Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
ISAIAH
I lace my fingers into Cassidy’s. “Let’s go take care of those boxes you mentioned earlier. Then we can relax.”
“In bed?”
“You won’t hear any argument from me if you’d like to spend the afternoon naked.”
“Has anyone ever mentioned you’re forthright?”
Not about everything. I swallow, nudging her toward the inn.
I don’t want to use Cassidy, though I should lower the bar about her expectations of me. Gatlin and Bellamy’s morning show returns from hiatus in less than two weeks. The interview I recorded with Gatlin will air and, even though I played my cards close to my chest, the publicity will do what it was meant to—what the new singles are doing—continue building excitement surrounding the tour.
A tour I’ve been waiting on pins and needles for and simultaneously dread. The upcoming months are the most hectic of my life and the past six have been the most stressful.
She could come with you.
I let the thought float away. Cassidy’s been candid that her roots are here. I don’t know how whatever is burgeoning between us can survive my travel schedule.
Been there.
Done that.
The white indent on my left ring finger is a souvenir I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
At this moment, what I can offer Cassidy is bound by the trust I have in anyone. So, yes, my lack of honesty about moving up the interview with Gatlin, why I didn’t want to leave Nashville and why I’m in no rush to return, makes me absolute chicken shit.
Yet, everything I’ve just thought amounts to a hill of beans to my heart.
The desire for a reprieve from what my life has become is as all-encompassing as the depression I fell under. My appetite for normalcy is tremendous. And since I encountered Cassidy standing in her pajamas in the kitchen, my ambition to see her warm sleep-soft body first thing every morning is a goal I haven’t had since hearing the producer of my first LP say I had what it took to be a star.
It has me questioning a lot.
My name might open doors, but can it prop this one open?
When you have it all, including unimaginable problems, is the loneliness at the top worth it? If were Cassidy, I’d avoid it. Me.
The grandmother clock hanging on the wall chimes as we’re coming in from outside. My purchases from the gift shop are waiting on the kitchen table. Someone has placed them next to a picnic basket, along with the notebook of lyrics I’d forgotten at the Sanchez place. I should’ve been conscientious about where I set it down, but I was dead set on running after Cassidy.
“How’d all that get here?” I close the morning porch door, reach for the book, fold it in two, and stuff it into my back pocket. I’m thankful it’s not gone for good.
Cassidy picks up the note on top. I read it over her shoulder.
Cass—We’re sorry for ruining y’alls lunch. Love, Aunt D
P.S. Isaiah’s delivery came. His bags are in the foyer.
“Oh, man. They didn’t have to do this.” My stomach disagrees and lets out a roaring protest. I’m starving.
“Great. Now I feel even guiltier you missed lunch,” she bemoans.
I hold Cassidy by the upper arms and press a kiss to her forehead to reassure her. “I’m not missing anything.”
Not by a long shot.
We dig into the basket, pulling out tubs of chicken and the sides the ladies prepared. Daveigh tucked in dessert for two and an extra bottle of wine. I need to find a way of showing Mrs. Sanchez my appreciation.
“The label says Peach Reserve. Wanna glass?” Ravenous, I troll the cabinets for wine glasses while gnawing on a drumstick from a plastic container.
“I wouldn’t miss it. That’s the wine that everyone hoards. Guests, restaurants… Us,” Cassidy tells me, grabbing two plates from an opposite shelf.
“Roh, yeyah?” The drumstick clenched in my jaw that I’m trying not to drool around muffles my words as I pour our drinks. The food smells incredible. My stomach has thrown in the towel on good manners and civility.
Cassidy unrolls a greasy napkin revealing biscuits and pops the lids on the side dishes.
“Spoons. We need spoons.” She talks to herself frantically, proving she’s as hungry as I am.
“Why can’t your family get its own wine?” I raise a brow as we tuck into the picnic.
“Popularity and, depending on the yield of peaches to blend with, some years it’s harder to come by. Bad weather growing season means less reserve wines to sell the next.”
“What you’re saying is by including this particular bottle, your mom, aunt, and Paisley are trying to get back in your good graces.”
“Or buttering you up.” Cassidy takes a forkful of slaw. “They salivated over you in jeans. I hate to see their reaction to you in a suit on New Year’s.”
Other than the twinge of smugness that another woman looking at me the way Cassidy does might upset her, I ignore the comment as nothing I haven’t endured before.
“The only thing that needs butter is these biscuits. Oh, my lord…” I stuff my face. “They’re like clouds. I need to thank the goddess who created these. I need your aunt’s recipe.”
“Why? You don’t cook!” She covers her full mouth, laughing.
I love her laugh and that we’re comfortable enough in front of one another to shove food into our pie holes like we haven’t eaten in a year.
“And you’re welcome.” She wipes her mouth on a napkin.
I stop chewing. “You?”
“Me,” she confirms, as if it’s no big deal. “My recipe. I made the slaw, too. Not that it’s hard. They all think it is, but it’s getting the proportions right. And don’t tell anyone, I use honey instead of sugar. ”
“I don’t even know what that means. Or why it would make a difference. It’s good, though. Amazing. You’re talented with food, Cass.”
She dips her chin, thanking me, and crunches into a bite of chicken.
We plow through the containers, but agree to leave the dessert for later.
“I can’t remember the last time I ate so much, so fast.” I rub my stomach.
