Chapter Two
Cash led Callie—still laughing her ass off at her own joke—to his truck, holding on to her to keep her steady, which wasn’t easy on those crazy heels. Maybe he should have picked her up and carried her.
Maybe he should never have gone out onto the patio to find her. Maybe he shouldn’t have even come to this crazy party. As always, seeing Callie was both sweet and bitter.
Suddenly, her giggles turned to sobs. Aw fuck.
“I’m sorry.” She gave a huge sniff. “I’m a mess tonight.”
A gorgeous, sexy, hot mess. Yeah. “It’s okay, Callie. I’ve seen you drunk before.”
“You have not!”
“Uh, yeah. Remember that long weekend on South Padre Island?”
“Oh. Right.”
“And spring break in Cancun?”
“You were the one who walked into the patio doors and nearly broke your nose.”
He stifled a grin. “We’re not supposed to speak of that.” He opened the door of his vehicle and helped her inside. Once in the driver’s seat, he sighed as she fumbled unsuccessfully with the seat belt, then leaned over to fasten it for her.
Her hair smelled like warm spices and vanilla—exotic, feminine, and hypnotic. He resisted the urge to bury his face against her long, silky hair as he fastened her seat belt.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He shifted back to his side of the vehicle and started the engine.
He kept an eye on her as he drove, hoping like hell she wasn’t going to puke in his truck. He wasn’t squeamish about much, but vomit was one thing that got to him. That time in college when one of his frat buddies had hurled all over the living room floor…yeah, he’d had to run to the bathroom and upchuck, too.
Callie went quiet, and moments later a sideways glance told him she’d dozed off. As he drove, he took advantage of her slumber to study her, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision at one point—her softly parted lips, her long eyelashes, the skirt of her dress riding up on her smooth thighs.
Luckily, they made it to her house in the Memorial neighborhood without crashing his truck. He pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the big two-story house with bay windows, high steps leading to an arched front door topped with a circular window. The fixture over the front door shed warm light onto the landing.
“Hey, darlin’, we’re home.” He reached over and set his hand on her slender shoulder to give her a gentle shake.
She lifted her head and blinked at him, hair hanging in her face. “Home?”
“Yeah.” He jumped out and rounded the vehicle to open her door. As she slid out, her dress—short enough to begin with—rode even higher on her legs. She slipped her arm through his, and he led her up the steps, where she dug around in her little purse, found her house key, and handed it to him to open the door.
She slumped against the wall and closed her eyes. “God, I just want to go to bed.”
“Nearly there.” He pushed open the door and followed her in. Once more, she stumbled, bumping against the table in the foyer, setting a big vase of flowers wobbling. “Jesus.”
“Damn.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not. Come on. I’ll help you upstairs. Wait. Sit down.” He gently pushed her to sit on the second step from the bottom and crouched in front of her. He eased her shoes off and tossed them aside. “There.” Climbing the polished hardwood of the stairs in those heels, in that state, was going to get her neck broken. He lifted her back to her feet and steadied her, then turned her and held her as she slowly climbed the steps.
He followed her into the big master bedroom. The room where she used to sleep with Beau. “You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay.” She yawned. “Thank you for bringing me home.” She walked over to the bed and did a face-plant. The dress was high enough that he could just see the bottom curve of her ass cheeks.
He swallowed and looked away. “Hang on, darlin’.” He jogged back downstairs to her kitchen. He knew which cupboard the glasses were in after years of helping himself to beers or tea from the fridge. He also knew where the ibuprofen was. He carried two tablets and a big glass of water upstairs.
He set the glass down and nudged her, still prone on the bed. “Hey, Callie. Take these before you pass out.”
She lifted her head. “What?”
“Sit up.”
She groaned, rolled over, and pushed up. She swallowed the pills and handed the glass back to him.
“Drink it all.”
She huffed, then drank. “There.”
“Okay.” He took the empty glass and eyed her. “Uh…you gonna sleep in your clothes?”
“I’ll change in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” He still hesitated. “You sure you’re okay?”
“The room’s spinning a little.”
