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“I bet it is. I’ve never seen you onstage before,” I say, testing her.
“Wasn’t this your first time at the club?” she counters, and I fight a grin.
“Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen you onstage before,” I say and it brings a wide grin to her face, one that reminds me of our happier days and messes with me a bit. I turn from her, and pull myself together as I fill two wineglasses.
“I guess I just happened to be at the right place at the right time,” I say, turning back to slide a glass across the island.
“Or the wrong place at the wrong time,” she responds and clinks glasses with mine.
I look at her over the rim of my stemware before I take a healthy sip. While she’s probably right about that, I still ask, “Are you sorry I bid on you, Londyn?”
She goes quiet, too quiet, and her lids fall slowly. When they lift again, she says, “I guess that depends on why you bid on me so fiercely.”
“You have a degree in fashion design,” I begin and she eyes me. “I have numerous upcoming meetings, and I really need someone who knows a thing or two about fabric.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Yes, I have shirts and pants to be laundered and ironed,” I tell her.
Her cheeks redden and I brace myself, waiting for her to hurl that glass at my head. I’d deserve it. She takes a deep breath, like she’s considering it, then calms herself.
“I hardly think you need me for that.”
“What other reason would I need you?” Jesus Christ, could I be any more of a prick? Probably not, and I sort of hate myself right now. I’ve been needing to vent for far too long, obviously, because the truth is, I’m protective—maybe even overprotective—of those I care about, so why I’m purposely saying things to hurt her is beyond me.
Wait, what? I care about her?
Of course, I genuinely care about her. I never stopped, but I can’t forget how deeply her betrayal cut. How that goddamn wound has never healed and how the sight of her on the stage tonight ripped it raw all over again.
“Maybe this is a mistake,” she says and glances over her shoulder as she sets the drink down.
“No one is forcing you to stay.”
As I give her time to reconsider and figure out her next move, I go back to the fridge and take out the seafood I’ve been thawing. I’ve always been a good cook. A necessity when you have no mother or father to take care of you. It wasn’t always like that, though. I was seven when they died in the car accident, Peyton was only two. Our grandmother took us in until she said she was too old and frail to care for us anymore. But that wasn’t the real reason. She blew through our childcare money like a house on fire—and not on us. Child services stepped in and we ended up in the system.
I turn back and find Londyn watching me. “I’d never keep you here against your will,” I say and gesture toward the door. “You’re free to go. I can drive you myself, or call you a car if you prefer.”
She hesitates, and looks past my shoulder, but her thoughts seem a million miles away. What is going on with her?
After a moment, her focus returns. “What are you making?” she asks.
“Seafood pasta.”
“With those small scallops, and white fish?”
“Yes,” I say and take out the milk, garlic and onions.
“Oh, my God, I’ve been dreaming about that pasta for a year.” She makes a sound, one that reminds me of the sweet noises she used to make before she fell asleep in my arms, and my goddamn dick twitches. “You always were such a great cook, Cason. I tried to replicate that recipe once, but it didn’t turn out like yours. What’s your secret?” she asks.
“I don’t have any secrets,” I say flatly. Her question was innocuous, and I get that she’s not looking for any insider information, but even if I did have any secrets, she’s the last person I’d tell. Fool me once, right?
“Right.” Her shoulders tighten at the remark, and unease radiates off her as she takes a big drink of wine and tries again. “I meant, what do you put in it that makes it so special?” She forces a smile, working to ease the tension between us, and holds up her finger, like she just had an epiphany. “Wait, let me guess, you make it with love,” she adds.
I hold up the big stick of butter. “Wrong,” I say, and she laughs. It lessens the strain in my body and I relax.
“You always did have a great sense of humor,” she says, her smile big and heart-stopping. “Some things never change.”
“And some things do,” I say. “So, what will it be, Londyn. Will you be staying, or leaving?”
