Page 33 of Hot Shot

I have a daughter.

I reel again, dizzy from the weight of it. Not ready to face it fully, only in sips.

You’re not alone.

Whatever she sees on my face softens her.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For all of this. I…I don’t know what I’m doing, Cass.”

“I know. Neither do I, other than making bad decisions. Which, I should note, is not the kind of bad decision I’d planned to make with you.”

Just like that, I’m on fire.

Her eyes narrow. “I would like to state again, for the record, that we are not together. We’re going to have to hold hands. Sell it. Cohabitate. Sleep in the same bed. But it’s not real. Got it?”

I don’t know if she’s trying to convince me or herself. “Yes, ma’am.”

On an exhale, her shoulders relax almost completely. She nods, then turns, her ponytail swinging as she walks out of my garage. I hear the truck door shut as I finish getting together what I need to fix her engine. I decide then that I’ll take her home. Fix her truck, deliver it to her, and hopefully have enough left in me to drag myself home so I can sleep for two days.

She needs a break, some space, some time.

And I’ll give it to her gladly in the hopes she’ll forgive me.

CHAPTER 11

DAMAGE CONTROL

CASS

The ride back to my house is silent. I spend the bulk of it staring out the window, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

I have yet to come up with a good answer when we pull up to the house. Mom’s car is in the driveway, and I sigh—not only do I have to explain why there’s a charred mess in the backyard, but I also have to try and explain the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

Wilder is still in his uniform and ball cap, smelling all sweaty and musky. I hate that I still want to lick his neck.

His exhaustion is so heavy, it looks like it’s dragging him straight into hell.

I hate that I feel bad for him.

I hate a lot of things, I’m finding.

When he catches my gaze, he has the decency to look cowed. One big hand rests on the wheel and the other pulls off his cap and puts it on again, a nervous tick I’ve seen a hundred times.

He’s not the same. You’re not the same. Just familiar. It’s not real.

I offer a halfhearted smile and reach for the handle. “Well, thanks I guess?”

“Don’t thank me. Not for anything.”

“Even taking care of my truck?”

“Nope. I owe you more than that. I’ll bring it by later.”

“Okay.” I hesitate, feeling like there’s more to say, not wanting to go into the house.

“Let me get some shit in order and I’ll text you. We can figure out details later.”

Anxiety wriggles around in my belly. “Yeah. Sounds good. Well, bye then.” I open the door, climb out, shut it. Stare through the window at him for a second. He stares back. Neither of us make a move until I raise my hand in the smallest wave and turn for the house.

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