26. CADE
CHAPTER 26
CADE
H ope Garcia is in my arms.
The scent of vanilla envelops me and I lean even more into it. Her hair is soft and warm against my face. Or maybe that’s her skin. I press my nose against it, desperate for more. Her curves are snug against me and it’s all at once the most comfortable and exhilarating feeling of my life. Even better than striking out a cleanup batter with my cutter.
Wait. She feels rather flat. I run my hand across her side and except for some tiny wrinkles in her clothes, she’s as flat as…
My mattress.
I crack an eye open.
Yeah, that’s because Hope Garcia is, in fact, not in my arms. There’s nothing in them but air, and I’m lying alone in my bed. Groaning, I close my eyes. It felt so real. I could’ve sworn I was touching her skin. In fact, my pillow kinda smells like her.
And then the door opens and she walks in.
“What the—” The two words spill out of my mouth like a scream. Pure adrenaline kicks in and I roll away from her, trying to hide any possible vestiges that I was really enjoying that dream. By a stroke of luck, the sheets wrap around my waist. By an even bigger stroke of luck, they also prevent me from rolling all the way down the bed and crashing on the floor.
I balance myself against the opposite edge of my mattress and lift my head up. Her arms are folded and her tongue’s tucked against her cheek. I squeeze my eyes closed but when I open them, she’s still standing in the middle of my bedroom. Everything feels very real this time—the dip of the mattress beneath me, the hot bed sheets, the cool air—so I must be fully awake.
She tilts her chin down at me. “You may want to cover up.”
Oh, shit. Did I make it all worse?
Swallowing hard, I rise even more to look down at myself. The bed sheets tug at my sweatpants dangerously, instead of erm, protecting my modesty. If anything, I’m showing a hell of a lot more skin than I was trying to spare. I clear my throat as I grab a handful of the sheets and pull them up to my stomach.
“I, uh. Sorry about that,” I mumble in a rasp.
Garcia is cool as a cucumber, though. Which… yeah, it’s annoying as shit. I know she works around buff dudes all the time, but would it kill her to show some reaction?
“Where do you have your comfy T-shirts?”
It takes me a moment to process her question amid the fog of hormones and annoyance swirling in my mind. “Second drawer on the right side of the dresser.” That’s the drawer I’m one hundred percent sure doesn’t have underwear or jockstraps.
Her steps barely make any sound as she trods over to the dresser. Pulling open the correct drawer, she takes a look for a quick moment until she plucks out a yellow Orlando Wild T-shirt, with the team name in purple like it is in our alternate uniform. Then she tosses it at my face.
“Oof.” I grab a handful of the fabric and remove it from around my head. “That was pretty good, Garcia. You could be our new relief pitcher.”
“Get dressed and come to the kitchen when you’re ready. You need water and food desperately.”
I need other things that I can’t mention aloud without scaring her off. Instead, I snap my trap shut and nod, watching her leave the room and close the door behind her.
Collapsing back on my bed, my ever helpful memory recalls the exact moment I created a door code specifically for her and texted it along with my address. That was probably a minute before passing out.
The clock on the wall says it’s almost nine and on cue, this time my stomach gurgles with hunger. That’s gotta be a good sign.
Straining, I manage to drag myself out of the bed, balled up T-shirt in my hand, and head to the bathroom.
Some ten minutes later, I emerge from my room wearing the T-shirt. My feet are bare on the floor, and there’s a fresh smell of lemon that tells me Carmen was here today. She’s not in the kitchen, though. It’s just Garcia by herself, stirring the contents of a pot with a ladle while she holds the lid with her other hand.
I stop and stare blatantly. Whenever Carmen gives me food, it’s because she’s cooked it at her home since I hire her as a cleaner and not as a cook. The meal service I hire just delivers to my front door, and I barely ever make anything myself.
This is the first time anyone cooks in my kitchen.
I blink hard like my eyes are the shuttle of a camera, trying to preserve this moment in my memory forever. Garcia makes a little sound from her throat, like the smell of the food alone is enough to bring her satisfaction. My body is simultaneously too cold and too hot, and I have to steel myself against a shiver. My tongue turns into lead, though, and there’s no way I can speak.
