16. Vivienne
Vivienne
I’ve just come through one of the most awkward dinners of my life, and that’s saying something, because my family scores high marks at every meal for making people uncomfortable.
The Cordero kitchen is quiet except for the rain against the window and the soft clinking of dishes in the sink as Cassian washes up.
I take another plate from him and dry it before stacking it in the cupboard with the others.
Mateo has the television on in the living room, providing a modicum of background noise that does little to quell the tension in the air.
Cass made it no secret he doesn’t want me here. Other than the brief smile he flashed me when I got into his car, he’s given me nothing but scowls and irritated glances all evening. Even those only last a second before he turns away, as if the very sight of me disgusts him.
It’s not this bad back home. Sure, we don’t hang out one-on-one, but he never acts repulsed by me. Maybe he’s just on his best behavior around our friends. With only his dad here, there’s no need to hide how he really feels.
Cass hands me another plate without so much as turning his head in my direction. It’s bad enough being rejected by someone I consider a friend, but what Cass and I have—had—is more than just friendship. At least I always thought so.
It’s not the first time I’ve been devastatingly wrong.
When the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, and there isn’t anything else he can use to avoid me, he grabs his hoodie from the hook on the wall and says, “I’ll drive you home.”
I scramble to gather my things and say goodbye to Mateo. As I’m bending down to kiss the man’s cheek, he says quietly, “Don’t let him get to you. He’s going through a tough time.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I just wish he’d talk to me about it instead of bottling everything up.”
“Cordero men aren’t good at talking about their feelings.” He pats my hand where it rests on his shoulder. “Just keep being there for him.”
I give him one more squeeze before returning to the kitchen. I don’t have the heart to tell him that his son hasn’t wanted me to be there for him in a very long time.
The door opens, and Cassian blows in, the wind trying hard to follow him into the house. He slams the door shut behind him, making the floorboards rattle. “The road’s flooded.” He shakes his head, water droplets flying from his wet hair onto the mat.
I blink at him. In the living room, Mateo mutes the TV and cranes his head around his recliner.
“What do you mean it’s flooded?” I push past Cass to go see for myself.
“It’s a gravel road,” he says. “It floods within minutes of a storm starting. This one’s been going for at least an hour.” He tugs his sweatshirt over his head, revealing a wide strip of his stomach as his T-shirt rides up. A flush climbs my neck.
“But—” I stare at him with wide eyes as panic rises in my chest. “But I need to get back to the house.” More importantly, I need to get out of this house, where I have clearly overstayed my welcome.
“I’ll take you home in the morning.” His voice is low and soothing, the way I talk to an unsettled horse. A sudden, overwhelming desire to see Rhya washes over me. I’d give anything to spend the night in the stables with her.
“I’ll walk.” Desperation clouds my vision as I reach for the door, but Cass stops me with a hand on my wrist.
“Vivvy.”
Every nerve in my body flares to life. My hand is still on the knob, Cassian’s warm skin searing into mine, and I make no move to retract it. He hasn’t called me Vivvy in so long, I’d almost forgotten the nickname. Almost.
My breath comes in short gasps as we stare at each other. It’s been a lifetime since he looked at me long enough for me to catch the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, to feel the mad churning in my chest as if he’s reaching inside me and stirring it up himself.
“It should be passable tomorrow,” he says in a tone like honey, smooth and comforting.
A sinking foreboding steals over me as I realize there’s no way out. I’m stuck here until Cass deems it safe to leave. “I don’t want to be in the way.”
A flash of pain crosses his face so quickly, I think I might have imagined it. “You’re not. Make yourself at home.” He waits until I nod in acceptance before removing his fingers from my wrist.
It reminds me of when Mateo leaned over during dinner and told me I’m like family. Tears sprung up uninvited at his words, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in that feeling forever.
Make yourself at home.
Once upon a time, that would have been easy to do. But I’m no longer sure where I fit into Cassian’s life, or if he even wants me in it at all.
I tuck my feet beneath me on the window seat in the Corderos’ living room, wishing I’d worn a sweater rather than just a turtleneck.
It may be the end of August, but the evenings get chilly, especially out here in the country, where there’s little to block the wind from whipping through small cracks in the stone walls.