He sighed. “Okay. Get some sleep.”
He paused at the door and looked back at her in the dark room. Heat filled his belly, and his forehead furrowed. She was out again, in her black lace dress, all her shiny brown hair spread around her head, arms up and under her pillow. Well, sleeping in your clothes wasn’t the worst thing you could do. He just hoped she wasn’t going to be sick. He left the door ajar and headed back downstairs, fighting the unreasonable urge to stay and make sure she was okay.
She was an adult, twenty-six years old, a divorced woman who’d just spent months traveling the world alone. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Except when she found a cockroach in her mud room. Or when her garage door opener broke and she couldn’t get her car out of her garage. Or when her toilet wouldn’t stop running.
He had to leave her alone. He had to stay the fuck away from her.
He let himself out of her house, locking the door behind him. As he drove to his condo not far away, he reflected on the tears he’d seen when he’d spotted her out on the patio, looking lower than a gopher hole. She’d tried to deny it, but her sadness yanked at something inside him.
He gripped the steering wheel. He was still so fucking pissed off at Beau for what he’d done to Callie. Yes, he and Beau were friends. Yes, they were business partners. Cash had been able to bury that anger in order to keep going with their lives, but things had changed between him and Beau.
He’d known about his friend screwing around with other women. At first he’d just suspected it, but then he’d caught Beau with a woman. Like Callie’s mother, Audrey Sutherland, apparently Beau hadn’t seen a problem with it and expected her to just carry on.
As for why Cash hadn’t told Callie… Christ.
He rubbed his face with one hand, the other still on the wheel.
There were about a million reasons he hadn’t told her, and they were all fucked up.
…
The next morning, Cash woke before eight even though he’d been out until nearly two in the morning. He just couldn’t sleep much later than that, even on weekends. He laced up his running shoes and went for his usual Saturday morning run before the temperature and humidity got too high. Running and football had become his way of dealing with crap. And sometimes, when he pushed until his muscles burned and his lungs strained, maybe even a way of punishing himself.
As his feet pounded the pavement, his thoughts went back to Callie. She was no doubt still in bed and probably wasn’t going to feel great when she did get up.
He was going to go check on her.
He blew out a particularly harsh breath. He could try to talk himself out of it, but it wasn’t going to do any good. He needed to make sure she was okay.
An hour later, he returned to his condo, dripping with sweat, some of the tension gone from his body. He showered, dressed in faded jeans and an old UT T-shirt, then made himself a bunch of toast and peanut butter, which he ate sitting at the kitchen island while scanning news on his smartphone.
He’d promised his mom he’d come by her condo to figure out why her thermostat wasn’t working, so he had to go there first. When he and Beau had started making serious money, he’d bought his mom a new condo not far from his place, where he could keep an eye on her. It was a huge step up from the crappy apartment she’d moved them to after his parents’ divorce.
“Hey, Mama.” He greeted her with a hug.
“Cash. Come in. Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat.”
“Just had breakfast.” He smiled at her. “So what’s new?”
“Hmm. Well, your sister has a new boyfriend.”
He frowned. “What? Who is it?” Ginnie was a junior at Texas A&M.
Mama smiled. “I only know his name—Kevin.”
“She’s graduating next year. She needs to focus on schoolwork.”
“Uh-huh. She’s also nearly twenty-two years old. Old enough to have a boyfriend.”
“I guess.”
Ginnie had been ten and he’d been sixteen when their father had decided he’d rather be married to the woman he was having an affair with than to their mother, and had left. He’d moved to Dallas, and they’d had minimal contact with him since then. At sixteen, Cash had been left with his brokenhearted, somewhat helpless mother and a younger sister who needed a father, so he was used to looking after both of them. And he was used to ignoring his own pain. He’d learned a hard lesson from his father leaving.
“What’s new with you?” Mama asked.
He talked about work, the bid they were putting together for a big project for Sutherland Industries, to build a new substation at one of their oil refineries. He knew Mama didn’t really understand a lot about what he did, but nonetheless pride beamed in her eyes as he talked and had a look at her thermostat. “New batteries,” he muttered.
