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I’ve never done this before.
Never crossed this line.
So I’ve touched her bed before, run my hands over the cool cotton sheets, but that’s nothing.
I lie back.
The mattress is okay. Not good enough for my Cassandra. But it’s comfortable.
I settle my head on her pillow.
It’s too soft. Too girly.
I look up at her ceiling. At the sparkly mini chandelier she installed over her bed.
This is the last thing she sees each night.
I close my eyes and pretend.
Just for two seconds, I pretend she’s here with me.
* * *
My eyes snap open.
A vehicle is approaching.
I sit straight up, disoriented in a place that borders on familiar and wrong.
The lighting has changed.
The shadows have shifted.
I look at the clock on the nightstand.
“Fuck me.”
I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and slide them into my boots, lacing them quickly.
“Did you seriously fall a-fucking-sleep in Cassandra’s house?” I’m so mad at myself. I can’t believe I fucked up this badly.
Not that it’s any real wonder. The stomachache I got from those mushy-ass cookies kept me up half the night.
Eyeing the rumpled bedding at my side, I run my palm over it once more before I stand, the cotton cool under my touch.
I stay far enough back from the window so I’m not visible to anyone below, but from this angle, I can still see out. And Cassandra’s car slows to a stop in the driveway, yards from where I’m standing.
“Shit.”
Her garage is attached to the side of her house, connecting through the small laundry room off the kitchen, which is right below me. The overhead garage door works, I’ve checked, but unless it’s snowing, Cassandra always chooses to park outside. For a reason only known to her.
I could sprint. I could get down the stairs, turn at the base of the staircase, duck into the laundry room, and slip into the garage, pulling the door closed at the same moment she slams the front door behind her. Then I could exit through the window in the back of the garage or wait for her to fall asleep and then go back through the laundry room, into the kitchen, and out the door that leads into the backyard.
I could do all of that. But that would require me to have moved by now, which I haven’t. And I don’t.
Cassandra steps out of her car, and my heart races for a reason other than the threat of getting caught. My heart is racing because she’s close. So close.
She has an iced coffee in one hand and a Target bag in the other, and she uses her perfect hip to shove the car door shut.
