Chapter 6 Cassian
CASSIAN
I'm bored out of my fucking mind.
I pick up my phone at eight in the evening while Steve is reading upstairs. Boredom. Restlessness.
The phone rings three times before she answers.
"Hi?” Her voice is cautious, like she's trying to figure out who would call her this late.
"Hey, it's Cassian." I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out. The station is quiet enough that I can hear my own breathing. "I'm going crazy here. You doing anything?"
"It's late," she says.
"I know." I tap my fingers against the armrest. The impulse to see her is strong enough that I'm not bothering to pretend it isn't. “And you probably need a break from wedding planning hell. Come hang out."
There's a pause. I can hear her thinking through it, weighing the reasons why this is a bad idea against whatever part of her is tired enough and stressed enough to say yes anyway.
"That's not a good idea," she says.
"Probably not," I agree. "But I'm thinking about it anyway. You got anything better to do?"
"We got caught by Jessica," she says.
“I wasn’t thinking about that.”
I was, but not right now. I want to get to know her better first.
“I was thinking more in the line of playing chess. You probably know how to play. It's just two people sitting across from each other, moving pieces around a board. Nothing complicated about it."
I know I'm pushing. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her for a week, and if I don't do something with this energy, it's going to eat me alive.
"My brothers are out, so when I finish my shift in a few minutes, then I’ll be home alone,” I add. That's the thing that makes the difference. The reassurance that this is safe in a way that other things might not be.
She says yes.
I pick her up twenty minutes later from the small hotel where she's been living out of a suitcase. She's waiting outside, and when she slides into my truck, I have to grip the steering wheel a little harder than necessary.
She's wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater that hangs off one shoulder.
Her hair is down, falling in waves past her shoulders.
She's not wearing much makeup, just something dark around her eyes that makes them deeper somehow.
She looks soft and stressed and beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
"Hi," I say, pulling out of the parking lot.
"I probably shouldn't be here," she says instead of greeting me.
My hands grip the wheel, and I focus on the road instead of on how close she is, how the soft scent of her fills the cab of my truck. "But here you are."
My place is ten minutes outside of town, a small house that I share with Pine and Jett but which feels like mine in ways that matter.
I cut the engine in the driveway and sit there for a moment, feeling the weight of what I'm about to do.
She's my brother's wedding planner. A complication I don't need, but I can’t get her out of my mind.
"Come on," I say, and I have to force myself to move away from her.
The front door opens easily. The living room lights flick on, and I gesture toward the corner where my chessboard sits. It's a nice table, custom made, the kind of thing that doesn't fit with the rest of my aesthetic but which I keep anyway because it's where my mind goes quiet.
She walks toward it like she's been drawn there, her fingers hovering over the pieces.
“I can’t believe you play chess,” she says. It's not a question.
"Sometimes," I admit. “It's not the kind of thing that matches the image of the cocky firefighter.”
She laughs, and it is as if she has let down her guard in a matter of seconds, which is good.
I get us drinks, and she settles at the board. Her movements are practiced, confident. I watch her hands, the way her fingers find each piece, the focused expression on her face.
"You're good," I observe, sitting across from her.
"My dad taught me," she says. There's something soft in her voice that suggests memory and maybe pain. "When I was young. I haven't played in years, but you don't forget something like this."
"No?" I make my opening move.
"It's like remembering who you were before things got complicated," she says, and it hits me that we're not really talking about chess anymore.
We play through the first game. She beats me, and it happens in a move I don't see coming. She takes my queen with a strategy that requires thinking three moves ahead, sacrificing her bishop to set it up. When it's over, she smiles, and the smile transforms her face completely.
"You're not even trying," she says.
"I'm distracted," I say, and it's true. Her hair keeps falling across her shoulder, and I keep having to force my hands to stay on the table instead of reaching out to tuck it back.
The way she concentrates, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, the little sound she makes when she's thinking through a strategy. All of it is distracting.
"You're letting me win on purpose," she accuses.
"Maybe," I admit. "Would that be so terrible?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "Because it wouldn't mean anything. Winning should be because I played well, not because you felt sorry for me."
"Fair point." I start resetting the board, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders, the effort it's taking to keep my hands to myself. "Next game I play for real."
We play through the second game. I actually focus this time, think through my moves, and I still lose. By the third game, it's past midnight, and she's laughing at how badly I'm playing, and I'm trying not to think about how much I want to touch her.
We move to the couch at some point. I tell her I'll get us fresh drinks, and I use the time in the kitchen to grip the counter and breathe. This is not a good idea. And I'm sitting here planning how to get my hands on her again like I'm not capable of basic self-control.
When I come back, she's curled into the corner of the couch, and I sit on my side, angled toward her but keeping distance between us.
It's a struggle, that distance. Every cell in my body wants to close the gap, to pull her against me, to do all the things that a week of thinking about her has made me want to do.
"The wedding's falling apart," she says suddenly, unprompted.
I seize on the distraction like a lifeline. "Yeah?"
"Nobody's confirming," she continues, and there's frustration in her voice.
"I've sent reminders. Half the people who got invitations won't respond.
The ones who did are being vague. And Ben and Penelope won't give me a final count.
" She runs a hand through her hair, and I watch the movement like it's the most interesting thing I've ever seen.
"Jessica thinks I'm incompetent. Savannah's going to think I'm incompetent. The wedding's nearly three weeks away.”