“Oh. I didn’t know it used batteries.”
He repressed his smile. “Hey, your birthday is next month,” he said. “Isn’t this the big five-oh?”
Mama laughed. She didn’t have an issue with age. “Yes, it is.”
“What do you want to do to celebrate?”
“Oh, we don’t have to do anything.”
“Sure we do. This is a milestone birthday. We should have a party.”
“That might be fun.”
Cash liked the idea of a birthday party for his mom. He’d talk to Ginnie and maybe to Mom’s friends Barb and Eleanor. Between them they should be able to come up with a plan and a guest list.
“But just a nice dinner with you and Ginnie would be lovely. If she could come home for a weekend. Maybe we could meet the new boyfriend.”
“Great idea.” Yeah, he’d want to check out this dude if Ginnie was seriously into him. “Okay. That’s fixed. Anything else you need done?”
“There is one more thing. I bought a new set of shelves for the laundry room, and I started trying to put them together, but I got so frustrated I gave up.”
There was always something else. But he didn’t mind.
It took him an hour to get the shelves put together and set up in the little laundry room. “You want me to get rid of these?” He indicated the old shelves she’d taken down from the walls.
“Oh, if you could, that would be great.”
“Sure. I have my truck.” He carted the shelves down and dumped them in the back of the truck. “Okay, Mama, I have to get going.”
“Where are you off to now? Please tell me you’re not going to work.”
“No. I’m going over to Callie’s.”
“Oh?” Her eyes lit up with curiosity.
“She kind of tied one on last night celebrating her divorce.” He grimaced. “Just gonna check on her.”
“Mmm. I see.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I know.” She held up her hands.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you, Cash. You come for dinner one night next week, okay?”
“If you’ll make your pot roast.” He grinned.
She smiled, too. “I can do that.”
After he left Mama’s place, he headed to Callie’s, mentally kicking his own ass the whole time. People survived hangovers, for chrissakes, he didn’t need to be so worried about her.
He made one stop on the way there, then rang the doorbell at nearly noon. She should be up.
She answered the door moments later, yep, looking a little pale. Still gorgeous, of course. She couldn’t be anything but. Even with her damp hair pulled up into a messy bun with pieces hanging out of it around her face, shadows hugging her lower eyelids, and a smudge of something white on one high cheekbone, she was beautiful.
“Cash. What are you doing here?” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. Please come in.”
He held out the bag. “Here. I picked up chicken and biscuits and sweet tea from Mama Maybelle’s. Everyone knows that’s the best hangover cure there is.”
“Oh, bless your heart!” She reached eagerly for the bag. “I need this so bad.”
“I figured.” He gave her a wry smile as he walked in. “Thought I should check on you. You were pretty blasted last night.”
Not only had she been drunk, she’d been crying. He fucking hated Callie crying.
She touched a hand to her temple and let out a sigh. “I hope I didn’t do anything too embarrassing.”
“Memory’s a little fuzzy?” He followed her into the big, bright kitchen, his eyes dropping to her ass in snug black yoga pants as she rounded the big island. The kitchen was huge and white, with a mile-long counter along one wall, big windows overlooking the ravine and bayou across the back wall, and a large white marble-topped island in the middle. He took in all the clutter on the island—not one but two huge KitchenAid mixers, big bowls, bags of flour and sugar, some of it dusted across the marble, an open carton of eggs, and bricks of butter. Callie loved to bake, although why she was whipping up what appeared to be a dozen cakes when she lived alone was a puzzle.
“Um, yeah.” She set the paper bag on the island and peered at him. “Did you bring me home last night?”
“I sure did.”
“Thank you.” She opened the bag. “Did you buy enough for two?”
“Yep.” He grinned and slid onto a stool. “You think I’d let you eat chicken and biscuits from Mama Maybelle’s without me?”
She smiled and passed him a container of food. “Let me get you a plate and a knife and fork.”
“Nah.” He waved a hand. She’d probably be setting the table with fine china and fresh flowers if he let her. “This is good. Sit. Eat. How’s the head?”
