Page 20 of Hot Shot

“I don’t count scooping ice cream at Twisty’s.” Before I can ask a follow-up question, she says, “Did you get any sleep?”

“Why, do I look like shit?”

Her laughter is like hearing an old song my heart forgot. “You know good and well you couldn’t look like shit if you tried. Even with your hair a little long.”

I frown, adjusting my ball cap. “What’s the matter with my hair?”

“Nothing, it just always used to be so short. I actually like it like this, even if it is a little wild. Suits you.”

“Thanks. And no, I didn’t get any sleep.”

“I slept like I was dead, but somehow woke up tired. It’s happened a lot since…well, you know. The internet says it’s depression or a drinking problem, to which I saymind your business, internet!”

A little chuckle sounds in my throat, but my heart aches. Because it’s not until right now that I really understand that while I’ve been waiting on her, she definitely hasn’t been waitingfor me. She was just left at the altar by her cheating fiancé in front of the entire town. Shame weighs me down—I’ve only been thinking about myself. Not her. She’s dealing with the consequences of what she’s been through. Depression. Tears. Drinking too much. Her heart broken.

My fists tighten on the steering wheel. I imagine it’s that son of a bitch’s neck.

I shouldn’t be flirting with her like this. If she isn’t ready, will I ruin my shot if I jump too soon? If I keep it up, I might end up being a rebound.

Cold fear quenches the fire in my belly.

Good thing. Because I’ve gotta tell her we’re married first.

That cold fear turns to ice.

“Um, about the whole…naked thing last night,” she says awkwardly after my silence. “I’m really sorry about that. It’s so embarrassing.”

“Don’t be sorry or embarrassed on account of me. If I’d been through what you’ve been through, I’d probably be burning my bras in a bonfire too.”

Cass giggles, but I see she’s playing at nonchalant when she asks, “The bras of your conquests, or your own bras?”

I shrug one shoulder. “What if it’s both?”

“Pics or it never happened.”

Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the driveway of my little blue Craftsman. I put the truck in park.

“Want to come in for a minute?”

“Sure,” she answers with a smile, only hesitating for a heartbeat. Together, we walk in through my side door, which is unlocked.

She snorts. “I forgot what it was like to live in a place where people don’t lock their doors.”

“I know. It took me at least two years after living in LA before I could stomach it. First time was an accident. Now I just neverlock the damn thing. Until raccoons figure out how to stack milk crates, I figure I’m safe.”

The kitchen is cool and mostly clean, thank goodness. She looks around, trying to mask her curiosity, but her eyes are big and quietly scanning. I think I see approval in them.

“Get you a drink?” I ask, heading for the fridge.

“Sure, what do you have?”

I glance at the sparse contents and scratch the back of my neck. “Uh, other than beer? Condiments and some milk I don’t think you should drink.”

She’s smiling, amused. “Beer’s great, thank you.”

“IPA? Kölsch? I think I have a honey blonde in here somewhere…” I’m digging around in the back when she laughs.

“And here I thought you had a thing for redheads.”

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