4. Cassy
Chapter four
Cassy
T he room's still humming with noise as the media team leaves, buzzing like bees hopped up on espresso and content strategy.
They’re already tossing ideas around for ‘Roomies on the Road’—who’s going to be the train wreck, how that damn Blake Mitchell is definitely going to be the main heartthrob, and how many players they can get to forget the cameras are even there.
Laughter follows them out into the hallway.
Riley and I are the last ones in the room, still shoving our laptops and chargers into our bags.
We finally step into the corridor, and I’m still not done venting.
“…And can you believe it?” I snap, halfway laughing, halfway about to lose it. “When I was with my dad earlier and he asked if we knew each other? Blake actually said NO. Like, deadpan. Totally ghosted me. Like I was some random chick asking for directions.”
Riley lets out a low whistle, shaking her head. “As I said, all men are dicks. But…” she lifts a finger. “And don’t think I’m taking his side… maybe he just didn’t want your dad to know.”
I give her a look. “So, what you’re saying is, either he’s just a dick… or he’s a dick that’s scared of my father?”
She grins, glancing at her watch like she’s trying not to laugh. “Yeah…I suppose I am, but you’ve also got to understand how the dynamics work here.”
“Fuck the dynamics, you were right the first time. Men are all dicks!”
I stop outside my office door, heat crawling under my skin. My fingers twitch around the strap of my bag like I want to throw it at something.
The nerve of him. Ghosting me like I was a nobody, after the way he—
Riley opens her mouth to say something else, but my phone buzzes in my pocket like it knows it’s the worst time.
“Okay, I’m leaving now,” Riley says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night.” I fish out my phone and glance at the screen.
Oh, perfect. Jaxon Reid, my ex. Because today clearly didn’t have enough male bullshit in it.
I grab the keycard on the retractable badge reel clipped to my belt and swipe it through the reader. The card snaps back with a sharp zip as I push the door open and step inside.
I answer the call before the door even swings shut behind me. “WHAT DO YOU WANT, JAXON?”
There’s a pause, like he’s pretending to be surprised by my tone. Like I haven’t picked up the phone the exact same way for the last two weeks. “Listen, don’t hang up.”
“Jaxon. You keep calling me. What is it, every three days? Do you have an alert set on your phone or something? 'Annoy Cassy: Recurring Event'?”
“I hear you, okay? But I’m in Vegas right now. Just… meet me. Please? One meal. Just to talk.”
Jesus. He just doesn’t give up.
I pace toward my desk, sinking into the chair like my spine just gave up.
“Okay. If I agree to meet you, will you stop calling me?”
He breathes out like he’s already winning. “Cassy, as I said, I only want to talk.”
“Fine. When?” My voice is flat. Dry. Like the Sahara, but less inviting.
“Well… now.”
Of course. Now.
I stare at the floor. I suppose it’ll give me a proper chance to explain that we’re over. Like, really over-over. Not the way I left it before. Which, okay… was by text. Not my finest moment. “Where do you want to meet?”
“ Nonna’s Hole in the Wall . Do you know it? It’s on 4021 Linq Lane?”
“No. But don’t worry. I’ll find it.” I glance at the clock. “Give me about twenty minutes.”
“Cass—”
I end the call mid-syllable, drop my phone into my bag, and head back out the door. Out through the main exit of The Silver State Arena, I pass the glowing signage and poster of the team and Blake Mitchell’s face ten feet tall, glaring down at me.
Oh, you can fuck off as well!
My heels echo across the lot as I fish out the fob, unlock my car, throw my bag onto the passenger seat, and start the engine.
This is going to be fun. NOT.
I know where Linq Lane is, it’s tucked behind the LINQ Hotel, somewhere between tourist chaos and street food heaven, but I’ve never heard of Nonna’s Hole in the Wall . I mean, the name alone screams mob movie dinner scene. But sure. Let’s do this.
I pull out of the lot and wave to the security guy at the barrier. He barely glances up. Same.
I head east toward Las Vegas Boulevard South. It’s just after six, which means the Strip is already pulsing with people who have no idea where they’re going. A sea of neon, overpriced drinks, and freshly married strangers taking selfies under fake Eiffel Towers.
Traffic crawls. Horns blare. Somewhere, a guy is actually yelling “Viva Las Vegas,” like it’s a commandment. And through all of it, through this sensory circus of my city, I cannot stop thinking about him.
Of all the people I’ve had the misfortune of going to bed with, Blake Mitchell had to go and be the one I can’t forget. Smug, silent, gorgeous, and completely uninterested in me.
Shit-fuck!