Garcia notices me at last. Her eyes lower to my now clothed chest, before flying back up to my face, and I realize that I forgot to comb my hair. I wish I didn’t look like a sleaze right now. I wish I looked my finest.
But then again, she wouldn’t be here if that was the case.
“Sit down, I’ll fix you a bowl.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I drag my feet around the kitchen island as promptly as my weak ass allows. Grunting, I heft myself on a barstool.
Her back is to me as she reaches for a bowl she already had lined up by the stove. She must’ve rummaged through the entire kitchen to find what she needed, and I don’t judge. I use it so little that I’d have done the same myself.
She’s still in her daily training staff uniform, black joggers that hug her hips and her butt, and a tight purple long-sleeved shirt that clings to her tiny waist. My mouth waters, and it’s not precisely because of the incredible smell of hearty soup permeating the air. Her ponytail is half over her shoulder, half streaming behind her and obscuring the column of her neck, and I could swear I know exactly how it feels like against my face to the point that it makes me itch.
Shit. I feel like an absolute fool—just the same as the rest of men. How the hell had I never noticed how gorgeous she is?
Maybe it’s better this way. If I had, I’d have asked her out the second I found out she was looking, just like Lucky did.
Wait a freaking second. Does that mean he had the hots for her like, for real? Is that why he got so intense with me after her date with Kim?
I shake my head hard and that’s when Garcia turns around to bring a massive bowl of soup over, carrying it between oven mitts. “Careful, it’s really hot.”
Ya don’t say?
I wait on edge as she slowly walks around the kitchen island, sucking in air as she places the bowl in front of me and whiffs me with her arm. I can’t believe I’m angry that she didn’t accidentally touch me.
“Right, water.” She snaps her fingers. Now that she’s free of the steaming soup, she’s much quicker to skip over to the fridge. “I mixed in some electrolytes to hydrate you faster.”
“Thank you,” I say, overwhelmed out of my mind between the smell of homemade food, of her—her presence alone—how alive my whole house looks with her in it, how unexpected and hard that hits me. I blurt out, “I didn’t think you’d come.”
She twists her face. “You gave me your address.” Then sets the drink on the kitchen island, sliding it over to me.
“Yeah, but I still didn’t think you’d come.” I avoid her eyes by grabbing the spoon. The bowl has soup, all right, but also an assortment of vegetables, corn, and pieces of chicken in it.
“Mrs. Gonzalez was also extremely shocked to see me.”
My eyes whip up. “You met Carmen?”
“Yep. She thought I was a stalker at first because apparently you have no one else to visit you, ever.”
I don’t know why that combination of words gives me vertigo, like I’m sitting still but someone is slowly yanking the floor from under me and I can’t do anything about it.
I try to distract myself by picking a spoonful of soup with plenty of chunks in it. After blowing on it slightly, I put it in my mouth and almost die right here. My tastebuds explode with flavor. I lock my throat so that no matter what happens, the nascent groan doesn’t escape from it.
Garcia folds her arms and lowers them to lean on the counter, which is already much more than I can take in my weakened state when the move frames her chest so well. “I had to show her my employee ID to pacify her, which was fine, I appreciate that she looks out for you so much. Especially because apparently you have literally no family to do that for you?”
I choke so hard on the soup that I’m afraid a chunk of potato will come out of my nose.
“Drink,” Garcia says breezily, pushing the water bottle closer to me from across the kitchen island.
I uncap it and take a healthy swig. After a bad coughing fit that burns my throat even more, and some more swigs of the drink, I manage to utter a weak, “what?”
Garcia looks almost angry. “I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” My brain is still not processing.
“That you have no family. What the hell? Why did I not know something as important as that?”
“I—I have no idea. It’s not like it’s a secret,” I rasp out and squint at her. “Why are you even upset about it?”
“Because!” She throws her hands in the air. “It’s a pretty big thing. I feel like a terrible person for having no idea.”
“You freaking weirdo,” I say with more shock than any bite. “It’s on my literal Wikipedia page. I’ll spare you the search. Cade Starr’s early life: abandoned in the rain at the steps of a church approximately a week after birth. Absorbed by the Department of Family and Protective Services. Named after Cade Mathews, the director at the time, and last named after the lone star state. Extra r for funsies—I’m paraphrasing but that’s the gist.” I shrug.
