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A beat passes as we stare at each other, his eyes scanning me from head to toe while I marvel at the fact that the boy next door has grown up into a man. My heartbeat returns to normal. Or almost normal. Having a normal heartbeat when eyes so brilliantly blue and framed with thick, dark lashes are assessing you is a rather difficult feat.
“Cassandra.” Patrick doesn’t pose it as a question, as if to question why I’m here, but it isn’t a warm greeting.
“Patrick, right?” Eight years in Hollywood has helped me polish a nonchalant coldness that I don’t possess naturally.
I may be a silver screen darling with roles under my belt, tabloids watching my every move, and hordes of fans asking for a picture with me. But here? I’m still Butch Mauer’s daughter. I’m still the trash who lives on the outskirts of town. I’m still the girl who borders the Ashton property, where Patrick and his family reign supreme over their adoring public.
So I’ll pretend I’m not sure which Ashton he is. Which brother of Hope Crest royalty he is. Just to needle him because I doubt he’s gone a day in his life without being fawned over.
Who could blame anyone for fawning over him, though? I’ve seen a lot of gorgeous men in my years, been with a couple of them, and they’d have stiff competition trying to go toe to toe with Patrick Ashton. At six foot something, maybe five if I had to guess, he fills the entire doorway, dwarfing the house. Jet-black hair, the same color as his lashes, falls on his forehead in a way that isn’t unkempt but appears as if someone has been gripping it for hours. That thought sends unwanted tingles down my spine, bottoming out in my core. The eyes we’ve addressed; they’re lethal blue, the kind that could convince any girl to get in his back seat in high school. A strong build, one that speaks of working on the land rather than in a gym, and a jaw that could cut steel.
Patrick is the epitome of that small-town boy women go ga-ga over. Even with him scowling at me the way he is, I can’t forget the charm he exuded and how one smirk from him would have all the schoolgirls blushing. There is something simple yet complicated about him that draws you in.
He’s the reckless kind of guy who will drive around the woods at night on an ATV with no helmet, offer you to straddle the back, and then leave you breathless with danger. Meanwhile, he’ll go home right after and kiss his mother’s cheek like a good son, then report to work at the family restaurant the next day.
That memory tickles my mind, clutching me in a moment I thought I’d forgotten.
“Yes.” Those aquamarine eyes narrow.
“Didn’t realize you’d remember me.” I say it aloud even though it should have stayed shut up in my brain.
“Everyone knows who you are.” There is a tense edge to his voice, as if my standing as a famous actress is offensive.
By the way he’s looking at me, the same way he did in that school cafeteria thirteen years ago, you’d think I was no better than the filth lining my father’s fridge.
It should alarm me that a man, one who belongs to the family my father hated the most, is standing in this kitchen. But Ashton boys trespassing on our property was so second nature, it feels familiar. My father’s four acres borders their farm, and since the time I could walk, they’d been fighting about the neighboring lands.
The Ashton family owns one of the most famous and renowned pizza joints on the East Coast, and their restaurant is the crown jewel on the best street in Hope Crest. The place has been reviewed in every magazine, newspaper, street eats blog, social media account … you name it, Hope Pizza has been featured there. Even I, who don’t worship the family, must admit that the pizza is the best I’ve ever tasted. And not to brag, but I’ve eaten at one of the most famous pizzerias in all of Italy. Hope Pizza is better, but don’t tell either the Ashtons or that Italian chef I said that.
One of their “secret sauces,” so to speak, is that they grow most of the ingredients for their sauce on their family farm. The one that I can see as I look out the window. The enormous family colonial glinting its lights in the distance.
“Didn’t realize you’d come out here.” Patrick’s voice snaps me out of memories of late-night pranks and screaming matches from our lawn, haunting the edges of my brain.
“My father died.” I narrow my eyes and point this out as if Patrick’s father isn’t celebrating that fact.
As if it were a question of whether I’d come out here and do what’s necessary to settle his estate.
“Condolences,” he grumbles, hands buried in his pockets as if he’s trying not to let me see his fists.
I chuckle, but it’s too sarcastic to ring funny. “You all hated my father. My family. You don’t have to pretend with me; there is no one here to impress.”
“In that case, you should get out of here.” Patrick’s jaw tenses, and I find myself drawn to the jump of his muscle there.
“Believe me, I don’t want to be in this town, in this house, or anywhere near your family. I’ll be here just as long as it takes me to sell this house and not a second longer.” Most of that’s true.
I won’t be telling Patrick that I have no idea what my next move is. That I’m in no hurry to figure it out.
“Why areyouout here?” I cock my head to the side, wanting to know his motives.
Patrick gestures to the cat. “No one’s been in here for two weeks. Someone had to feed these poor animals before the county got around to seizing them.”
Realization dawns and a warm sensation glows in my heart, even though I try to tamp it down. “So you’ve been coming to care for them.”
“These animals shouldn’t suffer just because your old man was an awful bastard.” Deadpan, no remorse over offending me.
“That fancy family of yours didn’t teach you not to speak ill of the dead?” I can’t help but taunt him.
Confrontation is typically not my nature; neither is negativity. But something about being back here, about facing him, makes me want to lash out.
