Country Kisses (3:AM Kisses Book #8)(8)
“Exactly! A glorified bed warmer!” I hack it out over the pulsating rhythm that’s beginning to make my head swim. Mini Caila has suddenly dawned pompoms and is kicking me in the side of the head with her rabid enthusiasm. And much like mini Caila, I’m liking where this bed warming train is headed.
“Bed warmer.” He belts out a laugh that gets drowned out by the hysteria of the mob that’s taken over this place. “Where do I sign up?” There’s a spark in him that suggests he’s teasing, but that sharp gaze of his is saying game on.
I pull my purse forward, clutching the leather satchel housing my new boyfriend as if I were declaring my loyalty. Then in an outward act of defiance that makes mini Caila toss a confetti parade of condoms in my honor, I fling my purse with my newfound electronic boy toy to the side.
“Sign-ups are right here, baby. The first bed warming session begins tonight.”
Cade
Cassidy Clayton is a walking wet dream. Perhaps not the most delicate analogy of a woman that my hyper-sexualized brain has come up with, but by far the most accurate. She’s beautiful and witty, and that accent of hers is enough to make me want to rip my beating heart out of my chest and hand it to her on a platter. I’ve done that before, to a girl from Tennessee to be exact, and in no way am I willing to reenact that painful scenario. I push Sammy to the back of my mind. This is Cassidy. Beautiful, stunningly beautiful Cassidy. And she’s just presented an offer too damn tempting to ever pass up.
“No,” I flatline before my dick starts in on negotiations. There’s a hard pinch in my boxers as my balls offer up a swift protest.
“No?” She scoots back in her seat, incensed by my refusal—and she should be. There’s not a man alive who should ever say no to Cassidy.
“That’s right, no.” I’m pretty sure I’ve met my quota on that word for the night—perhaps for the rest of my life where this girl is concerned. My gut wrenches as I take in her creamy blonde hair, that perfect pout on her lips that my own mouth begs to cover.
“Why?” Her accent comes in so thick, I bask in its glory a moment. There’s not a thing I miss about my ex, but there’s something disarming about hearing every word come from Cassidy’s lips. “Say it to my face. I dare you.” There’s a fire in her eyes, a rage brewing that suggests she might break my glass and slit my throat with it.
“Because you finished two drinks, and I don’t know if this is the liquor talking or you.” I’m not sure if that’s what she was expecting to hear, but I do know what she’s been struggling to hide from the moment I sat down. What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve seen it. Not tonight, a few weeks back. She was here at the Black Bear, and for a brief moment walked past me like a dream. I knew then I had to meet her. She turned back to retrieve her sweater off a chair, and that’s when I saw it, the matrix of a scar that’s left a permanent imprint on the landscape of her sweet, sweet face. I’ll admit, it made me pause. Usually, I would have pinned her down like a butterfly, plied her with drinks, and begged her to f*ck me, but seeing that brutality woven into her flesh gutted me on a primal level. It made me see her as a person, not a plaything—made me curious, furious at what might have happened—and my imagination has run away with what might have happened. I’ve been stalking the bar ever since, hoping I’d see her again, and here she is, proposing the very thing I would have applauded her for just a few weeks back.
“Well, aren’t you the gentleman?” Her eyes glow a strange shade of sapphire, and it takes a moment for me to put together the fact that glow is a direct effect from tears forming. “What are you? Some kind of superhero? Saving drunk vaginas on a desperate Friday night?” She tosses back her hair and laughs as if honing in on her resolve. “That’s okay, hon. I’ve never met a cock blocker I didn’t like.” She rises, and, for a second, I accept the fact she might land a drink in my face. I’ve been doused with a drink or two before, but never was it for turning down a proposal. Come to think of it, I’ve never turned down a proposal.
Cassidy snatches up her purse and whisks by me in a blur.
“Wait!” I follow her out the door and into the iced night where our breath leads the way with long, spastic plumes. The wind picks up as a boil of black clouds press over Hollow Brook. A storm is due this weekend, and it looks as if it’s coming early. “I like where you were headed back there.”
“Home?” she scoffs, clearly annoyed. Her brows knot up for a moment as she stares me down, and it takes everything in me not to drift my gaze to her left cheek and inspect her injury up close the way I want to. “Because home is where I’m going.” She pulls her enormous black coat over her shoulders like a shield and strides forward.
“Home sounds good,” I say, keeping up with her. “I’ll walk with you if you don’t mind.”
“Maybe I do mind.” She tosses an annoyed look my way as we step off the curb and head across the street to Whitney Briggs. “Listen, hon”—she bats her lashes with the tears glistening like fallen stars, and my heart breaks that I might have sponsored them—“don’t for a minute think you need to hold my hand. I promise you, I’m fine. I don’t have a hurt feeling in my body. Now, feel free to head back to the bar and get that itch in your boxers scratched the right way.”