Her voice grows even harsher. “So it’s true that you’re all alone in this world?”
“Yep.” I dig the spoon back into the hot soup, looking for the tastiest morsel to chase away the bitter taste in my mouth. “Biological parents never showed up, was never adopted and ended up growing in the system. Lucky claims to be my brother now.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, I add, “Maybe I should’ve asked him to make me soup instead.”
“He can’t. He’s down with the same bug as you.” Her chin trembles. Her eyes are glassy.
“Uh, Garcia… why do you look like you’re about to?—”
A tear rolls down her face. Then another.
My eyes go as wide as saucers. “Darlin’?”
Even worse, a massive sob escapes from her mouth, echoing around us. I sit frozen as she stomps around the kitchen island—toward me. What the hell?
And then her arms are around me, burying my face against the crook of her neck. She lands between my thighs. The spoon slides from my hand, clinks loudly against the porcelain bowl, and falls on the marble.
“What’s happening?” I ask, stunned, my lips moving against her skin.
Her chest racks with another sob. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. And here I’ve been treating you like garbage all these years, thinking that you were just another self entitled prick of a man baby.”
I bark a laugh. “Wow, tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m serious, Starr.” She sniffs and that’s when I realize that her face is buried in my hair. “I feel really bad right now.” She squeezes me even harder.
I’m not nice enough to put the distance she deserves. Instead, I fully go for it. Wrapping my arms around her, I bring her as close as can. I breathe deep to get as much of her scent as I can, and I command every molecule of my body to memorize the feeling of her in my arms. This is way better than any dream.
“It’s okay, Garcia. I’m okay.” My left hand travels up her spine, farther until I find the skin at the back of her neck.
She sighs against my hair and I’m undone. In a way I’ve never been.
But then she’s pulling away and I have no choice but to let her. I tighten my jaw so I don’t ask her not to leave. Her hands push slightly at my shoulders and I dare to lift my face.
She’s biting her lower lip and a new tear rolls down her cheek. Her eyes are red and puffy, and so is the rest of her face. I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my life.
Swallowing hard, I run my thumb gently across her cheek to dry her tears. A visceral need grows in my belly, much deeper than the desire I already felt for her. And it’s the need to ask her if I can be hers. If she can claim me. If she can be the one I need to never be alone again.
But I can’t do that. She’s been looking for someone who can offer her everything she wants, and here I am, just wanting to take more from her—when she’s already offered her time and her presence when I’m sick. Especially not when she already explained that it would be too risky for her to date someone from work. It makes me angry at myself for wanting her.
“The… the soup is growing cold,” I mumble.
With a little gasp, she retreats from the warm circle of my limbs. “Right! You need to eat and I, uh, I need to get going. It’s super late.”
I watch her scramble around the kitchen, dumping used things in the dishwasher, throwing out garbage—not looking at me at all, clearly uncomfortable. I force myself to keep eating the soup she made.
“There’s plenty left over. Just put it in air tight containers and you can freeze it. I’m going to leave now but if you need anything else text me. Or call me. Not Rivera, though, he’s also sick. See you later, Starr—No, I kinda hate your last name now. Cade? But that’s also not really yours. Cowboy? Should I call you Cowboy forever?” Her eyes widen, as if she’s only realized now that she just crammed a million words into five seconds.
I take my sweet ass time chewing some bits of chicken and veggies, swallowing, and finally speaking. “Trust me, Cade’s been mine for twenty seven years.”
“Cade?” She breathes out.
“Yes, Hope?”
Her jaw drops. “So, uh. First name base?” I don’t know if she means it as a pun or just misspoke, but I like it.
I snort through my nose softly. “You just made me soup and hugged me. That’s definitely first name base.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounds weird even as she nods firmly. “Good night, Cade.”
Even though she’s firmly out of bounds, I can’t help feeling buoyant at this moment. Smiling, I rasp out, “Good night, Hope.”
I watch her leave my house, cross my yard, and disappear behind the entrance. And even well after she’s gone, my heart keeps racing like a horse.