Chapter 21 #2
"You bring in an outside consultant." She gets to her feet—if she doesn't move, she'll suffocate.
"Which I understand, up to a point. It's standard practice when two companies are partnering up.
But the fact that the head of the business development department—after sixteen goddamn years—has to prove she still has something to offer? That's a real slap in the face."
They stare each other down. There's a standoff between them—maybe a threat neither one is going to say out loud.
"And that's not even the worst part," she hisses, not looking away from him. "The worst part is that you walk into my office, congratulate me on winning this ridiculous competition, and casually mention that I have nothing left to worry about because Frances is gone. That's humiliating, Samuel."
She says it with clenched fists, a flushed neck, and eyes burning with anger. The man lifts his chin—a gesture she usually makes, but one that looks out of place on him—and stands, though he doesn't move toward her.
"Age brings experience, but it brings distrust right along with it," he says, buttoning his jacket. "That's coming from a man who's got at least twenty years on you and can't afford the mistakes he used to."
Samuel adjusts the pocket square peeking out from his breast pocket before speaking again.
"Good work, Diane."
With that, he walks out of the office, leaving the air as scorched as hell itself.
Diane doesn't take her eyes off his back until he disappears through the door, and a headache settles deep in the base of her skull, promising her a miserable afternoon to cap off the awful morning she's already had.
Fortunately, she has several meetings to keep her occupied, and after that she can go home—because she doesn't think she can stand another minute in this place.
At eight that evening, Diane Carter turned onto her street after an exhausting day at the office.
She reaches up to press the remote clipped to her sun visor and open the gate when she spots a woman leaning against the wall outside, scrolling through her phone.
She looks up. Their eyes meet. Then Cassidy Collins smiles and waits for the car to pull in before she follows.
"Hey." The girl walks toward Diane with her hands buried in her coat pockets. "Congratulations—looks like you pulled it off."
Diane closes the car door and shakes her head before walking toward the front entrance with Cassidy right behind her. They both go in, and while Diane shrugs off her jacket, the blonde shifts her weight from foot to foot, betraying a trace of nerves that isn't usually there.
"Who told you?" Diane asks, moving into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. God, what she wouldn't give for a good bottle of whiskey right now.
"Everyone knows." Cassidy shrugs and leans against the counter. "An email went out from management saying the consultant's work had wrapped up, and praising the business development department for the proposal."
Diane scoffs, disgusted. Every single thing that's happened today only makes her despise Whitestone's leadership more.
Cassidy clears her throat and holds Diane's gaze with those green eyes that are brighter than usual.
"What I said yesterday, I meant it—about celebrating." She bites her lip. "I want to take you to dinner. Friday or Saturday, whenever works for you." She's so nervous it's starting to get under Diane's skin. "I just wanted to say it in person. Away from the office."
Diane's hand tightens around the glass, the same tension wrapping itself around her throat right now.
"There's nothing to celebrate, baby," she murmurs, and it comes out softer than she wants it to. She turns and sets the glass down carefully, away from her. "I was asked to do a job and we did it. That's all."
She starts moving around the kitchen erratically, opening cabinets and closing them again. When she passes by Cassidy a second time, the girl catches her by the waist and pulls her in.
"You're too smart not to know the dinner's an excuse," Cassidy says, studying her face.
"What I'm trying to say is I want a real date with you.
A real one—outside this house, outside the office.
" She brushes her lips against Diane's. "We've been sleeping together for months, we get along, we understand each other, and this past weekend I got the confirmation that what we have can work. "
Diane starts to feel something like pressure in her chest—as if she's flat on the ground and someone's driving a knee into her back.
What Cassidy is talking about, what they have, is something she can control.
No expectations, no rules, and above all, no real chance of letting the girl down.
Diane Carter has always known she's broken—her parents told her so, and she confirmed it when she failed Clara, when she hurt her by not being enough.
She has to keep protecting herself. And even if she's fairly certain about what she feels for Cassidy, she's sure that in time it'll pass.
She takes a step back and pulls free from those arms that make her feel safe.
"I think you've read this wrong," she says, and the cold voice comes back, colder than usual.
"Just because we've swapped a few stories about our lives doesn't mean this is anything more than it is.
It's been fun—that's all. And if you hadn't shown up at my house Friday night, I promise you none of what happened here would have. "
Cassidy doesn't answer right away. She holds Diane's eyes, long enough to know that every word coming out of her mouth is a lie.
"I've read this wrong," Cassidy repeats, mouth pulling at one corner, head tilting slightly.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but what you're saying is that six months of looks, conversations, smiles—not counting the times we've slept together—none of it means anything?
It's just casual sex between two women who don't feel a thing? "
Diane tilts her head.
"Don't tell me you thought it was something more?" The mocking tone cuts straight through her, because she knows she's hurting someone who doesn't deserve it. "You're young, but old enough to know the difference between something real and something that was never going anywhere."
Cassidy raises her eyebrows.
"Wow. So I must be pretty naive—especially thinking that the way you've been looking at me for months means you feel something, or that lately you kiss me differently, hold me tighter, and that when I stayed here Saturday night"—she points upward toward the bedroom where they shared a bed—"you held onto me and didn't let go until we woke up. "
Diane's expression is unreadable, and Cassidy's heart cracks a little more.
"I like you, Diane. A lot. And I'd be lying if I said I haven't started feeling more," she whispers.
She runs a hand through her hair; she's not ready to say she's in love.
"I'd love for us to give this a real shot—because I know I make you feel something too, I know you're comfortable with me, and—"
Diane cuts her off, raising both hands.
"I'm telling you again, baby," she says, and even now she can't drop the endearment, though her voice comes out measured, an edge to it.
"You've read this wrong, and from the looks of it you've gotten in over your head—so it's better we stop this now.
It's not worth you falling apart over something only you're feeling. "
Cassidy's heart is just as shattered, but through the pain comes anger. One thing is Diane not wanting to take a step forward. Another is her denying everything they've shared.
"Are you sure?" Cassidy asks, eyes not leaving her face.
"Because I'm not going to put my life on hold, Diane.
I'm not going to wait around for you to realize you've made a mistake and come find me.
I'm not that kind of woman. I don't stop everything just because someone can't make up their mind—I've had way too much of that in my life to take it now. "
Her head is pounding and her hands are starting to shake, but she has to hold her ground. She won't give in.
"Don't worry. That's not going to happen," Diane breathes. A pull in her stomach robs her of air. "Go live your life, Cassidy. You're young—you've got a lot of road ahead of you."
"Okay," the blonde answers immediately. "I guess I'll see you at the office, then."
Cassidy walks out of the kitchen like Diane is chasing her with an ax, because she's not about to let that woman see her cry. Her face is already wet, her pulse is racing, and the pain stings like an open burn.
When she gets into her car, she grips the wheel with both hands and presses her forehead against the leather, making herself a promise—one more time—that she will not let herself be fractured by people like her.
People just like those parents who used to show up at the group home when she was little, spending weeks playing with five-year-old Cassidy every afternoon, and then adopting another child without a word of explanation.
No. She won't allow it. Diane Carter is going to be a thing of the past.