I turn left onto Las Vegas Boulevard South. The Strip glows in that specific shade of money, sin, and five-dollar water bottles.
North for about a mile and a half, past the fake skyline of New York, New York, the fountain, and the Roman cosplay drama that is Caesar’s Palace.
Then I take a right onto Linq Lane. Everything gets darker and tighter back here, away from the main glitz.
Right. Now, where is Nonna’s Hole in the Wall?
I almost miss it. No flashing lights. No valet parking.
Just a squat little building with a faded red-and-white awning and a wooden sign that says, “Nonna’s Hole in the Wall – Since 1952.
” It’s got old bricks, shutters on the windows, and this heavy nostalgic vibe like your grandma’s kitchen frozen in time.
I park in the tiny lot and kill the engine.
The evening air is warm, and it smells like fried garlic and tourist sweat. I walk toward the entrance, my heels clicking, and the weight of this whole weird evening settling over me. I pause outside.
It’s kind of cute, actually. Cozy. No neon. No gimmicks. Just a small Italian joint pretending the Strip doesn’t exist twenty feet away. The windows glow like warm bread. It’s... disarming.
Okay. Just go in. Eat something and tell him straight. AGAIN .
Fuck... wish it was Blake I was meeting instead.
Ugh . I want to slap myself for that thought as I open the door and step inside.
The place smells like marinara and red wine. The walls are packed with old black-and-white photographs of The Rat Pack, Perry Como, Frankie Valli, and Rocky Marciano .
Actually, that’s nice. A shelf is lined with tiny liquor bottles like some boozy toy collection. Quirky. Strange. Kind of adorable. The lighting is low and warm, like they want you slightly tipsy and overly emotional before the tiramisu.
I can't believe I've never been in here.
And of course. An accordion player wanders between tables, squeezing out some tragic Italian tune.
Then I see him.
Jaxon. In the far corner. He’s already standing, bright-eyed, like this is a date or something. Jesus. His hair’s all perfectly tousled, he’s wearing that shirt I used to steal to sleep in, and he looks hopeful. Gross.
But my eyes flick past him for a second, because hanging above the bar is a massive sign that reads:
Classic Italian dishes are all served with unlimited house wine.
Unlimited. Now this is my kinda place.
A waiter appears beside me with a clipboard and a hopeful smile, but I don’t even look at him. I just head straight toward Jaxon, my brain clacking like war drums.
He sees me coming and lights up like a damn Christmas tree. By the time I reach the table, he’s already walking around like he thinks he’s starring in some Nicholas Sparks apology montage. His arms come up like he’s about to kiss me.
I wince and twist to the side so fast I nearly dislocate a shoulder. “Nope. Not happening,” I mutter.
He stops mid-motion, his arms awkwardly half-raised, then lets them drop.
“Okay…” He draws the word out like he's the one who's been wronged. He shuffles back around and sits down.
I pull out the chair across from him and sit, slowly, already regretting being here. He leans forward, all rehearsed earnestness.
“So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he starts, his voice soft like he’s unveiling some grand emotional revelation. “And I just… I know we hit a rough patch, but I really think we owe it to ourselves to try again. You and me, Cass. We had something. Something real. I still lo—”
“Jaxon. Shut up.” My voice is flat. “Look, maybe I was wrong for ending it over a text, okay? That wasn’t exactly my classiest moment. But we’re over.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “I forgive you.”
Of course, he does.
A waiter arrives before I can stab him with my butter knife. He sets down a steaming plate of fettuccine alfredo with grilled chicken in front of me, and a plate of veal parmigiana for Jaxon, then places a basket of garlic knots between us. A bottle of red follows.
I blink at the food like it’s some kind of mirage. “Sorry. I haven’t ordered anything yet.”
“Oh, I ordered for you.” Jaxon grins like he just brought me flowers and a puppy. “I know what you like.”
I stare at the pasta, then back up at him. “Jesus Christ. Nothing changes.” I shove the plate away. “You are such a control freak.”
He actually laughs. Not even nervous laughter. No. This man is amused.
“See,” he says, still grinning. “You’ve still got that fire. I can see it. You’re still in love with me.”
I stare at his face. That cheesy, overconfident smile like he’s just waiting for me to lean over the table and confess my undying attraction while ‘That’s Amore’ plays in the background.
“Jaxon.” I lean forward slightly, voice tight. “Watch my lips. You. And. Me. We're over. I am not in love with you. And please don’t ever contact me again.”
I push my chair back with a screech, stand, and grab my bag. I don't even give him time to blink before I’m storming toward the door.
“But Cass—”
Was that too cruel? No.