Page 38 of Hot Shot

Wilder: I always want you around.

Cass: That’s sweet, but do you want to be there as a “couple” or whatever?

Wilder: I always want you around for that too.

Cass

Wilder: It’s really up to you. I’ve asked enough.

Cass: Well, it would be a good chance to show up as a couple for Patty and Paul. It would be kind of weird if I’m not with you, right?

Wilder: Cass, do you want to come?

Cass: I’m just saying it would be a good test drive. Plus, it’s probably not going to be easy for you. I don’t want you to go alone. So yes. I want to come.

Wilder: Thank you.

Cass: You’re welcome.

Wilder: No, I mean it. You’re right—it’ll be easier with you there. You don’t have to do this. You didn’t have to do any of it, and I don’t really know how to thank you.

Cass: If it wasn’t so important, I wouldn’t be doing this. Let’s make a rule that we’re together for all the big appearances.

Wilder: Okay.

Cass: Also, we can hold hands or whatever, but no kissing. Got it?

Wilder: Yes, ma’am.

Cass: Thank you.

Wilder: But you know where to find me if you change your mind.

Cass: Don’t hold your breath, hot shot.

CHAPTER 14

INSIDE OUT

CASS

It’s been a weird week.

The chapel is a sea of people, quiet other than the pastor at the microphone next to an easel holding a photo of Ashley. She’s smiling, kneeling down with Cricket in a prairie of wildflowers, the Smoky Mountains rolling in the distance, blue and inviting.

Everything about the photo speaks of hope.

The irony is heartbreaking.

The sight of the grinning little girl in Ashley’s arms smashes my broken heart into bits. I’ve never seen that Cricket before, despite having met her.

I understand grief, having lost my father years ago. But it’s unfathomable to me how she must feel after losing her mother so young.

Her hair is pulled half back, pinned with a black bow, her bouncy, dark curls disappearing behind the pew. She’s so small, sitting between her grandparents, still as a statue with that photo of her and her mother standing in front of her.

The impulse to scoop her up and take her away to a happier place overwhelms me. Wilder senses something and squeezes my hand, which has been locked around mine since we entered the church. I feel him looking at me, but keep my eyes on the pastor.

If someone told me a few months ago, when I was in the midst of preparing to marry another man, that I’d be sitting at a funeral for the mother of Wilder’s secret child, holding his hand because everyone thought we were married, I’d have…well, I’d have called 911 out of fear you were having a stroke. None of those words even make sense together.

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