Chapter 4
RILEY
Iabsolutely do not understand Cadence Creswell at fucking all.
I brush my teeth While the water is getting hot—replacing the twenty-year old water heater with a tankless one is high on my to-do list. I consider shaving, but I hate shaving and decide against it.
Once in the shower, I rush through getting clean.
Mainly because if I let myself linger, my attention will wander to Cadence.
To the brief, tantalizing glimpse of her naked body when I first opened the door. Any enjoyment of that quick look was eradicated when I saw her sheer terror as she huddled on the floor between my bed and the wall, shaking, hyperventilating.
But now, my idiot caveman brain keeps summoning that fragment of wonder—pale, creamy skin, the long curve of spine to buttock to thigh. The plump curve of her breast, mostly hidden by her arm.
Fuck.
I twist the knob until the water runs cold, spluttering and gasping as I race through washing and conditioning my hair and scrubbing my body clean.
Shocked out of lust, I rinse off and get out, towel off, run some gel through my hair and give it a quick brush, and then dress in my usual jeans, gray tee, and work boots.
I find Cadence still in the kitchen, leaning a hip against the sink as she stares vacantly out of the window above the sink.
God, she's so fucking beautiful.
Look, I'm a player, okay? I don't use women, don't get me wrong. I just don't try to make things last beyond a few nights, maybe a few weeks at most. It's always consensual, from the sex to the casual, limited-time-only nature of things.
Point being, I've been lucky enough to be with some seriously hot chicks.
Cadence is not hot.
She's truly, exquisitely, classically beautiful. Megan Fox was hot in the first Transformers movie; Marilyn Monroe was beautiful in Seven Year Itch. See the difference?
I hang back and just look at her. Her dress today is ankle-length, plunging in a straight line from bust to hem, white cotton that floats loosely around her figure.
I can't say for sure from two outfits, but my guess is she dresses for comfort rather than looks.
But yet, the dress flatters without being provocative or revealing.
Her hair is loose and as wild as ever, a chaotic profusion of strawberries-and-cream curls that in this light looks more strawberries than cream.
I have a brief but powerful mental image of my hands snarled in those curls as I kiss her senseless. The image, however, quickly shifts from an innocent but passionate kiss to something altogether more potent: my hands buried in those curls as she wraps her lips around my cock…
FUCK.
I savagely suppress that image, forcing myself to think of that time I accidentally walked in on Grandma fresh outta the shower. As much as I loved my Grandma, that's a real boner-killer. I go through the latest Lions stats. I think about being in the prison shower full of naked dudes.
When none of that works and the image of Cadence doing gloriously sinful things to me while I hold on to that glorious mass of curls remains burned indelibly on my mind, I pull out the biggest guns of all.
The wreck.
The day that ruined my life.
Those images will haunt me the rest of my life—
The world spins and wobbles. It's dark. Late.
My stomach is sour and full of pressure.
I know I should have listened to Cole, but I didn't. Oh well.
Almost home. That godawful Uncle Kracker song I hate so much starts playing, so I glance down and turn the knob to find a different station.
When I look up, the world freezes. A tiny red Kia is turning in front of me.
I've drifted across the centerline while fucking with the radio.
I hit the brakes and jerk the wheel, but it's too late.
The impact is abrupt and violent, a deafening, jarring, jolt of smashing glass and crumpling metal.
In reality, that's when I blacked out. I have no memory of anything past the impact.
Turns out being “black-out drunk” isn't a valid excuse for murdering a 76-year-old widow with your car.
The nausea, guilt, shame, and self-loathing does the trick, dousing my horniness more effectively than any cold shower or visions of naked grandmothers ever could.
I step into the kitchen, clearing my throat. "Hey, you ready?"
She's utterly motionless except for the slight rise and fall of her breathing, and shows no sign of having heard me.
I move closer and put myself in her line of sight. "Hey, you. Ready?"
She doesn't startle this time, but seems to…turn back on, almost, blinking her eyes and shaking her head. "Riley. Hello. Yes, I am ready."
"Where do you go when you're like that?" I ask.
She frowns, a cute little furrowing of her brow. "I went nowhere. I am here."
I suppress the laugh—she's misconstrued it every time, thus far. "No, I mean mentally. I'm asking what you were thinking about."
"Oh. Of course. I am thinking about South Sudan. More to the point, I am trying to come up with an alternative solution to the problem of attaining the requisite funds."
