18. Vivienne #2
“Yeah, like the kind of thing you’d see on Tumblr or Pinterest.” Her eyes grow brighter the longer she talks, and I’m beginning to understand what Bash sees in her. “I’d love to get some shots of you guys sometime.”
I briefly wonder if she’s a journalist, but something in her demeanor tells me I can trust her. “Of course,” I say, picking up my wine. “That sounds like fun.”
“I’ll bring my camera next time.” Her smile spreads across her face, making her look even younger. I try not to think about the fact that she’s assuming there will be a next time. One of these days, my brother will break her heart, and she’ll delete every picture she has of us.
“You seem tense,” Cassian says in a low voice.
My breath catches in my throat, because for five blissful minutes, I’d forgotten that he was sitting next to me. I glance down at my hands, which are clenched into tight fists, forcing myself to uncurl them. “Just tired,” I say.
He shifts in his chair, and though the movement is small, it ripples through him all the same.
The aftershocks of it wash over me: his scent, his warmth, the electricity of his presence.
I study the ivy tattoo wrapped around his forearm.
He got it within the past year, and I haven’t seen it up close before.
It’s such an odd thing to choose, and if things were normal and we were still us, I’d ask him about it.
“I’m going to the bar for another drink,” he says. “Do you want a refill?”
I glance over at him in surprise. “Sure.” The restaurant is full tonight, and our server hasn’t been by in several minutes. Cass takes my glass and disappears before I can tell him what kind of wine I’ve been drinking.
“Viv reads old stuff, too,” I hear Bash say.
I narrow my eyes at my brother. “I can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.”
Bash grins, but his eyes are on Briar. I’ve never seen that expression on his face before, and it scares me more than anything else I’ve witnessed between them so far.
I know what it feels like when a guy looks at you like that.
You feel as if you’re the center of his universe.
All it takes is one meteorite to knock you out of orbit.
“Call it what you want,” he says, taking a sip of his IPA.
Briar rolls her eyes and turns to me. “It’s definitely a compliment. Who do you like to read?”
“Bronte, Woolf, Austen, Atwood.” I stop because we don’t have all night.
“I knew I liked you,” she says. “Favorite Bronte sister?”
“Emily, hands down. You?”
“Charlotte. I live and breathe Jane Eyre.”
“Are we naming members of the Sebastian Wilson fan club?” Cass asks as he approaches the table, drinks in hand. His fingers brush my back as he sets my wine down.
A shiver travels the length of my spine. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“Or his conquests.” Marlowe gives Bash a devious look over the rim of her glass.
Beside her, Shep frowns and gives her a subtle shake of the head.
She rolls her eyes and takes a healthy sip of her drink.
She’s in a foul mood tonight, and I know it’s not because she wants Bash for herself.
They’ve been there, done that, and I think all of us still bear the scars.
More than likely, her attitude has to do with her run-in with Finn.
I reach for my wine before remembering that Cass got me a refill. A small sip proves it’s the exact white Burgundy I had before. “How’d you know what I was drinking?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I know you.”
The rest of the group begins discussing the latest society scandal, but I tune them out.
The energy has suddenly been zapped from me, leaving me hollow.
Cass’s arm is propped on the edge of the table where he’s holding his whiskey, and before I know what I’m doing, my fingers reach out to trace the vine snaking over his skin.
I hear him take a sharp inhale, but I don’t stop. I follow it all the way from his wrist to where it meets the black band wrapping around his bicep. “Why ivy?” I ask, placing my hand back in my lap.
He shrugs, then lifts his tumbler to his lips. “Why not ivy?”
“It just seems like an odd choice,” I say quietly.
“It makes me think of the park.”
That makes sense. The manor is covered in ivy. The stuff grows like weeds around there. What doesn’t make sense is why he’d want a constant reminder of it on his arm. “I didn’t think you liked Belgrave.”
He moves his glass around, leaving wet circles on the tabletop. “I never said that.”
“I just thought . . .” I thought you despised the place.
His movements still, but he keeps his gaze trained on the wood grain of the table. “It’s my favorite place in the world.”
Several beats pass as I grapple with his words. His favorite place in the world? How is that even possible? And why? His dad’s house doesn’t have ivy, so why not choose something that reminds him of it?
Before I can ask him to clarify, our server comes to take dessert orders.
Briar leans over to me. “Do you want to share the strawberry-saffron shortcake with me?”
“I don’t really eat dessert,” I say with a wince. “Bash will eat anything, though.”
“Yeah, he’ll eat the whole thing,” she grumbles, and I laugh, because she’s not wrong.
The guys and Sutton start placing bets on tomorrow’s soccer match, but I can’t stop thinking about Cass’s tattoo. It’s still bugging me when the server returns with our dessert fifteen minutes later.
They set the shortcake in front of Briar and a chocolate mousse by Cass.
“I can’t imagine not liking sweets,” Briar says with a sigh, sticking her fork into her cake. “You sure you don’t want any of this?”
I smile. “I’m sure.”
Cass shifts beside me, and I glance over to see that he’s holding out the dark chocolate bar from the top of his pudding. As I take it, our fingers brush, and a shiver runs through me.
“Thank you,” I murmur, nibbling off a corner. He doesn’t answer, just tucks into his mousse.
I can feel Briar’s eyes on me. When I look at her, her lips are curved into a mischievous smirk.
“What?” I say, taking another bite.
“I thought you didn’t eat dessert.”
“It’s not dessert,” I say. “It’s chocolate.”
She just smiles and shakes her head.
On the other side of me, Cass has already cleaned up his plate. He leans back in his chair, and I get another whiff of his cologne. Yawning, he shoves a hand in his hair, the other pressed into his leg. He’s wearing shorts, and I fight the urge to trace the tattoo on his thigh.
Stop it, I tell myself. You’re getting married in less than two months.
And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.