“I know you gotta go,” he said, rougher now, drawing her back against him.“And I ain’t gonna make this harder on you.”
They kept dancing, the music stretching out around them, filling the space he wasn’t about to.
“Just tell me one thing,” he eventually muttered.
Her fingers curled a little tighter at the back of his neck.“What?”
“You gonna come back this time?”
Cassie didn’t reply right away.Instead, she studied him, like she was trying to figure out what he meant by it…or maybe whether he meant it at all.
Then, softly—
“Do you want me to?”
Nash let out a low, frustrated sound.
“Cassie—goddamn—Berry.”
She laughed at that, the tension breaking just enough to let the warmth back through.
He didn’t say anything else—just pulled her in closer and dipped her back, bringing her up again slow.Their eyes met, and for a second, neither of them moved.
And then they were kissing.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thesubwaydoorsslidopen with a chime, and Cassie stepped out into the rush of bodies, the heat of the platform gone the second she hit street level.
New York in November had a way of cutting straight through you—wind tunneling down the avenues hard enough to make your eyes water if you weren’t ready for it.
Bootheels clicking pavement on Bleecker Street, Cassie tucked the violin case closer against her side as the wind carried coffee and exhaust through the cold.Pulling her hat lower, she picked up her pace, soon pushing through the door of Crimson and Clover Café.
Inside, it was all warmth and noise—milk steaming behind the counter, cups clinking as orders were called.The place had been there forever—dark wood surfaces worn smooth, pressed tin ceilings, walls lined with old black-and-white photographs of the neighborhood.It was old New York, not yet gentrified into something sleek or modern, and since moving there, Cassie had always felt at home in it.
“Hey, Cas,” the barista called as she approached the counter, already reaching for a cup.“Your usual?”
“Please.”Cassie unwound her scarf, a quick shiver running through her.“And Jordan’s too.”
“You got it.Go sit.”
Slipping past a couple coming in from the cold, she made her way to a table by the window, resting her violin case carefully against the wall before easing into the chair.
Outside, traffic dragged through the light, horns cutting through the noise as pedestrians threaded between cars.A delivery truck idled at the curb while a guy hauled crates onto his shoulder.
The light changed.
A motorcycle rolled up to the line, low and unmistakably custom—blacked-out frame, stripped clean of anything it didn’t need, the kind of build Nash would notice before anything else.
Pulling out her phone, she snapped a quick picture and sent it off.It hadn’t gone quiet between them since leaving Clifton.If anything, she talked to him more now than she ever had.He wasn’t built for texting—half his replies were one word, if that—but he called most nights.Usually late, his voice low in her ear while she lay in bed, music playing softly on her end while she stared at the ceiling of her apartment.
Meanwhile, she filled the daytime silence the only way she knew how—with memes, GIFs, and whatever stupid thing she could think up to get a reaction out of him.
This morning it had been a bathroom mirror selfie—wearing only her bra and underwear, violin tucked under her chin while she brushed her teeth.
Multitasking, she’d captioned it.
He’d seen it already and still hadn’t said anything.
