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Oblivious to my raging blush and the odd, squeaking noise I make, my son continues his inspection. “And the spinach?”
“My physiotherapist’s a hardass. Got me on a strict diet.”
Physio. Right. Because he’s injured. Or recovering, I guess. “How’s your shoulder?”
Whether he’s surprised I asked or surprised I care, I’m not sure, but I do recognize the sudden discomfort that holds Cass taut, like this is his least favorite topic of conversation. “It’s fine.”
“Don’t let Luna hear you.”
A husky laugh chases a shiver up my spine. “She got you with that shit already?”
“Isaac.”
“Ah,” he says again, remarkably lighter without the underlying threatening tone. “Hey, August, he told me—”
He does it so damn smoothly. Asks my son about the baseball team he supports while casually swinging his cart around, pushing it forward while pushing me forward too. We’re in an entirely new aisle before I realize what he’s done, that we’re grocery shopping with Cass Morgan, that he’s making an attempt to bond with my son, and that, every time I add something to my basket, Cass adds the same thing to his.
I wait until there’s a lull in conversation, until August darts a few feet away to snag the chips he likes, before calling him out on it. “I can’t tell if you’re being ridiculous or sweet.”
Cass flashes a charming smile, not the least bit ashamed to have been caught. “Ridiculously sweet isn’t an option?”
Not sure, but dangerously sweet definitely is. The kind of sweet a girl could get used to; the worst kind, because it hurts so much more when you lose it.
18
CASS
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
Despite the automatic bad mood I fall into every time I enter Dr. Davies’ office, his words make me smile. “Thanks, Doc.”
The man who’s been treating my baseball-related injuries since college, and graciously offered to oversee my recovery while I’m back at Sun Valley, rolls up my sleeve and lifts my arm, gently rotating my injured shoulder and examining the area. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Funny.” I fight the urge to wince as fingers prod a particularly tender spot. “Everyone else thinks it’s a long time coming.”
Davies’ chuckle is drowned out by the loud, dramatic sigh from the corner. “Is this gonna take much longer?” Ryan, at his big, grown age, whines. “I need to be at the airport soon, and we still have to talk.”
Gritting my teeth, I fight a scowl.Talk. All we’ve done for the past few days istalk. I haven’t done anything buttalk. Andstrategize. Andwant to bang my head against a wall.“I told you I don’t have time to talk today. I’m meeting Sunday after this.”
Another one of those petulant sighs echoes around the room. “Can’t you reschedule?”
“No.” I’ve been rescheduling all week, and I’m done. I wanna see my kid, or whatever grainy monochrome blob a technician labels as my kid. I told Ryan this repeatedly yet he still tagged along to my appointment under the pretense of caring but with very obvious hopes I’d change my mind.
The morning after the news broke, my doorbell rang, and even before I opened up and found Ryan on the other side, a sense of foreboding fell. He blew inside like a fucking hurricane, ranting and raving about damage control and lying low, and casting a dull shadow over a happy thing. He played the role of the concerned agent, claiming he wanted to be here with me during this difficult time—his words, not mine—when really, we both know he’s here on babysitting duties.
He didn’t congratulate me or ask how I was doing, and certainly didn’t ask anything about Sunday. He barely mentioned her at all beyond asking repeatedly if she’d agreed to pretend to date me yet. He just banned me from leaving my house because with the season having started a couple weeks ago and the Wolves already failing spectacularly, all eyes are already on me, and this pregnancy thing? Extra unwanted attention.
“We can’t control the narrative,”he’s lectured so many times over the past few days, the words are permanently stamped on my brain,“until we know what the narrative is.”
Basically, I’m on house arrest until Sunday makes her decision which means I don’t get to see Sunday. I don’t get to talk to her about it, about anything, and if there’s one person I wanna talk to right now, it’s her. I could call her, sure, but this doesn’t feel like a phone conversation, and with every contactless day that passes, I become more and more sure she’s gonna shoot me down.
I’d understand if she did. Honestly, I’d be more surprised if she didn’t. Maybe even a little relieved, honestly. I like Sunday. We have a mutual respect thing going on, maybe even a friendship. But dating her, even if it’s not real, fucking terrifies me.
Getting anymore attached than I already am is terrifying.
But if it’s a choice between me suffering and her? C’mon. Easy decision.
Another vicious prod draws me out of my thoughts, a stark contrast to the friendly pat Davies’ gives me a second later. “You’re healing well. Better than expected but you’ve still got a way to go.”