“Not bad, actually. I can handle my liquor.”
He burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.”
She narrowed her eyes at him as she popped a piece of biscuit into her mouth. “What?”
“You were hammered last night. You can’t hold your liquor.”
“You don’t know how much I had to drink.”
“True.” He grinned. “The ibuprofen I made you take last night might have something to do with how you’re feeling this morning.”
Her slender eyebrows drew together. “You made me take ibuprofen?”
“And my point is made.”
Her pretty lips pursed. “Shut up.”
He laughed and toasted her with his own cup of sweet tea. “Anyway. I’m sorry you weren’t having more fun last night.”
Her gaze dropped to the food in front of her. “I was having fun. Sort of.”
“Do you remember talking about getting a tattoo?”
“Of course I do.” She lifted her head. “I’m going to do that this afternoon.”
He choked on his tea. “Oh no, you’re not.”
“I was serious! I did the design myself. I just don’t know where to go.” She sank her teeth briefly into her bottom lip.
“What design?”
She reached for her phone, which was plugged in, charging on the counter behind her. After a few swipes of her finger, she held up the phone, screen toward him. He couldn’t see the picture from across the island, so he moved around closer and peered at the phone. “Huh.”
The image was a delicate flower outlined in black, with elegant flourishes.
“It’s a lotus blossom.” She made the image bigger with thumb and forefinger. “It symbolizes going through a struggle and emerging stronger. When the lotus first begins to sprout, it’s still underwater, in muck and dirt and surrounded by fish and bugs. But it pushes through those obstacles and frees itself from those ugly conditions, and then it blossoms and slowly opens in the sun.”
He stared intently at the phone, his body rigid. Fuck. Hearing her compare her struggles to that, and talk about being free and blossoming, made his gut ache. Finally he nodded. “I like it. Very appropriate.” He was afraid to ask where she was going to put the tattoo.
“I’m thinking of getting it under my left boob.”
His esophagus constricted. He tried to swallow and wheeze in a breath. “Ungh.”
“Or maybe on my ribs.”
“You’re serious.”
“That’s what I said. I saw a tattoo place downtown.”
“Fuck no.” He sighed heavily. Much as he hated the idea of someone inflicting pain on her soft skin, he knew he couldn’t stop her. “Okay, if you’re really going to do this, I’ll call the place I go and make an appointment for you. I’ll take you there, but you won’t be able to get in today.”
She smiled. “Okay.”
He swallowed a groan. Jesus. He was supposed to be staying away from her.
Callie touched a paper napkin daintily to her lips, then dropped it to the empty container, having devoured the chicken and biscuits. “Okay. I have cookies and cakes to bake.”
“What are you making them for?”
She tossed her takeout container into the trash. “Mama’s birthday party tomorrow.”
“Uh, is it a big party? How many cakes do you need?”
“Well, just one. But I felt like baking.”
“You always feel like baking.”
A smile touched her lips. “True.”
“It’s a wonder you don’t weigh three hundred pounds.” Her slight curves were perfect, but even if she did put on weight from her baking, she’d still be gorgeous.
One corner of her mouth lifted. “Everything in moderation, as Grandma Sutherland always says.”
“That’s not what you were saying last night.”
“Quit teasing me about getting drunk! I’m fine now.” She lifted her chin and moved toward the big mixer.
“Need any help?” Christ. Why was he even asking that? She didn’t need his help, and he had no clue how to bake cookies. Also, he’d only come here to make sure she was okay, and she was clearly fine. Mostly.
“Um, sure. You could measure out two cups of flour.” She nodded at one of the bags on the island.
He washed his hands at the sink, then joined her to measure and mix and stir. “What kind of cookies are you making?”
“I’m trying something new. Cookie dough macarons.”
Damn, that sounded good. He had to admit he had a sweet tooth, and Callie did come up with some amazing creations. He let her tell him what to do, feeling weirdly comfortable despite being totally out of his element. It was nice in her bright kitchen on a sunny Saturday afternoon, Keith Urban playing through speakers mounted somewhere. Callie really did appear to feel okay, bopping a little to the music as she scraped down the sides of a big bowl with a bright-red spatula. Her eyes still drooped a bit, but damn, she was as sweet as the cookie dough.
