Page 7

CHAPTER 6

FATE AND FUCKERY

CASS

A ll I have to say is God bless baseball pants.

I’ve spent most of the game ogling eight of the Roseville Ramblers asses—the ninth is my cousin’s, and the thought of him sleeping with my best friend still makes me gag. She, on the other hand, is only ogling his ass, leaning forward with her bottom lip between her teeth as Remy throws to third, just in front of the runner, earning them a second out.

The game’s almost over and we’re winning by two. It’s been close enough to keep it interesting, but I know as well as anybody that one bad inning can turn the tide. If Wilder’s arm holds out through the ninth, we’ll win. Which means he has one more out to earn, and judging by the look on his face, he means to get it.

His jaw is set as he shakes his head, shakes it again. The lines of his body are art as he nods and winds up, whipping the ball, his back leg extending.

Watching him sends me right back to high school. I used to live in these stands. On the rare occasion his twin sister Shelby didn’t have a game, she’d come with me to the away games—I never missed one, even that time I was sick as hell with the flu. I grabbed a box of tissues, took a handful of cold meds, and soldiered on.

The hitter takes a bite out of it, but the ball sails high into centerfield and straight into Ashton’s glove.

We hop out of our seats, cheering as the game ends, the guys slapping each other’s backs and butts and arms as they clear the field. The stands are already emptying, so we grab our purses and head down to the gate to wait for the guys, just like I used to. Jessa runs for Remy, jump into his arms, and kiss his whole entire face off.

So gross.

I glance away, looking at nothing in particular, toying with the end of my ponytail so I don’t have to watch. It also helps me maintain my chill as Wilder exits the field with his duffle bag strap across his broad chest. I’m reminded as he approaches that he saw me naked last night. And while most of the encounter was a blur, I remember exactly how he smelled, how my bare breasts brushed the rough leather of his gear, how his hands felt on me.

He smiles, and the last ten years disappear. Desperately, I want to throw myself into his arms and kiss his face off like Jessa did Remy.

I have a feeling Wilder wouldn’t say no.

“Hey,” he says, still smiling.

“Hey. Good game—proud of you for staying awake the whole time. Sorry I kept you up all night.”

That smile of his smolders, his big fist squeezing around his bag strap. “You can keep me up all night anytime, Cassidy Winfield.”

My ovaries explode into fireworks, the embers lighting my uterus on fire. A rush of blood to my cheeks has me laughing to cover.

“That an invitation?” I ask, feeling cheeky.

“Honey, that invitation has been open for a decade.”

I’m so hot, I nearly faint. I shake my head at him, smiling in an attempt to compose myself. “You’re playing with fire, Wilder.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a trained professional.”

He takes another step, and I’m pulled into his gravity like a rogue meteor.

“More like a hot shot,” I say, looking up at him. I can smell the sweat and fresh cut grass on him. He’s filthy. I want to lick his neck. “Heard you’ve banged half of Roseville since I’ve been gone.” The sting of jealousy is so sharp, it nauseates me, but I hold my ground, my smile a challenge I all but beg him to take.

He shrugs, still inching closer. “People like to talk, but I’ll tell you one thing.”

“Yeah?” My chin tilts up as I try to maintain eye contact.

“Not one of them was you, no matter how bad I wished they were.”

I swallow hard, my lips parting and pulse fluttering in my neck. I forgot how he could do this to me, strip me down to the studs with nothing more than a few words uttered so openly, so casually, like facts recited for my convenience. Just one dangerous little sentence that happens to be the hottest thing a man has said to me in, oh, I don’t know. Ten years?

My brain is empty of words, only dirty, deplorable thoughts. Distantly, I wonder if I’m about to kiss my high school boyfriend in front of half the town and subsequently wonder if I give a damn if they all see.

Remy slaps Wilder on the arm, breaking the hold he has on me. I stumble back a step and nearly crumple to the ground like an empty sack.

Oblivious, Remy says, “Hey, y’all coming to The Horseshoe for a drink?”

Wilder looks to me for an answer. As if his answer relies on my answer.

Do I want to make bad, bad decisions with Wilder? Absolutely, indubitably, to the fucking heavens, yes.

Should I? Probably not. I mean, maybe? But I probably shouldn’t. Right?

The ping pong game between my ears is my answer. My poor, broken gut is a wishy-washy mess. I can’t trust myself to make important decisions. Better to let fate decide until I figure out how I’m ever going to trust myself again.

“You know, I think I’m gonna head home.”

Jessa groans. “Oh, please come with me? Don’t leave me alone with all these brutes.”

“You’re on your own, kid.” I salute her with a wink and a smile. “Mom’s home, and I have a charred backyard to explain.”

She pouts but steps over to give me a hug and kiss each cheek. “Well, alright,” she says between kisses.

“You coming?” Remy slaps Wilder in the chest.

So much slapping. It’s like they’re always trying to hurt each other.

Wilder looks exhausted and maybe a little disappointed at the news that I’m heading home and not dive bombing his cock like I’m inclined. “Nah, I’d better get home and take a nap before my brain gives out or something.”

“Suit yourself,” Remy says, hanging his gorilla arm on Jessa’s pristine shoulders. “See y’all.”

“Have fun,” I call after them, putting some distance between me and Wilder. “And you go get some rest. Thanks for putting me in bed last night. Jessa might have broken her neck trying to get me up the stairs, and I never would have forgiven myself.”

“It was no prob, Cass. Like I said—anytime.”

I’ve been backing toward the parking lot since I opened my mouth, and with that, I wave and turn, exhaling heavily and in desperate need of a cold shower.

Remy’s old Chevy Silverado is right where I left it, rust colored and boxy. He fixed it up for me since I have no vehicle of my own to speak of. But it constantly needs tinkering with, and I’m not someone who can tinker, so its reliability is always in question.

Thankfully Roseville’s a whopping four square miles in size, so it hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience.

Yet.

Into the truck I climb, sliding across the bench seat to roll down the passenger window, the cab sweltering. Sweat trickles down my sternum, leaving me anxious to get moving so I can enjoy a breeze. When I turn on the truck, country music plays from the radio, and I buckle in and shift to reverse, the springy bench seat bouncing me with every little move.

Reciting times tables helps distract me from Wilder. It’s so strange to be back here after all this time. It feels sometimes as if the last ten years were a dream. Living in England, the apartment in Boston, all the traveling—it’s just this weird blip in my life that no longer exists. Most days, I feel like Dorothy waking up after her trip to Oz, back on Auntie Em’s farm like I never left.

Made sense—Oz was a lying bastard too.

I’m about to pull off Main Street when the check engine light comes on and the steering locks. Swearing, I use all my strength to turn the beast to the side of the road and pull the brake. With some additional swearing, I reach for my bag in search of my phone. But before I can call Remy, I look in the rearview to find something that shouldn’t send a fizzy thrill through me.

But it does.

Because Wilder pulled up behind me.

Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe I’m just desperate. Maybe I’m foolish, though I’m definitely stupid.

But the second I see him slide out of his truck in all his familiar, bestial glory, I acknowledge that fate is a cruel, cruel bitch.

And I put myself firmly in her hands.