12. Cassy #2
We’re still kissing when Blake pulls back a little, wincing.
I blink, breathless. “What?”
“Before you say a word,” he kisses me again, slowly this time, and finishes, “I’m so, so sorry. But yes. That night in Sin City, you were a bet.”
My stomach does a small nosedive, until he adds, “But what I hadn’t bet on was falling in love with you.”
God help me.
“Damn, I want to hate you,” I mutter against his mouth and kiss him again anyway. “But I can’t.”
“Good! Let me make you dinner tonight.” He brushes his nose gently against mine. “At my place.”
I pull back just enough to get a better look at his black eyes. The right one is worse than the left. The swelling. The slight purple around his cheekbone.
“Okay,” I nod. Then squint. “Your nose. Seems... umm, a funny shape.”
He kisses me again and breathes against my lips, “Don’t you worry about it.”
***
The rest of the day, I’ve been practically floating on some sort of romantic, airbrushed, Hallmark cloud. Even if I did have to dart into the restroom and throw up straight after Blake and I… well, you know. Made up.
My body apparently didn’t get the memo that emotions plus being pregnant don’t count as actual food.
God knows what my dad’s going to say. I haven’t seen him since this morning, and he wasn’t home when I got back earlier. Which is just as well, because it wouldn't have taken a rocket scientist to know that conversation wouldn't have ended well.
Right now, I’m in my room. Clean and showered with my hair washed and blow-dried into shiny submission. I’m sitting at my dresser, leaning into the mirror as I put the finishing touches to my makeup. A little highlighter. A touch more mascara and lipstick that says “sultry” but not “desperate.”
I cap the lipstick, press my lips together, and smirk at my reflection. I look like trouble.
Good.
I stand, walk to my drawer, and pull out my bag. Small. Black. Slinky. Just like the dress. It’s more decoration than function, but it’ll hold my phone, keys, and the one breath mint I’ll pretend I didn’t bring just for him.
I scoop my phone and keys from my tote on the bed, slide the phone into the bag, keys in hand, and walk to the door.
Descending the staircase, halfway down, oh, no . I hear the front door open.
And there he is.
Dad.
Standing in the entryway. Not happy. Not even fake happy.
Great. I just knew his doting, gentle-father mood wouldn't last. I can't imagine what he must have thought when he heard, and there's no way he couldn't have heard about the little stunt Blake pulled this afternoon.
I hit the last step, and he narrows his eyes. “Good. I hoped I’d find you here. In my study. We need a chat.”
Yeah. That’s not happening.
I breeze past him, give him a quick peck on the cheek, and open the front door, tossing over my shoulder, “Sorry, I’m late.”
“CASSY—”
I close the door behind me. Click. Press the fob on my keyring.
My car flashes, obedient and silent.
I slide into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and drive off, leaving the looming fatherly confrontation in the rearview mirror.
The Vegas Strip is buzzing as I merge into the flow of traffic, my dress sticking slightly to my thighs against the leather seat.
What did he say the name of the road was? El Camino?
It’s a little past the Strip, the glitz giving way to quiet side streets and low-slung houses that somehow feel more honest.
Slowing down, I scan house numbers. 2776. 2778. 2780.
Then—there. Blake’s truck is parked on the driveway next door.
I pull up behind it and kill the engine, letting the silence settle.
One glance in the rearview mirror. My lips are still perfect. My hair is still holding. Eyes, well, they’re not screaming run, so I’ll take that as a win. I actually look good. Like, nail-him-to-a-wall good.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat, open the door, and step out.
It’s cooler now. Vegas doesn’t do cold often, but there’s a breeze that slides between my shoulder blades and under my hem.
I walk past his truck, my fingers grazing the metal side mirror like it might anchor me.
A small pathway with desert-friendly landscaping leads to his front door.
Butterflies. Actual butterflies. And not the gentle kind, these are caffeinated, erratic, and borderline violent.
I press the doorbell and wait.
A shadow shifts behind the frosted glass, broad shoulders, tall frame. The door creaks open, and I blink.
Blake Mitchell, in a grey suit, a tie knotted just a little too tight, and over it, the most ridiculous apron I’ve ever seen in my life. A full front print of some oiled-up, cartoonishly muscular bodybuilder in a thong, complete with glistening abs and biceps the size of watermelons.
His face, bruised, puffed, still carrying the signs of a fight, is practically glowing beneath it all. He grins like a man who knows he’s ridiculous and doesn’t care in the slightest.
