Page 50 of Tripped By Love
Cassidy
WE’RE NOT FRIENDS
“We’ve been lying to ourselves,
Acting like we’re something else.”
Performed by Ingrid Andress
Written by Southerland / Cyphert / Andress / Pruis
As always, my morning bled intomy afternoon, the pace of the kitchen and the flow of customers keeping me from dwelling too often on the heated kisses the night before or the beg in Marco’s voice this morning when he’d asked for me to wait for him before I went home. But as the crowd slowed and we neared closing, my brain wouldn’t let go of either of those memories.
Maybe it was because I knew I’d be next to him again soon. Maybe it was because the more we stepped beyond the casual coach and trainee that we’d been, the more I craved of him. From him. I wanted the heat from last night that had scoured me from the inside out to be a part of my everyday life for as long as it lasted. For as long as we could keep the flame burning. It shouldn’t have been wrong to want those feelings to linger and remain. I’d never had them before with anyone else. It seemed a shame to waste them. To let them go by the wayside and disappear as if they’d never been there to begin with.
But I also refused to be a job. A duty. I stood by what I’d told Jonas. That would never bode well for a relationship. I wanted a partner as much as a lover. As soon as I thought it, I pushed it back away. It wouldn’t be fair to him or Chevelle to start something when I had so little to give already. Marco had been right to walk away.
With that in mind, I steeled my resolve, knowing I’d see him in the studio as I headed up the stairs with a bus bin. I could have asked Laney to go get the plates and dishes we’d sent over to Brady’s for lunch, but I was afraid I’d lose as many dishes as she brought back in her awestruck stupor over Brady and The Painted Daisies all in the same room.
Just as I eased through the interconnecting door, Tristan came out of the room that had been kept as her art studio during the renovation.La Musica de Ensueñosused to be her grandmother’s music store, but after she’d passed away, the store had struggled. Once Brady had come into the picture, and he and Tristan had fallen in love, they’d agreed to convert the store into a recording studio. It kept Brady in town more but also allowed my brother to do something else he loved—help other musicians.
“I miss Chevelle,” Tristan said, placing a hand over her belly without even realizing it. Her words lifted my heart because it often felt like I took advantage of her willingness to watch my son.
“Give him a week of grandparent coddling, and he’ll be wanting to come back,” I said sarcastically.
“Grandparents are supposed to spoil and coddle. It’s normal.”
We paused at the top of the stairs inside the studio, looking down into the mess of bodies that mingled about the control room.La Musica de EnsueñosStudios wasn’t nearly as large as other studios, so the bulk of the downstairs was taken up with the live room and specialty booths. A state-of-the-art mixing console was jammed in front of the glass window dividing the live room from the leather armchairs and couches shoved into the nooks and crannies of the space. It was cozy in a way that made it feel more home than business, and it fit Brady’s personality as much as the café fit mine.
A smattering of fiddle and flute notes drifted through the air. While The Painted Daisies was labeled an alternative rock group, they’d taken the cultural instruments of each of the band member’s heritage and blended them into a unique sound that had taken the country?and the world?by storm over the last year. The six females in the band pulled together Korean, Irish, Colombian, Indian and American cultures into this unique montage that was hard to imagine fitting together and yet did so perfectly.
Brady was at the mixing console with a tall, lanky man I didn’t know standing at his side. Brady’s ear was cocked, and his eyes were closed as he listened, but my gaze didn’t linger with him long. In a room full of bodies, it was Marco’s wide stance and all-seeing eyes that drew mine. He was up against a far wall, eyeing the door and the small reception desk that blocked the space from the entrance. My heart jiggled and sprang to life, pounding a tune that the flute and fiddle seemed to amplify.
My resolutions from two minutes before seemed to slip and slide away. As we made it to the bottom of the stairs, Tristan put a hand on my arm to halt me, dragging my gaze away from Marco to her.
“Can I ask you something?” she whispered. Her tone was curious but calm.
I nodded.
“Is there something going on between you and Marco?”
My heart stutter-stopped, and I looked back at the man who’d somehow realized I was there. He was taking me in from the tip of my head down to my ugly, orthopedic shoes.
“Why do you ask?” I breathed out.
“Brady was going on about it last night. Saying something about Marco showing up to defend you like some knight in shining armor in the meeting with Ralley yesterday and how you’re taking him with you to Texas.” Her eyes remained curious but not judgmental.
“There’s nothing going on,” I said and couldn’t help the slight tremor of disappointment that went through me and the flame that lit my cheeks thinking of our heated kiss in my kitchen.
“But you’d like there to be,” she said gently.
“I’ll never want to be with a man who only sees me as someone who needs protection?surrounded in bubble wrap. I get that enough from my family. I don’t need it in a partner,” I told her the easiest truth rather than the complicated layer of reasons that had me bouncing back and forth on a moment-to-moment basis.
“And his job is all about protecting people. It’s what he’s been built to do.”
I shrugged, a weak smile hitting my face. “Yep.”
“Protecting someone doesn’t always mean you believe they aren’t strong enough to do it themselves, Cass. Sometimes, it just means you love them.”
