14. Cassidy

Tears well as I watch Chase drive away. Turning on my heel, I storm back into the house, slamming the door and parking myself on the recliner. Staring at Dad with a narrowed glare.

"That was uncalled for. You were an asshole to him for no reason."

"Really, Cassidy? Red Thompson?"

"Yes, Dad. Chase Thompson. We… we hooked up one time. And at first, I didn't know if I was going to tell him I was pregnant. But he turned up here because he heard a rumour, and I couldn't lie to him—"

"Yet you can lie to me?" He exhales loudly, cracking his knuckles. "He's a loser, Cass. I don't know what the hell you were doing hanging around him in the first place—you know he's nothing but trouble. Destined for prison or worse."

"You don't know him." I spit the words, unblinking, with a pounding in my skull. Nostrils and eyes burning as I will myself not to cry. "You don't."

"Come on. You're a smart girl—you've gotta be able to see through the bullshit. That's what this is. Bullshit. You've been there as often as I have to see the shit he pulls. The drinking, fighting, acting like an idiot with his cowboy buddies. It's exactly how his dad used to be. Same bullshit twenty years later."

Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air, letting them fall against the padded armrests with a resounding thud. "This is why I lied to you, Dad. Because I knew you'd be a fucking asshole about it."

My jaw quivers, dispersing droplets of brackish tears across my lap. They pour down my face, thankfully blurring my vision because the last thing I want right now is to see my dad's face.

"So yeah. I told you Shelby was coming to the ultrasound yesterday, but it was Chase. By the way, we're having a girl. Not that you've bothered to ask."

I suck in my lips and look over at him, taken aback by the broad smile gracing his face.

"Wow, Cassie. I'm sorry I didn't ask. I meant to, obviously… God, baby girls are the best, you know."

"Yeah, Chase is pretty excited."

"Cassie, I—"

"Save it. You need to go."

I don't bother waiting for him to leave before dragging my feet down the hall and burying myself under the covers. My pillowcases smell faintly like Chase—freshly lit wood stove with a hint of tobacco. I inhale his scent, clutching the pillow for comfort and letting myself fall apart. About being in my thirties and not knowing what the hell I'm doing. About having a one-night stand and getting pregnant. About that guy turning out to be sweeter than I imagined, and how painful it is that nobody else sees it.

An extraordinarily rude beam of sunlight streams through an opening in my curtains, straight onto my eyelids. Blinking away the sleepiness, I slide my hand around in the dark for my phone. Eleven o'clock… in the morning, I assume. With a yawn, I pull myself out of bed and saunter down the hall to my office.

While this morning started out one of the best I've ever had, it quickly devolved. And now I may as well keep the shitty mood going by packing up my leatherworking tools. I flip the light switch, pleasantly surprised to see the power's back on, and stare at the mountain of work in front of me. My dad offered to help weeks ago, but this pregnancy task needs to be done alone. I need the catharsis of putting this stuff away—putting this part of me away.

The lid snaps off a blue plastic tote, and I plop down in the leather desk chair.

There's no need to be sad about giving up this silly little hobby. Think about the baby.

I sigh, carefully packing tools one after another into the various totes I have around the room, then moving on to the meticulously stored leather. I grab a small piece of scrap and hold it to my nose, inhaling deeply—calming my body and easing my emotions. Exhaling with tear-filled eyes and rattling breath.

By the time I'm done, I'm sure I've cried every last tear available to me. I'm numb and tired and starving. Naturally, with Chase cooking here most nights, my fridge is full of ingredients, but nothing helpful for a non-cook like me. He won't be here with dinner for hours, and I'm obviously not showing up at The Horseshoe today. Which leaves me with Anette's Bakery down the street. Fantastic cinnamon rolls, awful gossip mill.

But shit. A cinnamon roll would be pretty great.

Two minutes later I'm bundled in winter gear and heading out into the snow. Rather than digging out my car, I opt to trudge through the mid-calf–deep powder. The sun warms my cheeks, despite the air being cold enough my nose tingles and my breath creates dense fog. And kids run past hurling snowballs, clearly thrilled by the early season blizzard.

Anette's Bakery is a small shop on Wells Canyon's tiny Main Street, tucked between a home goods store and the library. Anette has to be at least seventy and has been running the place since long before Dad and I moved to town. On a good day, when the breeze is right, I can smell fresh bread from my front yard a few blocks away.

The door opens with a jingle, and I pull off my mittens, stuffing them in my pockets. Despite the heavy snowfall, the cozy bakery's crowded with people sitting in every overstuffed chair and huddled around the quaint bistro tables. The smell of ground coffee and sprinkled cinnamon floods my nostrils, causing an incessant rumbling in my stomach. I sashay to the counter, where Anette's standing with a flour-covered apron and sparkling, grandmotherly eyes.

"Well, good morning, young lady. Long time, no see."

I put on a happy face for her. "Morning, Anette. How are the grandkids?"

"Oh, they're a handful. You here for a cinnamon roll?"

"You know me too well. And a coffee, please."

She smiles and gets right to work, sliding a hot cup of coffee across the counter, followed by a pink box. With a wink, she quietly says, "I put an extra one in there for you. I was so hungry all the time when I was pregnant."

Confirmed: everyone in town knows.

"Oh… thank you." I scoop up the box and my coffee, heading to the far end of the counter to add cream and sugar.

Despite the kitchen sounds, coffee grinder, chatter, and the glug of heavy cream splashing into my cup, my ears perk at the mention of my name.