“Cassy. Jesus,” he says, stepping forward and pressing a soft kiss to my lips that short-circuits the butterflies entirely. “You look amazing. Please…come in.”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely hanging onto its composure as the smell of lasagna wraps itself around me like a warm, cheesy fog.
“Wow,” I say, stepping inside. “Very suave. Debonair. And still handsome, even if you do look like you’ve been in a bar brawl with a fridge.”
He smirks, then takes my hand. “Flattery will get you lasagna. Follow me.”
We move through a hall that smells faintly of aftershave and furniture polish, and into the living room.
Masculine doesn’t even begin to cover it.
It’s filled with clean lines, low lighting, a giant TV, and a cream leather sofa like it’s been lifted straight out of a catalog called Bachelor Deluxe: Subtle Edition.
“Something smells good,” I say. “I wasn’t aware you could actually cook. I thought you just survived on protein bars, period.”
“Don’t get too worked up,” he says, leading me toward the back of the house. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”
And then we step through the open glass doors into the backyard, and I stop.
Okay. This I was not expecting.
The backyard looks like something out of a rom-com I’d normally complain about while secretly crying. Fairy lights dance along the fence. A small table sits in the middle of the lawn with candles, flowers, plates, and cutlery. A bottle of wine catches the glow like it belongs in an ad.
He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, stunned into rare silence. He takes the seat across from me, then reaches for the bottle.
“Wine?” he asks, his hand poised.
I put a hand over my glass. “Can’t. Remember? Pregnant.”
He grins, not offended in the slightest. “Yeah. I know.”
He turns the bottle around and shows me the label. Non-alcoholic.
“Well,” I say, removing my hand from the glass. “In that case…”
He pours for both of us, then sets the bottle down and lifts his glass.
“To you, me, and your belly.”
Just as I pick up mine and clink it with his, his face shifts from soft affection to full-blown panic.
“Shit,” he blurts. “The lasagna. I meant to take it out of the oven!”
He bolts back inside like the house is on fire.
And I sit there, holding a glass of not-wine, surrounded by fairy lights, trying not to laugh. Or cry. Or fall in love a second time.
I take a sip. It's… actually decent. Smooth, not too sweet, and it doesn't taste like grape juice's awkward cousin pretending to be grown-up.
My bag vibrates like it’s possessed. I dig around blindly and pull out my phone, the screen lighting up with the name that makes me roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something.
Jaxon, my ex.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
I tap the message open with a sigh, already dreading whatever sad-boy nonsense he’s about to throw at me.
Cass. I'm in Vegas. Come meet me right now. PLEASEEEEE???
I huff, type two words, and hit send without mercy.
GO AWAY.
Just then, the sliding door reopens, and Blake comes out, apron gone, but with oven mitts clinging to his hands that hold a tray.
The lasagna is… black.
He sets it down and winces. “I am so sorry. It should still be edible.”
I glance at the poor, scorched mess on the tray. The corners are curling like ancient scrolls. But he looks at me like he’s waiting to be graded. Like he cares.
Well, he tried.
I grab the serving spoon and scoop up a chunk that looks like it may or may not be legally flammable. “We’re eating it,” I say, putting some on both plates.
We both take a bite.
Oh, dear.
It tastes burnt, while the lasagna sheets are still hard and not cooked properly. Still, I push on.
And Blake? He just looks confused. “Brody told me that it was easy to cook. Said it was one thing I couldn't ruin. Bull shitter,” he smiles.
Halfway through, he throws his cutlery down, stands up, and walks around the table.
“Are you—” I start, but he crouches beside me and leans in.
He’s looking at my chest. Which… fair. I did put some effort in.
But then he reaches forward, and with a slow, deliberate swipe of his thumb, he wipes something off the top of my dress.
Lasagna. A splatter. A smudge of tomato.
I look at my plate, then at him. And I know exactly what I want more. And it is definitely not what’s on the plate.
His fingers move to my chin, tilting it gently until I’m looking right into his eyes, those ridiculous deep eyes that I could fall into and drown if I wasn’t careful.
“The food is lovely, Blake,” I say, trying to hold a straight face.
His mouth twitches. “You’re a bull shitter as well.”
His thumb brushes my jaw. “It tastes terrible.” He pauses, eyes dropping to my lips before he kisses me. Softly at first. Barely there. Like he’s asking.
I answer.
And it escalates so fast that I forget we’re still outside. I forget my dad’s probably pacing. I forget Jaxon Reid exists. I forget the bet, the fight, everything.
His hand slips to the back of my neck. Mine goes to his shirt. We’re leaning into each other like gravity gave up trying to keep us apart.