16. Vivienne #2
He slumps back against the window and presses firmly on the bridge of my foot, relieving tension I didn’t even know I was carrying. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to relax and enjoy the massage. Cass’s fingers are dexterous and strong. I wonder what they’d feel like on my—
I snap my eyes open and lower my feet to the floor. “Thank you. That felt amazing,” I say, standing up.
He pushes off the window seat as well, and just when I’m kicking myself for ruining the one normal moment between us, he says, “Wanna play chess?”
I turn to see if he’s joking. There isn’t a trace of humor in his face. “Are you kidding?” I’ve loved the game ever since my granddad taught me to play when I was nine. We spent an entire winter practicing strategies.
The hint of a smile crinkles the corners of Cass’s eyes. “I’ll get the board.”
We set up the game on a small leather ottoman in front of the cold fireplace. Mateo pretends not to be paying attention, but I see him look at us every once in a while, a light in his eyes that definitely shouldn’t be there for the reason it is, but it makes me happy anyway.
Soon he clicks off the television and reaches for his crutches. “I’m going to bed, but you two stay up as long as you want.”
My face flushes. I feel like I should go to bed too, just so I’m not alone with Cass, but I’m also dreading that awkward conversation. I know he doesn’t expect us to share a bed, but he’s going to try to be gallant about it by offering to take the couch.
After he helps his dad to his room, Cass settles down opposite me and studies the chessboard. His fingers find the cross at his neck, toying with it.
“We really don’t need to play,” I say. “Bash told me you don’t like it.”
He glances up while reaching for a pawn. “I don’t like playing with Bash. I don’t mind playing with you.”
I nibble at my lip. Bash hates chess, so there’s no way he’d ever ask Cass to play.
We make our moves in silence. As the scowl on Cass’s face deepens, a tiny laugh slips out through my nose. “How is it possible that you’ve gotten worse at this?” I say.
Still frowning at my bishop pinning his knight, he picks up one of his captured pawns and tosses it at me, one corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile.
Several minutes later, when I shiver from the chill creeping through the stone walls, he glances up with concern in his eyes. “I can start a fire if you’re cold.”
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “That’s okay. I’m fine.”
He pushes to his feet without another word and returns several seconds later with his black hoodie, now dry from earlier. “At least wear this,” he says, handing it to me over the chessboard.
I take it, but only because I know he won’t let the issue rest if I don’t.
He likes to moan about his dad’s stubbornness, but his is just as strong.
I pull the sweatshirt over my head and am immediately assailed with the scent of Cassian: smoke, leather, fresh air, and the Tom Ford cologne I gave him last year during our Christmas party.
An intense longing washes over me, the same one I get every time I borrow a sweater from his closet.
“They’re so much cozier than mine,” I told him once when he caught me. I didn’t tell him that wearing his clothes is one of the only ways I still feel connected to him.
The hoodie is warm, like him, and I want to burrow in it as deeply as I can. Instead, I focus on my next move.
We finish the game less than half an hour later, when I slide my rook all the way down to his back rank. “Checkmate,” I say. It’s a meager victory. Neither of us was exactly at our best. “Thanks for playing with me.”
“Anytime.” The look on his face is unreadable. Maybe he’s also thinking about what comes after this.
As I drop the wooden pieces back into the box, I glance out the window. “It looks like it stopped raining. Maybe the road’s clear by now.”
“It’s not,” he says, folding the board in half.
I know he’s probably right, but I can’t resist a small peek just in case. As expected, the gravel road leading to the manor is still covered in water. It’s impossible to tell how deep it is from here, but getting stuck in a flood sounds much worse than spending the night in Cassian’s bed.
When I get back to the living room, he shoots me a droll look. “Satisfied?”
I tuck my lips between my teeth and release them with a pop. “Yep.”
He tosses a pillow onto the old brown-striped couch, then cracks his knuckles. “I’ll grab something you can sleep in.”
Lifting the cuff of the sweatshirt I’m wearing to my nose, I drink in Cass’s scent when he’s not looking, then follow him to his room. It still looks the way it did the last time I was here, but I guess that’s to be expected, since he hasn’t lived here since uni.
A twin bed is tucked against the wall, dark gray linens covering it.
Above it are posters of some of his favorite bands: The National, Arctic Monkeys, The Black Keys, Radiohead.
A short dresser sits beside the bed, holding a small lamp and an assortment of books.
The Count of Monte Cristo lies on top of the stack.
There’s a closet on the adjacent wall, and that’s it.
I’ve never noticed how small the room is before.
Cass pulls a T-shirt from his drawer and tosses it at me. “Do you want a pair of sweatpants, too?”
I shake out the tee and hold it against me. It’ll barely cover my bum, which would be fine if I were home alone. “Maybe some shorts?” I say.
He hands me a pair, carefully avoiding touching me, before turning to strip the bed.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa, Cass.” I can’t let him go to all this trouble for me. I’ve imposed enough.
He looks at me as if I’ve just suggested we try stealing the moon out of the sky. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then at least don’t worry about changing the bedding,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
He considers me, one hand clutching a corner of the fitted sheet. “It won’t take long. I’ve got a clean set in the closet.”
I plop down on the bed. “It’s this or the sofa.”
He rolls his eyes and sighs deeply before tucking the sheet back down. “Suit yourself.”
I end up sleeping in his hoodie for extra warmth and because I can’t bear to take it off.
Cass fills my dreams all night, probably due to the lethal combination of wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed.
The scent of him is so strong that I reach for him in the morning before I’m fully awake.
The second I register what I’m doing, I sit bolt upright in bed.
I’m here to plan my wedding. I cannot be dreaming about another man, especially not one of my best friends, even if we feel more like minor acquaintances these days.
I hear the shower running, so I decide to charge my phone while I wait for the only bathroom in the house.
As I’m rummaging in the top drawer of the dresser for a cable, I find a little bundle of papers.
When I pull it out, I recognize my own handwriting.
It’s a collection of notes Cass and I exchanged when we were kids.
We’d stick them in books in the manor library for the other one to find.
Reading through them makes me smile. What I wouldn’t give to be a young girl again, half savage—according to my mother—and free. On most of them, I had doodled vines of ivy along the sides for borders.
The shower shuts off, and I climb out of bed and grab my clothes from last night. With any luck, the rain water will have receded enough that we can drive through.
I open the bedroom door and stop abruptly at the sight of Cassian’s bare chest, once again in my face. His fist is raised as if he was about to knock.
“Hey,” he says sheepishly. “I need some clothes.”
My eyes drop to his waist as I step back to let him into the room.
His skin is still glistening from his shower, and his towel isn’t quite long enough to hide the large compass tattoo on his thigh.
The scent of his body wash fills the room, and my mouth grows as dry as old parchment crackling in a fire.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” I announce, before darting from the room. Once I’m ensconced in the bathroom, which still smells like man, I turn the water as cold as it will go.