Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(53)

Finally turning to look at me, he holds the pill out, and I open a hand for him in response. The tension between us is like a living entity in the wake of what I just suggested. Something we both know is there but are choosing to ignore.

When he drops the gel capsule into my palm, he wraps both his big, strong hands around mine and then leans in close. Electricity zings between us. I want to lean forward and bunt on his facial hair, beg him to stay here with me. To just think about it.

His breath fans across my cheek, and his eyes hold me captive. “That’s the thing, Red. There are too many fuckin’ strings with you. Enough to strangle us both. So we’re going to be responsible and ignore whatever this is between us. Because a month from now, we’ll be parting ways. You’re going to live some fabulous, wildly successful life in the city, and I’m going to be here, taking care of this place for the rest of my days. We’re on different paths, you and me.”

The smile he gives me is flat, but his hands squeeze mine before he pushes to stand. “Take the Tylenol and get some rest.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“I’ll take your bed,” he says over his shoulder. “I can wash the sheets tomorrow.”

And then, he’s walking away, leaving me holding a pill, a drink, and the tattered remains of my ego. In a bed that smells like him and makes me wish he were here with me.

“Cade?”

He stops just as his hand wraps around the door handle. “Yeah?” he replies without even looking at me.

“Will you stay?”

His body goes eerily still. No part of him moves. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was dead.

Actually, come to think of it, I wish I was dead after blurting that out like some dork with a crush on the hot, grumpy single dad who just told me I’m too complicated for him. I should have more pride and shouldn’t put him in such an awkward position. But here I am, asking him to stay.

He turns, brow low, expression tight. “Stay?”

“Yeah . . .” I bite my lip, crumpling a little under the intensity of his scowl. “Just for a bit. Just to chat. Or something.”

He stares at me for a few beats, a glimpse of shock darting across his hard features. He did not expect me to ask him to stay.

But with a firm nod in my direction, he takes quiet steps back to the bed.

And he stays.





18





Cade





Lance: Can I swing by and practice with you one day this week?

Cade: Sure.

Lance: Wednesday?

Cade: Sure.

Lance: Will the nanny be there?

Cade: Fuck off, Lance.

Lance: Lmao. So angry all the time. See you on Wednesday!





“Tell me about young Cade.”

I’m sitting as far away from Willa as I possibly can. If I could build a wall of pillows down the middle of this bed, I would. Not that it would stop me from dragging her underneath me.

Terrible, horrible, no good, unbelievably bad idea.

Even her questions I don’t want to answer aren’t helping distract me from the nearness of her. The smell of her.

The fucking temptation of her.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “I dunno. Not much to tell.” Propping my hands across my stomach, I chance a peek over at her.

She’s a little pale, the dark circles under her eyes highlighted only by the dim glow of the bedside light.

She’s fucking beautiful.

All sloping lines. Her neck. Her nose. The bottom line of her jaw. There’s an elegance about her. Willa Grant is classy. She’s got fancy written all over her, yet she walks around in old concert tees and is just crazy enough to knock a kid into a pool for revenge.

She’s so much more than meets the eye, and sitting in a dark room with only a small stretch of soft mattress between us, I have to admit to myself that the way I want her is about so much more than how she looks.

She captured my attention the first time I laid eyes on her, and I haven’t been able to look away since.

It’s goddamn distracting.

“Come on. Were you this serious as a kid? Or were you like Luke?” She says it lightly, but I can see the way her eyes have started to sag.

“I was nothing like Luke. And I don’t want Luke to be anything like me either. My mom dying changed too much.”

She nods solemnly but doesn’t start dithering over me, which I appreciate. For someone who grew up privileged, there’s an inherent practicality about Willa. Something in the way her mind works. I see it when she talks to Luke. She’s not prissy or high maintenance. She’s down to earth, and I love that about her. Even if she is delusional about accepting compliments.

“I watched her die that day. I watched my dad hold her. I watched him sob.” My teeth grind, and I drop my eyes for a moment. “I think my childhood kind of died that day too.”

I glance at her wide green eyes, a little shiny now. Her strawberry lips slightly part, and she nods again. I appreciate she doesn’t fill the silence with meaningless words.

“Maybe I was practical from an early age. Strategic?” I sigh and stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to sound like a martyr or something.”

“You don’t.” Her reply is soft and firm.