“I can. Thanksgiving.” In her seat, Cassidy mirrors my position.
“I might’ve microwaved a burrito for turkey day.”
“The thought of a burrito right now.” Her cute nose scrunches as she holds a finger to her lip and bloats her cheeks, making a puking face.
I’m mid-yawn and chuckle.
“Aw, does fresh air and a full belly make you tired?” Cassidy teases.
“Something like that. This woman I met also kept me up late.” I wink, placing my hand over hers.
“Want to lie down before we tackle the boxes in the attic?”
I draw Cassidy up from her chair and toward my chest. “ Nah, you never know how long we’ll wind up in bed for,” I say with a hint of suggestion.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself, Roomer.”
I shake my head in a self-deprecating manner. “Not in the least, Ms. Cavanaugh.” This Isaiah is terrified of everything that can ruin it with her before what we have even gets off the ground.
I kiss Cassidy slowly. A surefire promise waiting will be worth her while. Then I twirl her and throw her off balance, curling my body around hers. My hand roaming to cup her boob is thoroughly intentional, and I duck my mouth underneath her ear so the scruff of my beard tickles her neck. I want to feel close to Cassidy. As close as two people can get in a week’s time, anyhow. She lets me carry her weight and we left-foot, right-foot toward the foyer.
Cassidy makes—almost—acting like a gentleman so fucking easy. The more she treats me like I’m a normal person she’s comfortable being around, the more I want to impress her by helping the way every person I’ve interacted with at the ranch does.
But since Cassidy and I are compatible in the sack, she’s also keeping my dick at half mast—when she hasn’t gotten me completely hard. It’s taking all my willpower to keep my hand out of her shirt and the both of us upright.
My suitcases are right by the front door where Daveigh’s note said they’d be. I unfurl myself from the cocoon I’ve made around Cassidy.
Fisting them, I heft both the bags up the circular stairs. Cassidy follows behind. When I drop my luggage on the landing, I take my notebook out of my pocket and set it on top. I do the same with my cell.
Cassidy eyes the placement of the bags funny.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I just thought. Never mind. What I was thinking doesn’t matter.”
I close the space between us and stroke my thumb against her jawline. Her lips part and I take the invitation to kiss her. Cassidy tastes like everything in a country song about one of those girls whose heart you’ll regret stealing.
The earth shifts like sand under my feet. I want to tell her I’m wondering the same things she is. Where I’m sleeping tonight.
With or without my clothes, once we go back into her room, we’re spending the rest of the day in there. But Cassidy has chores she needs to do first and I need to prove to her I’m dependable.
I clear my throat, replying in a gravel-laden voice, “We’ve got boxes to move.”
Ready to get to work, she plucks a ponytail holder from her pocket to tie her hair back, and leads me down the hall. A few paces beyond my suite, and just out of Cassidy’s reach, a chain hangs from the ceiling for the dropdown attic stairs. She stands to the side, making silly comments about me taking the ladder square in the jaw and needing false teeth. When I tug on the chain, the ladder slides down easy as pie.
“What are we looking for?” I take the rungs first.
“Ornaments. They’re stored in red boxes with green lids.”
“What about a tree? Is that up here?”
Cassidy’s gasp has me looking down to where she’s climbing the ladder below me. I get a perfect view of her cleavage.
“Such sacrilege! Do you think so little of my family that we wouldn’t have a real Christmas tree?”
Hearing Cassidy tell me a fresh cut tree for the living room is arriving tomorrow makes me like the Cavanaughs more. She also admits she didn’t actually draw the short straw as much as volunteer to get the boxes down early. Each of the quints’ families rotates putting the tree up in the mansion on Christmas Eve. It stays lit until New Year’s Day.
“I see three bins up here. Any other instructions?” For her, I want to get this simple task right.
“Yeah, keep to the plywood. If you step off the planks, you could fall through the ceiling.”
“Now you tell me,” I tease. The sole of my shoe perched on a rafter moves to the flat wooden surface.
“You’re fine where you are.” She hops up into the attic. “We can both carry one down and come back for the third.”
“Or I could carry them all down for you.”
“Or you could carry yours down and let me hand the rest to you,” she counters, misinterpreting the statement as misogyny. “Really, the boxes are bulky, not heavy. Most of what’s inside is cushioning, so nothing gets damaged.”
I do as she says because I can count the number of times I’ve been in an attic on a single finger. Plus, Cassidy is a pro at hefting her box onto her hip and managing it down the narrow ladder steps.
Her independence motivates me. Hell, I know my family decorated the tree when I was a small kid who hadn’t hit the big time. Except, I pay a decorator to decked the halls at my house and to flock the tree in tinsel and hang the ornaments. Then I show up when Vespa tells me the PR team needs Instagram-worthy Christmas posts.
I pass my box to Cassidy and she stacks it against the hallway wall.
“I’ll grab the last one.” I have a foot on the rung and I want to do this for her.
She grudgingly agrees since we’d have to switch places, anyway.
I climb the ladder with cool confidence and navigate across the plywood like it’s a tightrope. Scooping up the final box, I overestimate how heavy it is and nearly send it flying. Grappling for it before I break something valuable inside, my eye catches on an empty crib.
I take a sharp inhale and two steps back to steady myself. As soon as my brain registers my heel failing to hit something solid, the floor under my feet crumbles. The crib disappears, and my life flashes before my eyes.