There’s something about a storm—the way it lashes at the window, intent on getting in, but no matter how hard it tries, you’re tucked safely inside.
I’ve always loved everything about the rain.
The sound as it plinks against metal, the smell mixed with damp earth, the feeling of freshness and renewal once it stops.
It’s like nature’s way of inviting you to slow down and get cozy.
Mateo’s still watching TV, the volume turned down until it’s little more than a murmur.
After telling me to make myself comfortable, Cassian returned to the kitchen.
Every once in a while, I hear the gentle sounds of someone moving around, but I haven’t seen him since.
He’s probably doing everything in his power to avoid being near me.
Eventually, we’re going to have to address the issue of where I’ll be sleeping tonight, but I’m more than happy to put it off as long as possible.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Sutton and Marlowe.
Me: You’ll never guess where I am.
Sutton: Landon’s bed??
I repress a shudder.
Marlowe: If you say a plane to Paris, I will kill you.
Me: Cass’s dad’s house. The road to the manor is flooded.
Marlowe: SHUT UP
Sutton: Why are you there in the first place?
Me: Long story.
Marlowe: Sounds like the perfect opportunity to lose that v-card . . .
Sutton: MARLOWE ADELE VON ZIEGESAR
Marlowe: Just kidding. GOD. She’s engaged, Sutton. Obviously I wasn’t serious.
My face bursts into flame, and I quickly power off my phone and stuff it beneath my leg. Marlowe’s probably several martinis into her evening, and even though I know she was joking, the thought that even one of my best friends thinks Cass and I might be good together stings more than it should.
Raindrops drizzle down the windowpane, moving too swiftly for me to follow with my fingertip, but I try anyway.
The glass is cool beneath my skin, and I suppress a shiver.
I’m inside, where it’s warm and dry, but freezing water sluicing down my back would feel more welcome than the iceberg between Cass and me.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I turn to find him approaching, a blanket draped over one arm and holding a steaming mug.
“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, handing me the cup.
Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and a strange energy courses through me. The aroma of green tea and honey wafts up, bringing with it the sense of home. “Thank you.” I can’t dwell on the fact that he knows exactly how I like my tea.
“Lean forward,” he says.
I do, and he wraps the age-worn quilt around my shoulders. There isn’t more skin contact, but that doesn’t stop my heart from beating erratically as he smooths out the fabric. I grab the blanket to keep it from sliding down.
“One more thing.” He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and withdraws a book. It’s a tattered ’80s trade paperback with a picture of a couple embracing beneath a tree on the cover.
I give a soft laugh and set my mug down beside me. “I didn’t know you were a Bronte fan.” I take the copy of Wuthering Heights from him, flipping through the pages of one of my favorite stories.
“I’m not,” Cass says, perching on the edge of the window seat by my feet. “Just thought some of your favorites might make you feel more at home. I know you’d rather be back at the manor.”
I tug the ends of the quilt closer and wiggle my toes under his thigh, where it’s warm, forcing him to look at me. His eyes meet mine, dark depths I’m no longer allowed to explore, and I fight to keep my voice from sounding breathless. “This isn’t so bad.”
The moment hangs suspended between us, a fragile thing that will break with the slightest movement.
Cass lowers his hand over my feet, cupping them in his warmth.
My breath hitches, ragged in my chest, and I hardly dare hope that things might return to normal between us.
But how can they after I ruined everything?
A crash of thunder shakes the house and rattles the windowpane.
I jump involuntarily and scramble to keep the book from falling to the floor.
When I look back at Cass, his eyes are on the TV, even though the only thing on is the news and I know for a fact he would rather chew his thumb off than watch what he refers to as garbage.
I turn my attention to Heathcliff and Catherine, but with my toes still tucked beneath Cass’s leg, it’s hard to concentrate.
They were frozen stiff initially, but he burns hotter than a bonfire.
They’re now toasty warm. I squeeze a bit further under him, hoping he’ll heat up the rest of my feet, too. Instead, he lifts them into his lap.
I glance up in surprise, but his attention is still fixed on the screen.
Idly, almost as if he’s unaware of what he’s doing, he begins rubbing my arches.
A warmth ebbs through me that chases away the chill of the evening.
Before everything that happened, he would’ve done the same thing without a second thought, but he rarely touches me these days.