Page 13 of One Last Gift

She jerked her chin in the air, tried desperately to stop her lips from trembling. “So, what, this was to prove a point, was it?”

He winced again, but didn’t deny it. And she felt something inside her break at the realization that yes, he’d done this deliberately—to hurt her, to make it clear that there would be nothing between them. Instead of talking to her, instead of manning up and telling her, he’d decided to show her.

She shoved aside the hurt, the pain, the goddamn grief of it, and focused only on the anger as she drew herself up to stare down at him, no matter her height. “Well, she’s welcome to you, whoever she is. I’m sure you have a deep, lasting, meaningful connection after all of, oh, five minutes. What’s fifteen years’ worth of memories in comparison to that?”

With a surge of inspiration, she reached behind her neck, fumbled with the clasp of the necklace, then thrust it at him. “Here,” she said. “You can have this. I don’t want it anymore.” Didn’t want the reminder—of him, of that night outside the pub on Christmas Eve, when she’d decided that her feelings were real, that this was real.

He backed away from her. “No, I—” But she shoved it into his hands so that he had to either take it or drop it.

“You’ve made your point very clear, Sam. And I’ve got it, OK?” She was speaking loudly, she knew, but she didn’t care right then that anyone could hear, that Tom could be watching. But Sam clearly did. He glanced around them to check, and Cassie laughed bitterly, even as her heart felt like it was splintering. “That’s all you care about, is it? What Tom might think?” He flinched as he looked back at her and she considered, for a moment. She could tell Tom. She could cry on his shoulder, let him comfort her. She could work him up into a big-brother rage—and she could very possibly do some serious damage there.

She took a breath, let it out slowly. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t stoop to it. Tom loved Sam, she knew—and she wouldn’t take that away from her brother. She could live with them being friends. And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? He was always Tom’s friend, not hers. So, she’d let him keep that friendship. But that didn’t mean she’d extend it to herself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cassie said, drawing up every ounce of self-preservation she had as she spun from him, as she held the tears in, until she was out of sight. She heard Hazel calling for her and knew she’d catch up. Knew that Hazel would come back with her, would let her cry, and wouldn’t ask too many questions. As for tomorrow…Well. She’d deal with that then.

“Cassie, please, wait, talk to me, I—”

She glared at him over her shoulder. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “Either you stop following me, or I’ll tell Tom everything that happened.”

He stared at her, expression twisted into something she’d never seen before. But when she walked away again, when Hazel came alongside her, linked her arm through Cassie’s, Sam did not follow.

And Cassie decided, then and there—she was done with Sam Malone. Done with him for good.

Five Years Later

Chapter Six

Cassie almost ran into a bald man in a bright blue suit as she barged through the door into the swanky bar-slash-restaurant in Soho—the type of place she’d never choose to come to if it was down to her, because it all seemed far too expensive to be justifiable. “Sorry!” she squeaked, trying to move her wet umbrella away from where it could do any damage to his designer suit, nearly jabbing him in the ribs in her fluster to get it closed. He gave her a disdainful look before stepping around her to take his coat from the hostess, then headed through the door and out into the cold, a gust of rain swooping in to fill the space he’d left behind.

Cassie felt her cheeks warming as she handed her own coat—damp, despite the umbrella—over to the same woman and self-consciously smoothed down her red top, which she was wearing over a pair of black skinny jeans. She still had her work clothes in her bag and had changed hurriedly in the staff bathroom at the hotel before rushing onto the tube. Now that she was here, surrounded by all these posh business types in among the overly trendy London crowd, she thought that she should have picked a different outfit. But Tom had said it would just be a casual drink.

“I’m meeting my brother here,” she said to the hostess, who was wearing big, gold star earrings—a nod, perhaps, to the fact that the two-week Christmas countdown had officially begun. Or maybe they were just an effort to assert some individuality onto the black-and-white uniform they were all wearing in here. “Tom Rivers?”