A group of women sits at a table behind me, talking about me. While I don't typically provide good fodder for gossip, the act of gossiping itself is not unusual here—this is the place people come to indulge in whisperings about everyone in town. Show up here any day, any time, and pull up a chair if you want to know every diminutive detail of a person's life. Somebody's husband cheating on her with their nanny, two teachers hooking up, the corner store closing for an hour every Thursday morning so the owners can go to couple's counseling. The rumours are inescapable and, admittedly, sometimes fun to hear. Until you're part of it.

Today, I'm part of it. But it's not just me… it's Chase, too.

"I heard they've been secretly hooking up at the bar for a long time—that's why her boyfriend broke up with her."

"Makes sense. I mean he's always at The Horseshoe."

"I'd be so embarrassed to be with a guy like that—always drinking and getting hauled out for fighting."

My bottom lip trembles, and I'm frozen in place, knowing I should leave and go back home. I'm in no state to stand here listening to this after everything else today, but I can't stop myself. White knuckling the counter with one hand, I continuously stir my coffee. The thud of a spoon against my cardboard cup is so frequent and fast, I might accidentally make whipped cream.

"I mean, he's hot. That's basically all he has going for him."

"Sure, but I would get an abortion so fast if Red Thompson knocked me up."

The metal spoon drops, clinking against the countertop, as I spin around to face them. Three women I've known since high school—which also happens to be when they peaked—stare at me wide-eyed, realizing their hushed whispers weren't quiet enough.

"Cass, hey. Didn't see you there." Sophie, the preppy blonde ringleader, stares innocently at me. Growing up, she was the absolute worst. Then she married her high school sweetheart, had three kids by twenty-two, and nowadays spends her free time hating her life while gossiping about everyone else's. "Where's Red?"

Her two friends refuse to face me, taking sips from their lattes to cover cruel smirks. Not Sophie, who's wearing a Stepford smile like her only two brain cells are fighting for third place.

I stare back, unsmiling. "Oh, probably on horseback somewhere at the ranch. Minding his own fucking business, like what you should be doing."

"Come on, Cass. You misunderstood, we were joking around."

"Misunderstood what, Sophie? Tell me exactly what's funny about you spreading bullshit rumours and saying I should," I swallow hard, "get an abortion."

Her petite brunette friend, Ashley, clears her throat. "We didn't mean you should."

"Don't forget, I know your husbands. They spend a lot of time at The Horseshoe, too. You're not in a good place to talk shit about Red when those are the men crawling into your bed every night."

Cinnamon rolls and coffee secured, I leave their stunned asses behind. I pull out my phone to text Chase, confirming whether he's coming over tonight. The two of us talking, laughing, and relaxing in silence is exactly what I need to get out of my head. I need to look across the couch and see his smile. I need to hear him laugh at something stupid I said. I need his hands firmly massaging my feet and calves and I want them softly touching everywhere else. Friends-with-benefits is risky behaviour, but one more night won't hurt.

The front door clicks shut, and I slowly lower the bottle of root beer I'm pouring from, waiting for something to indicate whether it was Chase or Dad who let themself in. With a hard swallow I lean to peer through the archway, and a glimpse of reddish hair makes the tension in my muscles melt away. The armour I've put on to keep myself sane since getting home from the coffee shop—the only defense preventing me from being a weepy mess on the floor—falls apart the instant he steps into the kitchen.

"Hey. Hey, why are you crying?" Chase grabs either side of my face, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Are you okay?"

"Today fucking sucked." I rub away the tears. "I'm sorry about my dad. About the shit he said."

"That's not your problem, Cass. He can think whatever he wants. I expected it."

I expected it, too. Doesn't make it less frustrating, though.

"If you want me here, that's all I care about. All I've wanted since day one is for you to say you want me involved. To feel like I'm not just here because you feel obligated to let me be around. I don't care what anybody else thinks about it."

Because I feel obligated? That's why he thinks he's here?

"I want you here. Little Spud and I need you here."

His hand slides up to my hair, cradling my skull and pulling me into the hug I desperately needed. The way he holds me tight to his body, enveloping me in the scent of his soap and the warmth of his arms, I think he needs it, too. We cling to one another like Rose and Jack Dawson should've done on the floating door out at sea.

"Thanks for attempting to stand up for me. Even if you tossed me under the bus a bit with the crying shit," he says.

"I can't help that I love knowing how much of a softie you secretly are. You're a crier and a cuddler—two facts I wish everybody could know about Chase Thompson."

"I'd rather you not tell the whole town. Got my shitty reputation to uphold and all."

I tamp down the urge to tell him about the stupid women at the coffee shop. I'm aching to talk through it after spending the afternoon with their words on replay in my brain, but it's a conversation best saved for Blair. I won't risk hurting Chase's feelings.

Instead, I lick my lips and keep things light. "Damn, wouldn't want to go fucking with that, would we?"

"Well, if it weren't for my reputation, you wouldn't have begged me to fuck you on Derek's car hood."

"Begged?" I raise a brow. "Maybe not, but that's not what's getting you in my bed tonight."

With a disapproving click of his tongue, he says, "Cass, I thought you said it was a one-time thing. Now you're breaking your own rules. This is going to lead to full anarchy."

"Shut up if you want to get your dick wet."

"Oh, do I. But after your crappy day, let me take care of you first. Let me make it better. Much better, hopefully."

"It already is."