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“Okay.” It’s my turn to huff, to mess with my hair, to shrug. “Well, it’s your career.” His forté. He knows best, right? “I trust you, I guess.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You guess.”
“Baby steps, darlin’.”
Cass makes a noise. Something between a choke and a gasp. He shuts his eyes, an extended blink paired with a deep breath, and tilts his head back so he can stare at the ceiling. Long, thick fingers flex and fist in unison with the rise of his chest. That stubbled jaw clenches to the point of shattering. Nostrils flare, and I’m truly, deeply ashamed to find that oddly hot.
“Are you—”having a stroke, is what I’m about to say. Closely followed by a firm but polite suggestion that he stroke somewhere other than my classroom because I cannot be blamed for the death of a sporting legend.
But then, his head flops forward. Dilated pupils glint at me. And, in a warm-blooded rush, I remember.
The Night with The Sex. It always comes back to the The fucking Night with The fucking Sex.
There we were, in a desperate state of undress, his jeans caught around tattooed thighs—fuckme, I forgot about the tattoos—and his shirt hastily unbuttoned, my dress bunched around my abdomen, panties pulled to the side. I was sinking down on him very, very slowly because I am very, very small and he was—still is, I assume, but now is not the time to verify that—very, very not, and he was very, very, very unhappy with the pace. He wanted in, and I wanted that too, but I also wanted to be able to, you know,walkin the foreseeable future so I took my time.
The sting of his nails biting into my waist. The desperate moans. The downright pained expression. One clammy forehead sticking to another as we watched my slow progress. “Sunday, baby,” he grunted—whined. Mumbled something about him dying and me killing him and requesting in a polite, desperate, flustering way that I hurry up.
And what did I say?
Baby steps, darlin’.
In the present, I panic, wince, and swallow a squeal. Shake my head and my hands in the silent version ofno, no, no, no, no, NO. “I wasn’t—”
“I know.”
“I didn’t—”
“I know.”
“I—”
“Sunday,” it’s my own fault, really, that I imagine the followingbaby, “Relax. I know you weren’t…” referencing The Night with The Sex whilst discussing our new media-fabricated relationship in an attempt to seduce him in my classroom? Great. ‘Cause that’s how it sounded in my head. “Really. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Right. Yes. Because we’re forgetting we met before. We’re forgetting we had sex. We’re forgetting we saw each other mostly naked.
God, this is a hell of a time to remember he’s seen my boobs.
A hell of a time for him to remember that too.
I cross my arms over my chest, and he averts his gaze. “So, we just let it fizzle out? The story, I mean.”Not the tension I still refuse to admit is sexual.
Cass mimics my stance, and it’s my turn to momentarily lose control of my eyeballs, drawn to the sliver of forearm revealed by his sleeves riding up. “Exactly.”
“Cool.” So cool. Perfectly normal, too. Doesn’t everyone start their Monday like this? “You should probably go. Class is about to start.”
He leaves without fuss. One last rap of his knuckles against my desk, a meaningful look, and he’s gone. Only when the bell rings and kids start filing through the door do I realize I’ve been watching it like he might come striding back through any minute. To do what, only God knows, but I do know that’s not going to happen. I do know I have more important things to worry about; like twenty children clamoring for attention.
What I don’t know is when a takeout cup of coffee landed on my desk.
* * *
“Oh my God.” Grocery bags and a briefcase hit the living room floor with a series of heavy thuds, leaving Willow’s hand free to dramatically cup her cheeks. “Is thattheCass Morgan’s newly revealed girlfriend?”
Ignoring the middle finger I flash her, she rushes to join me on the sofa, batting her eyes dramatically. “What’s it like? Being a celebrity?”
“I hate you.” Willow grunts as my foot connects with her thigh. “And keep it down. I don’t want August to hear.”
By some miracle, he remains blissfully oblivious to his mommy’s newfound fame. I don’t count on that lasting long but I’ll enjoy having one less thing to worry about while I can.
