Page 52 of Free to Dream
I take a deep breath. This next step is huge for me. “I honestly don’t know what time we’re going to finish, but if you want to come over for a late dinner…” There’s a storm building in his eyes. For me. For this.
“I want.”
16
Cassidy
I’d just pulled the cheddar, bacon, and pecan pizza from the oven when my phone rang. Glancing at the name on the display, I answer it as I release a puff of air.
“Caleb.”
“Cassidy.” God, that voice. Low, warm, slightly husky, and a bit…echoy? Was he in the car already? I look at the clock and holy shit, it’s almost eight. Leaving the pizza to cool, I quickly begin straightening up the kitchen and make my way into the adjoining living space. As I quickly glance around my typically immaculate living area, I hear him through what must be the Bluetooth in his car.
“I’m about fifteen minutes out. I hope that’s not too soon? If you’re still busy, I can drive around a bit.” His voice is smooth, warm, anticipatory.
“No, no. That’s fine. I’m just putting a few last-minute things together.” Like me. Taking a deep breath, I slowly let it out so he can’t hear me. “When you get through the farm’s gates, take the road to the right before you hit the main building. It will lead you to the other side of the lake. I’m in the carriage house.”
I hear the Porsche accelerate through the phone. “I’ll be seeing you soon then, Cassidy. Give or take fifteen minutes.” The phone disconnects in my ear.
I toss my cell on the couch and run up the stairs for my room, ripping my T-shirt over my head. Caleb is about fifteen minutes out. How did I completely manage to lose track of time? I know how. Up until a few minutes ago, I was too busy to even think about it. Now, with mild panic setting in, I’m asking myself what did one wear to have someone over for heavy conversation with the potential for…something?
Grabbing a pair of cranberry leggings and a black sweater that hits me mid-thigh, I quickly change as headlights pass outside the farm’s entrance. A quick brush of my hair and some gloss on my lips, I look at my reflection. Am I ready for this?
As I watch the lights round the front of the main building, I grab an old pair of Chucks from the bottom of my closet. Taking one last look at myself in my vintage full-length mirror, I imagine I come across like a college student and someone who is overly comfortable with her company. Neither could be further from the truth, I think wryly as I bound down the stairs just in time to hear Caleb knock on the door. Taking a few deep breaths, I reach for the handle.
And take a step back in surprise.
He’s bent down, fumbling with a bag that obviously holds a bottle of wine. I hear him cursing the frailty of dorky wine bottle bag handles as I stare at what he holds in his arms, which are dozens of sunflowers, ranging from bright yellow to almost a sunset orange, obscuring his face.
He’s so busy retying the little knot on the inside of the wine bag without dropping the gorgeous blooms, he hasn’t realized I’m standing here. I take a moment to lean against the doorjamb, studying him. Like me, Caleb opted for comfort and casual in worn jeans and a black sweater that molds against his body like it was painted on, showing off his broad shoulders and sculpted abs. I can feel my legs shift in anticipation of running my hands along it to touch him again. I sigh at the idea of being as close to him as I was on the dance floor at Molly Darcy’s the night before.
I’m not sure whether the shift in the air from the door being open, or my sharp inhalation of air that makes him aware of me standing there. Suddenly, the wine and flowers seem insignificant as I catch a glimpse of those dark eyes.
Slowly standing to his full height, his chin has to dip for him to look at me. A lack of four-inch heels will do that to you. His eyes crinkle in the corners as he breaks into a full smile. Thank the Lord I decided not to wear my heels. I might have fallen off them by that smile alone. His eyes travel down my body, tracing every inch of it with his eyes. His eyes land on my well-worn Chucks and he tosses his head back and lets loose a deep-throated laugh.
“Now that’s not something I never pictured you wearing.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “The whole outfit or the Chucks?”
“Pixie, I might have bet my car you even worked out in heels.”
“Hate to break it to you, but I don’t have a desire to visit our friendly orthopedic surgeon. I own my fair share of sneakers.”
“Not sure I believe that. I might need proof.”
I hold up my foot as if he’s mildly dense.
“Uh-huh. One pair does not equal a fair share. Going to invite me in? Maybe I can see for myself?” he teases.
I feel the heat begin to travel up my cheeks as I realize we’ve been bantering with me on one side of the door, him on the other. “Please, come in.”
He glances around as he steps over the threshold and into my home, my sanctuary. Seeing him look around is like watching a tennis match as he absorbs the essence of my home.
When we bought the farm and outbuildings, I immediately connected with the carriage house. Because of the number of bays to the original carriage house, the family figured there must have been a substantial master estate at some point absorbed by the land of one of the many subdivisions that surrounded our land in Collyer. My carriage house had five original bays which I converted to a two-car garage closest to the main entrance, with two enormous glass windows on either side. The fifth bay had been converted into a double French door entryway. On the soft cream-colored walls, matted and framed, are the architectural plans for the carriage house’s renovation. I guide Caleb toward the back where the original tack and living quarters were. As we walk over random width pine plank floors covered with antique throw rugs, he would pause by the occasional frame to study it.
“You expanded the original building?”
“Yes.”
