2. Cassy
Chapter two
Cassy
M y eyes crack open just in time to catch the door closing.
Wait. Was that…?
I blink a few times, my brain still rebooting. Hotel room. Sheets that smell like sex. Thighs aching in a good way. And a fresh memory of last night in Sin City , and that ridiculously hot, muscular, grumpy bastard, doing things to me that should be illegal in at least fifteen states.
Oh. Last night.
A slow smile curves my lips as the heat rushes right back to my cheeks, and other, lower regions. That man and his body… damn near weaponized. The kind of body that should come with a warning label and a ten-second delay before touching.
But then, click. That door shuts.
“Uh?” Gone. Just like that. My smile drops so fast that I nearly give myself whiplash.
Are you kidding me?
No note. No goodbye. No, ‘You were and are fucking amazing Cassy’? Just poof. Houdini hung like a horse, a cocky smile, and off.
I lie in stunned silence for half a second before the rage starts bubbling.
Who the actual hell does he think he is? Nobody, and I mean nobody, treats ME like that.
I roll over with a dramatic grunt, the sheets tangling around my legs as the early morning light begins to creep through the gap in the curtains.
Okay. Breathe. Think. Focus. It’s a new day. A big one.
And not just because some drop-dead gorgeous caveman decided to test the structural limits of this mattress.
Today is the day.
After four long years of clawing my way through Arizona State to get a degree in hand and a portfolio full of ambition and Instagram-worthy lattes, I’m finally starting my new job.
Media and Communications Manager for the Vegas Aces.
Not too shabby for a girl whose Dad still thinks I need permission to cross the street.
Oh yeah... Dad.
Or as the hockey world knows him: Head Coach Hugh “You’ll do it my way, or you’re benched” McCullum.
He still talks to me like I’m five. Still gives me stupid, pointless lectures. Still thinks the fact that I wear lipstick means I can’t go through a whole day without crying.
I glance at the clock mounted on the wall. 6:41 AM.
Right. Get up, shower, go home, and find something that screams ‘Yes, I’m young, yes, I’m hot, but also yes, I’m terrifyingly competent’, then get to Silver State Arena by nine.
And do not think about that Blake idiot and his stupid, hot body and his even stupider, hotter touch, and most particularly not his shitty vanishing act.
Too late.
The thought of him just ghosting out like that, like I was some bar pick-up, which I suppose, thinking about it, I was. No. He was. I picked him up! Not the other way. This sends another wave of white-hot fury through me.
And then what do I go and do?
Shut my eyes for one tiny moment. Only to blink them open again and see the clock screaming 8:05 AM in big, red, traitorous numbers.
Shit!
I launch out of bed like it's on fire, naked as the day I was born, stumbling straight over one of my shoes. Right, of course . But my damn panties? Where? Nowhere.
Where the hell is my other shoe?
My dress is still sprawled out on the floor like a crime scene victim. My bra dangles off a lamp like it’s trying to make a break for it.
I snatch up the dress. Score! My other shoe is underneath. I shimmy into the silky fabric while stepping into the rogue shoe in record speed, all the while reminding myself that underwear is a luxury I’ll deal with later.
The second I pull the dress over my hips, I bolt toward my bag by the door and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Oh. Fuck. Horrific. Horrific.
I look like I crawled out of a haunted house. Panda eyes. Mascara smudged halfway down my cheeks. Lipstick faded into ‘slightly mauled.’
Hair? A disaster. Like, a small, woodland creature-nesting disaster.
I can’t go out like this.
I yank my bag open, rummage like I’m diffusing a bomb, and thank the gods of vanity when I find my emergency brush jammed between a spare phone charger and a lip gloss that’s seen better days. I toss the bag onto the bed and rush into the bathroom.
Water. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. I splash my face like I’m trying to reset my entire existence. Then I attack my hair with the brush in front of the mirror like it personally offended me, and wet it enough to make it look somewhat presentable.
Good enough. Barely. But hey, I don’t look like I murdered someone anymore, which is a solid win.
Brush goes back in the bag, which I sling over my shoulder, and I’m out the door in less than thirty seconds.
As I power-walk in damn heels across the 12th-floor to the elevator, all I can think of is—this hallway.
Where we were kissing. Stumbling. Laughing.
Asshole.
I jab the elevator button like it owes me money. When the doors slide open, I get in, arms folded, foot tapping. As I descend, I can’t help it, this little grin creeps onto my lips.
What would Dad say if he knew? His baby girl, banging one of his precious team players. He’d have an actual aneurysm.
I almost want to tell him, just for fun. Almost.
