. I shake my head, forcing a tight smile, and try really hard to keep my eyes off her bare legs.
She looks up at me. “So what’s up?”
I look down at her. Sitting down so close to her is probably a bad idea, but when I settle into the plush sofa, and Sterling pulls her legs up and shifts to face me, I can’t resist. She leans back against the armrest, her knees bent, feet almost brushing my leg.
She gives me a cautious, questioning look—like she’s not sure if this is okay. I swallow the lump in my throat.
Before I notice her toes.
They’re painted a vibrant neon pink—so bright and unexpected I’m momentarily stunned . It’s completely at odds with the way she usually presents herself—soft sweaters, quiet colors, always a little reserved.
That pink is sexy as hell. It’s bold. Playful. And I’m entranced by it.
Her feet are so close. Close enough that, if I shifted just a little, she could tuck her toes under my thigh.
And God, I want to pull them into my lap. I want to trace my fingers along her ankles, her calves—feel the warmth of her skin and the way she might soften under my touch.
But I fight the urge. Barely.
It feels impossible not to touch her.
I drag in a deep breath through my nose, grounding myself in her space, her scent, her presence.
“Your place is…cute,” I say, voice a little rough.
She nudges my leg with one of her damn cute toes, and when I glance up, I catch the flush rising in her cheeks and the smile she’s trying—badly—to hide.
“It feels crazy to me,” she says with a soft laugh. “I still need to hit the thrift store and find some more things for the walls.”
Then she looks up at me, just a little uncertain. “Do you really like it?”
“It’s got…character,” I deadpan.
She narrows her eyes, clearly thinking I’m teasing. Then she nudges my thigh again, this time harder—and when she stops, her foot stays there. Resting against me. Warm. Bare. Those bright little toes pressing just against the side of my leg.
“That’s like saying, ‘Sure, you’ve got a great personality,’ when someone asks if they’re pretty.”
“You are pretty,” I say without thinking.
This time, I’m ready for the kick. I catch her foot mid-motion, wrap both hands around it, and pull it into my lap, trapping it gently.
She lets out a weak little protest, trying to pull back, but I don’t let go.
“If you’re gonna kick me,” I say with a grin, “then I get to touch you.”
I try to keep the heat out of my voice, try not to let her see how much I want her—how much it’s costing me to hold the line.
“And I do like your house,” I add, rubbing slow circles into the arch of her foot, casual, no big deal, while my whole body is buzzing. “Ours is cozy, yeah—but Quinn’s a minimalist and JP’s a neat freak, so it doesn’t leave much room for…fun.”
I keep rubbing the delicate arch of her foot until she sinks lower with a soft, unguarded moan of pleasure.
My cock starts to harden as she tips her head back against the arm of the couch, lips parted, completely undone by something as simple as touch.
“You like that?” I ask, my voice low and rough.
“Oh yeah,” she breathes.
When I grab her other foot and pull it into my lap, rubbing slow circles into the arch, she melts even further. Her knees relax just a little—just enough. And though I don’t think she realizes it, I can see right between her legs.
I close my eyes and groan—a deep, needy sound I don’t mean to let out. She tenses slightly at the sound, but doesn’t pull away.
I take a deep breath, dragging her scent into my lungs like it’s oxygen and sin all wrapped together, then pause my movements.
Fuck. I came here for a reason. A real reason.
When I stop rubbing, she starts to pull her feet away.
“Sorry, songbird,” I murmur. “I’m keeping these.”
I open my eyes and resume the slow massage, watching as she blushes furiously, her cheeks burning as she tries—and fails—not to squirm.
Clearing my throat, I manage, “I came to apologize.”
I force my voice to stay steady, even though her scent is pulling at every last shred of my control—and her foot keeps brushing accidentally against the bulge in my jeans.
“For what happened at the café.”
She shifts again, not meeting my eyes. There’s a flicker of sadness behind her expression.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she says quietly.
“Yeah, I do.”
I lean in a little closer, pulling her feet farther into my lap. Now they’re resting directly over my hardened length, and I watch the way her breath catches when she notices, the way her thighs press together just slightly.