"You're not the problem," I say, and I mean it.
"What do you mean?" She turns to look at me, and the movement brings her closer. Not much, but enough that I notice the change.
“Maybe nobody wants to go to this wedding," I say carefully. "What if the problem isn't you? What if it's them?"
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch her work through it, watch her consider the possibility that she's not failing, that the situation itself is just broken.
"There's probably an app for this," I continue, my tone shifting to something lighter. "Some kind of wedding planner app where you can populate a fake guest list. Make it seem like people actually want to be there."
She laughs. And it does something to my chest that I'm not going to think about too carefully.
"You're so bad," she says, shaking her head.
"I'm serious," I protest, but I'm smiling. "There's an app for everything these days. Dating apps. Fitness apps. Why not an app for fraudulent guest lists?"
"Because it's unethical and probably illegal," she says, but she's still smiling, and I would do illegal things just to keep her smiling like that.
She settles deeper into the couch, and the distance between us shortens.
I don't move toward her, but I'm very aware of her, of how close she is, of how much effort it's taking to keep my hands to myself.
My fingers drum against my thigh, restless and eager for something to do that isn't touching her.
"Thank you," she says after a while.
"For what?"
"For this," she gestures vaguely around us. "For distracting me. For making me laugh. For not treating me like I'm failing."
"You're not failing," I say. "You're dealing with an impossible situation. That's different."
She turns her head to look at me, and we're close now. Close enough that I can see the exact shade of her eyes in the soft light coming through the windows. I grip the couch cushion between us so hard that my knuckles go white.
"Cassian," she says, and my name on her lips sounds like both a warning and an invitation.
"I know," I say. My voice comes out rough. "We shouldn't."
“Ben—” she starts.
"Isn't here," I finish. I'm looking at her mouth now, at the way her lips curve slightly, and I'm thinking about how she tastes, which I shouldn't be thinking about.
My free hand, the one not gripping the couch like it's the only thing keeping me tethered, clenches into a fist in my lap.
"And for the record, this isn't about Ben. "
"What's it about?" she asks, and there's vulnerability in the question.
"It's about the fact that I can't stop thinking about you," I say. The words come out rough and honest. “And I'm trying really fucking hard to keep my hands to myself, and it's not working."
She swallows hard. "We can't—"
"I know," I say again. I do know. I know all the reasons why this is a bad idea. I also know that I'm running out of reasons to care. "But I want to. And I think you want to."
"That doesn't make it a good idea," she says, but she's leaning forward slightly.
"No," I agree. "It doesn't."
I reach out and touch her cheek with the back of my fingers. Her skin is soft and warm, and the touch sends electricity through my whole body. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into it, her eyes half-closing like she's been waiting for this.
"Sharon," I say, needing her to understand that this is a choice, needing her permission in a way that I usually don't care about.
"Okay," she whispers.
She crashes into me, mouth demanding. After a week of restraint, her kiss ignites something feral.
I freeze, shocked by the taste that floods my senses.
My hands seize her face, thumbs digging into the hollows beneath her cheekbones.
She moans against my mouth, fists clenching my shirt so hard I feel the fabric strain.
Her tongue claims mine, insistent, devouring. The sound tearing from her throat shoots straight through me, molten and urgent, stealing my breath. Her hands claw upward from my chest to my shoulders, nails marking territory.
She moves suddenly, knee scraping across the couch until she's grinding against my thigh. I drag my fingers down her spine, counting vertebrae like a man counting his last moments of sanity. I want to rip the sweater from her body, expose the freckles scattered across her skin like targets.
Her mouth attacks my jaw, each bite a brand. I'm burning alive, hips bucking beneath her weight.
"Cassian," she says, and it's both a plea and a protest.
I pull her back, capture her mouth again, and she responds immediately.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and I can feel the urgency in her touch, the same restless energy that's been eating at me all week.
My other hand finds the bare skin where her sweater has slipped off her shoulder, and I swear under my breath because she feels even better than I imagined.
She gasps into the kiss, and I'm about to do something I'll probably regret later when the front door slams open.
“What the fuck is this?” Ben stands in the doorway, and he takes in the scene in one long look. Sharon practically in my lap, her hair mussed from my hands, her sweater pushed half off one shoulder, my hand on her bare skin.
The moment shatters.
Sharon goes rigid like I've shocked her. She scrambles backward on the couch, straightening her sweater with shaking hands. I don't move for a moment, just watch my brother watching us, feeling the anger radiating off him like a physical thing.
"What the hell is going on?" Ben's voice is ice, each word sharp enough to cut.
Sharon stands up, putting distance between us. Her face is flushed, a combination of embarrassment and something that looks like fear. She won't meet my eyes.
"I was just—" she starts.
"Fucking the wedding planner?" Ben finishes, his tone dripping with contempt. "Real professional, Cassian."
"She's not—" I start, anger flaring through me at how he's talking about her.
"I should go," Sharon says, and her voice is small, apologetic in a way that makes me want to do something violent to my brother. She grabs her purse with shaking hands.
I stand, reaching for her arm. "Don't—"
"We really need to stop doing this," she says softly, pulling away from me. The withdrawal hurts more than I want to admit. "This was a mistake."
Ben is still standing in the entryway, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to feel guilty for wanting something that felt more right than anything I've done in months.
"None of your business," I say.