The hostess nodded, her earrings glinting in the dim, moody lighting, and gestured for Cassie to follow her without saying a word. Michael Bublé’s Christmas album was playing in the background, and Cassie found it a little odd, like the music didn’t match up to the classy interior of the place, what with its leather booths, overhead wooden beams, and candles in glass containers around the sides of the room.

Cassie spotted Tom in a corner booth and wrinkled her nose when she saw that, yes, Sam had indeed come along too. She’d been hoping for him to cancel last minute, but the two of them were deep in conversation, leaning toward each other. Sam ran a hand through his dark hair that was so clearly styled to look messy—something he’d taken to doing since he moved to London. Cassie fought to control the scowl that wanted to take up residence on her face.

Tom leaned back and took a sip of his pint of beer, glancing over in time to see Cassie approach. He broke into a smile, his brown eyes, almost exactly like hers, only with lighter tones if you looked closely, crinkling at the corners. She couldn’t help smiling back as he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the booth next to him, shifting up so that he was in the middle between her and Sam. “There’s my girl! I was getting worried you’d never get here.”

“I know, sorry,” Cassie said quickly, “I—”

But the waitress with the gold earrings talked over her. “What can I get you to drink?” Cassie noticed that, though she was clearly addressing her, her eyes lingered first on Tom, with his tanned skin—even in winter because of all the traveling he did—and floppy blond hair, then on Sam, his blue shirt unbuttoned at the top, suit jacket shoved on the wooden ledge behind him, far too close to the candle, in Cassie’s opinion. He’d probably chosen that shirt deliberately to make his eyes stand out more, she thought scathingly. She couldn’t help shifting in her seat a little, though, aware of how scruffy and bedraggled she must look in comparison. Not just her outfit, but the fact that her hair had been attacked by the wind and rain outside—and she was not one of those people who could pull off the beautiful windswept look, her hair just matted and worked itself into wet clumps in bad weather. It was unfair, really, that though she was blond like Tom, his hair was soft and amenable, whereas hers was wiry and wild.

“What would you like, Cassie?” Tom prodded.

“Umm,” Cassie said as the waitress’s eyes moved to her.

“The Malbec’s good,” Sam said, raising his glass to her in a little salute. In all honesty a glass of red did sound good, and the atmosphere in here certainly lent itself to it, but she didn’t want to go with Sam’s recommendation.

“I’ll have a glass of Sauvignon.” The waitress nodded. “Well,” she said as the waitress walked away, “this is all a bit posh, isn’t it?” She looked over at Sam, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. “I take it this was your choice?” He was always doing that, trying to pick places that were either expensive and traditional or else trendy, up-and-coming new bars. Trying to prove something, no doubt.

“Yep,” Sam said easily, taking a sip of wine. “Allow me to introduce you to some culture, Cass.”

“Yes, I did hear that ‘culture’ is all about the table service and posh bars these days and nothing else.” She angled herself toward Tom to stop Sam from retorting. “Anyway, sorry I’m late—Robert made me stay on after my shift to sort something out.” Sam frowned a little—he clearly had no idea who Robert was. And why would he? To him, she was very much just an accessory to Tom, a little pet that his best friend wheeled out every now and then. Tom’s little sister, nothing more. He’d made that very clear five years ago, and he’d increasingly put distance between them since then—something she didn’t have a problem with, given the type of person he’d turned out to be.

Tom, however, wrinkled his nose. “That guy’s a dick. I don’t know why you’re still working for him.”

Cassie didn’t bother answering. Tom knew full well why she was still working for the hotel—it was good money, and events management jobs were not so easy to come by. It was a step on the ladder, a way to work herself up in the industry. Fine, it wasn’t quite the dream she’d been hoping for when she’d come to London, the style of it all a bit cool and clinical rather than warm and personable, but it was a respectable job, she was good at it, and she was grateful for it, Robert be damned.