Page 65 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love

She wrenched back as if he’d slapped her, and fuck-it-all he had. Verbally—he would cut off his own arm before he ever raised a hand to a woman—but shit, her words cut him, deep. He wanted her to feel the same sharp-edged tongue, see a little truth of her own.

“You only want the house because it reminds you of your parents and grandmother, your family. But they’re not here anymore. They’re in your heart, Cassie. That’s where people live after they leave. Not in things or places, but inside you. You’re so afraid of losing a physical object. Have you ever once thought of why you really want your grandmother’s house? Is it important because you want it or because you’re afraid that by losing the house you’ll lose your family all over again and have to face the future in front of you?”

She said nothing, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He hated himself in that moment, but he couldn’t stop the words from leaving his lips. “You claim I’m too immature to know love, but at least I know you have it for people. Not a damn building.”

Her hand trembled as she lifted it, pointing to the door. “Get out.”

Shit, he was such an asshole, but the pain inside him from her denial and rejection obscured all other intentions. Rising from the couch, he turned and headed to the door. He’d just reached for the knob when her soft, worried call made him pause.

“Wait, you’re…you’re still going to go through with the deal, right?” she said.

He glanced over his shoulder. Cassie stood at the edge of the living room, fingers twisting in her dark, curly locks. Her brow wrinkled with worry, but her eyes—damn those things—had finally filled to capacity. Silent tears tracked down her cheeks. He wanted nothing more in the world than to go over to her and brush them away with his lips. Kiss her and keep kissing her until she smiled again. Promise her anything she wanted as long as she was happy. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be in a relationship with her if she wouldn’t admit to what he felt, what she felt. He wanted her to be happy, but he wanted that for himself, too.

“Del?”

“Yeah.” His voice came out gruff, his own emotions clogging his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. Choking them back down, he cleared his throat and gave her the only thing he could. “I’ll still marry you, but it’s fake. And no benefits. You and me?” He shook his head. “I can’t do halfway, Cassie.”

She nodded. “I understand. I’ll wire the money to your account before the wedding.”

Shit. She stood there, tears streaming down her face, denying everything while he was breaking apart inside.

“Keep your fucking money. You’ll need it to fill your precious house with shit you can love that will never love you back.”

With that, he stormed out the door, slamming it behind him, leaving his heart in shattered pieces he knew no amount of gin would ever heal.

CHAPTER 22

After a fitful night of unrest—where she cursed Del, her grandmother, and herself—Cassie rose with the strict intention of doing nothing with the day but wallowing. Unfortunately, an early morning text from Charlie reminded her they had appointments at two wedding dress shops in Denver. Wishing she could cancel—but knowing if she did, it would look suspicious—she dragged herself out of bed and threw on some sweats.

She didn’t have to look good. She was going to be taking clothes off and on all day. Sweats were just easier. That’s what she told herself. Truthfully, she didn’t have the energy to put on anything else. Last night’s argument with Del kept playing over and over in her head. She couldn’t stop the swirling churn of fear and sadness in the pit of her stomach. She and Del had bickered over the years, but good-naturedly, teasing. There’d been nothing good about the heated words they exchanged the previous evening.

At least he still agreed to get married.

For some reason, the thought didn’t make her feel any better. It didn’t ease the hollow ache in her chest or the lump of emotion clogging her throat. His words kept echoing in her mind, haunting her. “This stopped being pretend a long time ago.”

Grabbing a cup of coffee from the gas station on the way out of town—because she had zero energy to make her own today—she tried to put Del’s words out of her mind. Charlie texted saying she’d stayed at her boyfriend’s house in Denver last night, so she’d meet Cassie at the shop. Cassie didn’t particularly care for the guy. In the five months he’d been dating her friend, Blain had gone through three jobs. They’d only hung out a few times, but in her opinion, the guy was rude, self-absorbed, and a giant douche. But Charlie seemed to like him, and that was all that mattered.

Apart from a few truckers and the occasional car, the highway into the city was clear. Cassie pulled into the first bridal shop exactly thirty-five minutes after she left town. She grabbed her purse, locked her car door, and headed inside.

“Hey, you. How was traffic?” Charlie glanced up from the magazine in her hands.

Cassie joined her friend on the plush, ivory sofa in the middle of the store. Dozens of dresses in various shades of white hung from racks, all around. Her eyes hurt from the lack of color in the place. Or maybe it was from all the crying she’d done last night.

“Not bad. How’s Blain?”

Charlie grimaced, taking a deep sip from the flute of bubbly liquid in her hand. “We are not talking about that asshole today. Today is about you and finding the perfect dress that’s going to knock my brother’s socks off.”

After yesterday, Cassie was pretty sure she could wear nothing at all and Del would still be fully clothed. He’d been pretty clear about that.

“What did Starkweather do?” Yes, that was the guy’s actual last name, like some melodramatic evil villain. “Do I have to go kick his ass?”

Because she totally would, even if she couldn’t throw a punch to save her life. She’d hire someone to beat the guy to a pulp. No one hurt her best friend.

Charlie slung an arm around her. Dark, fine, straight strands of hair Cassie had always envied brushing against her cheek as her friend laid a head on her shoulder. “You are so sweet, but I’ve seen you punch. I’d have more success if I hired a fifth grader to beat him up.”

Harsh, but true.

“Besides, no asses need kicking. He’s a jerk, and we’re done. End of story.”

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