I hold out my hand. "Well, let's talk about it over brunch, yeah?"
She frowns at my hand as if unsure what she's supposed to do with it, and then looks at me as if trying to determine why I would be holding out my hand like that.
And then, finally, after several long, weird, silent seconds, she fits her small, soft, slender hand into mine.
I lead her outside through the side door—the only door I ever use—lock it behind me, and then pull her across the driveway to my garage.
I enter the code one-handed, and the garage door rolls up with a loud squeal.
I open the passenger door for her and hand her up and in, lean in and buckle her up.
"Riley, I have a question to ask." She says this once I've clicked the buckle into the receiver.
"Okay."
"Do you think I am going to become lost on the way from your house to the garage?"
"Um, no."
"A follow-up question, then. Do you think me incapable of operating a seatbelt?"
"No."
"Then why insist on holding my hand, and why insist on buckling me in like a helpless child?"
"I…" I clear my throat while processing this interaction. "Are you offended?"
"Yes. I am an adult." She looks at me intently, her expression one of perplexed offense. "I do not need a hand to hold. I do not need assistance buckling myself into an automobile."
"I'm sorry I offended you, Cadence," I say, half-in the cab, still. "I held your hand because I like holding your hand. That's it."
She blinks at me without otherwise changing her expression. "And the seatbelt?"
I grin at her—the smirk that others have called the panty-melter. Not my words, ya'll. "That was just because I wanted an excuse to be closer to you."
"Oh." Another flat, expressionless, slow blink. "How strange. Why?"
Again, I have to choke back a laugh at her ridiculous question. "In the kitchen, earlier. You touched my chest. Why?"
She blushes furiously. "I do not know. It was a strange impulse which I cannot explain."
I think you can, Cadence Creswell. But I won't press the issue…yet.
Bad Riley—bad. You won't press the issue ever. This girl is as pure as the driven snow, and you’ve got no business even looking at her.
"Well, never mind then. I buckled you in because it's something I like doing. But if it bothers you, I won't do it again. I certainly didn't mean it as an insult, and I truly am sorry if it came across that way."
She nods. "Very well."
I step down and close the door, laughing to myself as I round the bed. She's just so…regal…when she says shit like that. Very well.
Alright, Queen Elizabeth.
I know it's not that. She's the least arrogant, entitled, or grasping person I've ever met. It's just how she talks. It’s adorable, bizarre, confusing, frequently makes me feel dumber than a bag of broken hammers, and is inexplicably hot.
I have issues—I am aware, thanks.
She's still lost in thought, so I leave the radio down low and leave her to her thoughts as I drive us to The Alt, the vegan, gluten-free, vegetarian, and other kinds of weird-food cafe owned by the Cartwright sisters.
She doesn't stir from her position—elbow on the armrest built into the door, chin on her hand, gaze out the window—even after I've shut off the motor and opened my door.
"We’re here," I say.
No answer. My god, when this chick gets lost in her thoughts, she really gets lost in them.
"Cadence?"
Nothing.
I don't want to startle her or scare her, which seems to happen when I touch her when she's like this, but it also seems to be the only way of getting her attention, other than putting myself in her line of sight.
I get out of the cab and go around, open her door. This finally gets her attention.
"Oh! We have arrived, I see." She sighs, sounding annoyed. "My apologies, Riley. I am not very good company at the moment, I fear."
"Sure you are," I say, holding out my hand as she unbuckles.
"I am easily absorbed in my thoughts, to the exclusion of all else," she says.
"Yeah, I'm getting that. It's all good. Doesn't bother me."
"I am not ignoring you on purpose—I hope you are aware."
I smile at her. “Yeah, I got that. Just thinkin' deep thoughts. I told you—it's all good. No worries."
I release her hand once she's on the ground, but she pauses, staring down at my hand. Then at me. "You may hold my hand, if you wish." She's blushing like crazy, not looking at me. "I misunderstood your intent earlier."
I wrap my hand around hers—I doubt she's ready for intertwined fingers just yet. "There."
She looks at our hands, then at the restaurant. "But…will the staff and patrons not form incorrect notions regarding our relationship, should we be holding hands when we enter?"
“That's long for 'get the wrong impression,' yeah?"
"Correct."
"Fuck 'em. Let 'em get the wrong impression." I frown, then. "Well, on second thought, you may have a point. It won't do your reputation around here any good to be seen holding hands with me."