“Hey!” She fixed her eyes on him. “No snitching the dough.”
“Come on. It’s the best part.”
She smirked. “Just you wait until these are done. We’ll see about that.”
He snuck a little more of the delectable batter and let it melt on his tongue. She glared at him again.
Jesus, he was like a little kid—even negative attention from her was better than none. He swallowed a sigh.
She focused on another bowl she was mixing. “Macarons are supposedly French, but I learned the Italian meringue method of making them. My first couple of tries were disasters.”
“I find that hard to believe. Everything you make is awesome.”
“Thank you.” She flashed him a white smile. “But so not true. I just don’t share the failures. These little beauties are very temperamental.”
“What’s in that bowl?”
“Almond meal and confectioner’s sugar.” She gave it a stir with a whisk.
“What else can I do?”
“Would you mind washing out that mixer bowl?”
“Sure.” He carried the heavy bowl to the sink and ran hot water into it. “I never thought I’d say this, but you need a bigger kitchen.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her when she didn’t reply and saw her staring into the bowl of almond flour and sugar. The expression on her face, the soft pout of her lips and droop of her eyes, made his chest ache. Damn. She’d been talking last night about selling this house because it was too big for one person. He’d stuck his boot in his mouth.
He dried the bowl, watching her cracking eggs and separating the whites from the yolks, impressed with her skill. When he tried to do that he ended up with pieces of shell and broken yolks. Then she added some of the egg whites to the big bowl and stirred it all up into a paste.
“Do you really want to sell the house?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him, focusing on stirring. “I’d miss this kitchen, that’s for sure. But it’s crazy for me to be here all alone.” For a brief moment, Beau’s absence loomed like a hulking proverbial elephant in the big kitchen. She set down the spatula. “Okay, now I have to make the syrup.”
“This is complicated.”
She smiled. “A little. But so worth it.”
“Does that batter taste good, too?”
Her lips twitched. She measured sugar and water into a saucepan and attached a thermometer to the side. “You shouldn’t eat raw eggs.”
“Aren’t there eggs in the cookie dough?”
“No. I use a special eggless recipe because we’re going to eat it raw.”
“Ah well, I like to live dangerously.” He shrugged and dipped a small spoon into the bowl. “Hmm. Interesting. Very almond-y.”
Callie laughed. “That would be right. You could put the other egg whites into that clean bowl and start the mixer.”
“This machine is dangerous looking.” But he did as she asked, the evil-looking beaters whipping the egg whites into a froth. For a moment, they were both silent as the machine buzzed away. Then she moved to peek into the bowl, stopping the beaters to check the egg whites.
“Soft peaks,” she confirmed.
Oh man. He had a dirty mind, because that made him think of other soft peaks. His gaze dropped to Callie’s chest, her high, firm breasts outlined by the tight pink tank top she wore. He swallowed.
“Okay, keep the mixer going on low while I get this syrup to the right temperature.” Moments later she was satisfied and began to drizzle the syrup into the egg whites. She revved up the motor on the mixer and soon had a bowl full of glossy white meringue.
“That I need to taste,” he said. “Seriously.”
Callie shook her head but didn’t smack his hand when he dipped into it. She added a few drops of food coloring and continued mixing until it was all a uniform pale-gold color. “Okay.” She hefted the bowl, muscles in her slender arms flexing. Damn. That was hot. That shouldn’t be hot. But it was. She began mixing meringue into the other bowl of sugar and almond flour, bit by bit, until she judged it was right. Ribbons of batter ran off the spatula when she lifted it out of the bowl. “Perfect.” She gave a nod.
It was also hot that she was such an expert at this. Hell, it was only making cookies, albeit fancy ones, but she was so focused and intent on what she was doing, his body flooded with an intense longing to jump her.
Damn. He closed his eyes. That could never happen.