Page 24 of Pucking One Night Stand
Was that too cruel? No.
I march through the restaurant like I own the place, probably clipping a chair with my bag on the way out, but whatever. Not my problem. I don’t slow down till I’m in the parking lot.
The second I slide into my car and shut the door, I let out a breath that tastes like relief. I start the engine, reverse out like I’m fleeing a crime scene, and head for home.
The drive's quiet. For once. My phone's not buzzing with nonsense. No Jaxon texts popping up with fake nostalgia.
I pull into Dad’s driveway, kill the engine, grab my bag, and climb out.
The second I step inside, the smell hits me. Hotpot. Martha’s.
That thick, beefy, potato-rich, slow-cooked aroma is something I need right now as my stomach makes a noise loud enough to echo.
“Cassy, is that you?” Dad’s voice calls from the dining room.
“Yes, Dad,” I call back, already heading that way like I’m being pulled by an invisible fork.
I walk in to find him planted at the top of the table, halfway through demolishing what is probably his second helping.
Mid-mouthful, he glances at his watch. “I’m impressed. You’re in at a normal hour. Hungry?”
“Yes.” I drop into the chair beside him, my bag landing with a soft thud on the floor.
Martha walks in like she’s been standing offstage, waiting for her cue. She sets down a plate, a fork, a knife, and a napkin with that same expression she always has. “Good evening, Cassy.”
“Hey, Martha. Thanks.”
She pours me a glass of orange juice, sets it beside the plate like it’s sacred, and walks back out like she’s already anticipating an argument between me and Dad.
I reach for the hotpot, ladle up a pile of it, and barely get the first bite in before Dad starts.
“So, I’ve been hearing some good things about my little girl.”
Little girl. Jesus. Really?
Mouth full, I pause and narrow my eyes at him. He says nothing else. Just smirks and goes back to his food like he’s smug about some secret praise I haven’t heard yet.
Before I can ask, my phone buzzes in my bag.
I pull it out. Riley.
I answer mid-chew, “Yeah?”
“What are you doing?”
“Eating. Why?”
“Meet me inSin Cityin an hour?”
I don’t even hesitate. “You bet. See you there.”
I hang up and start shoveling food into my mouth now in a race against time.
That's when Dad launches into a monologue about the team. The media. Something about how this whole ‘Roomies on the Road’ concept is pure PR genius.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, barely listening and scooping up more potatoes like they might vanish if I look away.
Before I’ve even swallowed the last bite, I’m up. Bag in hand, chair screeching again.
