“You were always causing trouble!” I throw my hands up. “What the hell did you expect?”
He shakes his head, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Let’s keep walking. We’ve only covered a small portion, and dinner will be served soon.”
But I don’t move.
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to play pretend and sit down at their perfect, gleaming dinner table, making polite small talkwhile acting like this isn’t the same family that wrecked everything.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bridget.
Hey, how are things going?
And I immediately think of her hand in mine, that trembling grip, and her pale face as I left. “I’ll never forget what you’re doing for me,” she whispered.
WhatamI doing, really? Just having dinner with the McCarthys, right? Smiling. Using the right fork. Pretending we were all… friends.
It wasn’t that big of a deal.
Was it?
Cavin watches as I shove my phone in my little bag and sling it back over my shoulder. I wouldkillfor a pair of yoga pants and an oversized jumper right now.
He shows me a little prelude to the garden first, lush, secluded, echoing with “You can walk from one room to the next, but this is a shortcut.”
He shows me rooms. Too many rooms. Library. Wine cellar. Some trophy room full of his father’s achievements.
I stop listening halfway through.
All I can think about is the way he stands too close. The way his hand hovers near my lower back but never quite touches, like he wants to. Like it’s natural for him, but he’s stopping himself.
We keep walking, and he shrugs out of his jacket, handing it to me. “Put it on. You’re cold.”
It’s not a question.
I’m freezing, and I’m shaking, but not entirely from the cold.
“I’m fine?—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he says, his voice low. “Just wear the fucking jacket.” He drapes it over my shoulders. His hands linger for half a second, just long enough for me to feel the heat of his palms through the fabric.
The jacket smells likehim—whiskey, woodsmoke, leather.
I want to bury my face in it.
I want to throw it off and run.
“Better?” he whispers, too close to my ear.
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.
His hand is still on my shoulder, his thumb pressing just slightly into the hollow of my collarbone.
“Good,” he says.
Then he steps back, creating distance and leaving me cold again, but… burning.
“I don’t?—”
“Just wear it. I promise I’m only being nice because my parents taught me to be a gentleman. It’s nothing personal.”
