13. Cassian
Cassian
When I told Vivienne last night that I needed to get an early start in the morning, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.
While I don’t normally sleep until eleven like Bash does, I’m not exactly an early riser.
Typically, I allow myself just enough time to get dressed and make a French press before work.
But most mornings my roommate is dead to the world, not potentially wandering the halls of the house in lingerie or something equally terrifying, which is motivation enough for me to beat the sun out of bed today.
The door of Dad’s house is unlocked, and the scent of frying bacon greets me at the threshold. He’s standing at the stove, half-propped on his crutch, turning strips over in a cast iron skillet.
“Morning,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “Why don’t you let me finish that?”
Surprisingly, he lets me take over and pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. “Don’t burn it.”
“I know how to fry bacon, Dad.”
“Figured you had an in-house chef in your fancy city flat.”
I laugh. “Bash would need to actually eat at home for that. So no, we don’t have a chef.” God, I’d go mental. Having a cleaning staff is bad enough.
“You didn’t need to come over, Cass,” my dad says with a sigh. “I can get my own breakfast.”
“That is debatable.” While the meat cooks, I measure grounds into my French press. “Besides, I needed coffee.”
“I still don’t understand why you fiddle with all of that. Coffee is coffee.” He takes a loud slurp from his own drip brew.
As much as it pains me to say it, I’ve become a java snob since moving to the city. Not only does mine taste a thousand times better than the shit my dad drinks, but I like the extra effort. It makes me feel grounded, probably the same way tinkering with things does for him.
“Trust me, there’s a difference,” I say.
“I’ll take your word for it.” He picks up a toolkit from the floor and the small oil can he keeps on the shelf above the table. “How did it go last night?”
“Fine.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yep.”
“Talk to her?”
“Yep.”
“Cassian.”
“Yeah?” I remove the rest of the bacon from the pan and crack a couple of eggs into the hot grease. They crackle and pop, tiny droplets of sizzling fat hitting my bare arm. I hardly feel it.
“I’m just going to keep asking until you give me a real answer.”
I whirl around, spatula in hand. “What do you want me to say? That we both thought it was weird that I was coming to stay with her, and I had to explain that my dad’s a paranoid freak?”
He drops his head to hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the bloody bastard. “I’ve been called worse things.” He rubs a rag over a pair of pliers, oiling the hinge joints and pretending he didn’t just make things ten times worse for me.
I roll my eyes and turn back to my eggs, fantasizing about leaving the old man here to fend for himself, but also knowing I’ll never do it. He may be a pain in the ass, but I love him. I can’t imagine having a father like Bash and Viv’s. Lord Wilson is an absolute terror.
Last night at the manor was as awkward as I thought it would be.
The universe must have it in for me, because not only was Viv still up when I got to the house, but she was sitting in the kitchen when I walked in.
Nearly scared the shit out of me. I can only imagine how she felt about me barging into her house in the dark.
Every time she moved, I caught a whiff of her soft, citrusy vanilla perfume, and it hit me right in the gut.
She has an essence about her that draws you in.
It’s not even sexual—it’s just Viv. It makes you want to lean in, to be as close to her as you can.
I’ve seen perfect strangers angle their bodies toward her as if she’s the most captivating thing in the room, and she always is.
Which is exactly why it’s imperative I stay as far away as possible these next few weeks.
I should be trimming back the ivy. It needs to be done before fall, and there’s no way my dad’s climbing a ladder to do it. But like an idiot, I’ve convinced myself it can wait for another day—the day Viv goes to the city or grows tired of being here alone and packs her bags.
So what am I doing instead? Dragging the tennis court, naturally.
Sure, no one’s likely to use it in the next month—it’s not like Vivienne is going to be playing by herself.
But it has one distinct advantage over a lot of other tasks I could be doing: it’s far enough from the house that the chances of running into its sole occupant are unlikely.
I pull the mat behind me as I sprint across the court, the chains rattling softly over the ground.
My plan is to keep an eye on the driveway, and the second I spy the Range Rover leaving, I’ll head to the manor and keep working on the ivy situation.
There are a million things on my dad’s list that need to be done before the wedding.
I’m simply choosing from among them strategically.
Three grueling hours of making every possible repair to the tennis court later, there’s finally movement from the house, except Viv doesn’t appear to be leaving. She comes outside, a yoga mat tucked under her arm. From my position, I have a direct line of sight onto the back terrace.
I do the right thing and return to mending the net, only it doesn’t have a lot of damage, so my eyes keep wandering back up.
Vivienne has unrolled her purple pad and is bending over in a downward-facing dog.
It’s not like I’m trying to look, but her lavender sports bra and matching pants don’t exactly blend into the landscape.
I wonder what her fiancé thinks about her spending all this time here alone.
If Landon had more than a single brain cell in his head, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight for more than a day.
I’m sure she’d tell me that he trusts her, but I say fuck that.
It’s not about trusting her. It’s the other guys I don’t trust. Not to mention, if you’ve got a girl like that, why the hell would you want to be away from her longer than you had to?
She shifts positions, sitting with her legs extended to the sides until she’s nearly doing the splits.
Maybe she’s planning to ride after her workout.
I’m not sure why else she’s at Belgrave, if not to spend more time with her horse.
Once she’s married, she’ll probably be locked inside a penthouse, forced to plan charity galas and luncheons all day.
She’d better take advantage while she still can.
But if she is planning to take Rhya out, she’ll have to walk right past the tennis court. Which means it’s time to find a new project to tackle.