The elevator pings, and the doors open onto the Aurora Hotel lobby. It’s buzzing with early morning chaos. Suitcases roll across the floor, there’s a hiss of a steam wand at the café, and someone argues about checkout times.
I push straight through a group loitering at the reception desk because, guess what? I’ve got bigger issues than their missing continental breakfast.
The concierge looks me up and down, probably clocking the skin-tight black dress and the complete absence of shame.
I meet his stare dead on. “WHAT?”
He blinks. “Oh, have a nice day, ma’am.”
I flip my hair like I own the entire building and strut toward the automatic doors.
Outside, the Vegas sun punches me in the face, and I squint like a mole crawling out of a cave, and dig for my keys as I walk across the hot asphalt of the parking lot.
There. Fob.
I press the button and my red sporty BMW flashes its headlights like it’s greeting me with a sarcastic little, “Rough night?”
You don’t know the half of it, baby.
I hurry the last few steps, yank the door open, toss my bag into the passenger seat, and drop into the driver’s side like the world’s hottest mess.
The engine starts.
I’ve got twenty minutes to get home, scrub myself into something resembling a professional, and make it to the arena for my first day.
Let’s go.
I slam my foot on the gas, and my car screeches as I fly out of the Aurora parking lot like I’m in a goddamn action movie. My tires squeal, and some poor valet dives out of the way. Whatever, he’ll live.
Vegas is already wide awake. Neon signs still glow like they never got the memo that it’s morning, and traffic crawls like every car on Tropicana Avenue is on life support.
“Move, you ass wipe!” I bark at the Prius doing 22 in a 45. I swerve into the next lane without even blinking. “You’ve got a job to start, and it's not sightseeing!”
I dart left, wedge myself between a cab and a garbage truck, and gun it.
“Out of the fucking way! You… Jesus.”
The ramp to I-15 North is chaos, as I slam into the curve and force my way on like I own the whole damn freeway. Speed limit says 65, I’m at 83 and climbing. I cut between lanes and slice in front of a delivery truck that blasts its horn at me. Like that’s going to slow me down.
“Yeah, yeah, blow it out your exhaust pipe, SHITHEAD!”
At Sahara Avenue, I barely make the exit, swerving so hard the tires nearly slide right off the pavement. My coffee-deprived brain flings up a mental death wish, and I ignore it like usual.
Decatur Boulevard greets me with a charming blend of red lights and people who definitely shouldn’t have licenses.
I blow through a light that might have been yellow… or not.
Oops. Too late now, officer!
Obannon Drive is finally here, thank the sweet lord. I take the corner like I’m driving a stolen getaway car, tires whining and my car tilting like it’s ready to throw in the towel.
My Dad's street is calmer, but that doesn't slow me down. Halfway down, I spot his house on the right. I've only been back two days, and it still feels weird.
Home sweet dysfunctional home.
I slam the wheel to the right, nearly flip the damn car in the process, and almost T-bone our gardener’s little Toyota as he’s pulling out.
He honks like his life depends on it, shouting out something.
God knows what.
“Sorry,” I finally pull into the drive, my poor car gasping as I slam the brakes and kill the engine.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and launch out like I’m storming the beaches of Normandy.
The front door’s just opened, perfect.
“Hi Dad,” I bolt past without stopping as he stands yelling at Martha, our housekeeper, who’s nodding like she hasn’t been hearing the same orders every damn morning for twenty years.
He turns. “Hey. Not so fast, young lady. Look at the state of…”
Nope. Not today, Coach Dad.
I blitz past Martha and sprint up the staircase, two steps at a time, ignoring whatever grumblefest he’s launching into below.
Screw that Blake. Screw rush hour. And if I don’t look like a functioning adult in ten minutes flat, screw me too.
I barrel into my bedroom, slam the door shut with my hip, and strip like I’m in a competitive speed round of Naked and Afraid.
My clothes hit the floor. I’m in the shower before my brain has time to catch up. A quick wash, no time to enjoy the heat. In and out, then towel off like a tornado.
I toss the towel and dig into my closet to grab the deep red silk blouse that hugs in all the right places, and says, ‘Yes, I have a degree. Also, no, you can’t afford me.’
I pair it with a sharp, tailored pencil skirt, black, high-waisted, smug. Blazer, black again, fitted, lapels so crisp they could cut glass. Heels? Not stripper-tall, but enough to let the world know I could step on its neck and make it say thank you.
Jewelry, small gold hoops, thin bracelet, nothing flashy. Structured leather tote bag. Classy. Deadly.