Page 18 of Sugar
“I mean, we don’t have much time, really. But once we get this train going down the tracks, the rest should start happening pretty quickly.”
“Great.”
“Yeah.” I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, relishing the sting. “Should be.”
He finally opens his eyes again. They’re softer, gentler, like his surge of anger sputtered out somewhere in the space between us. But they still aren’t warm like they used to be—they’re distant. Tired. When they land on mine, my heart aches. “I told Rhett and Wells today,” he says, crossing his arms overhis chest. There’s a smudge of dirt on his right sleeve, an old tear at the hem. “I told them marrying you is a temporary solution that will give us more time to figure out a permanent one. They’re going to help . . . uh . . . spread the word about us. Layla and Olivia will let some things slip in town.”
I blow out a breath. “That’s a lot of people who know the truth.”
“I trust my family with my life,” he says. “They want to save this ranch just as much as I do.”
There’s a quiet force in the way he says it, enough to tell me this isn’t something I should argue. As a lawyer, I hate the possibility of any risk . . . especially with something so personal. But the Bennetts are good people, and as someone who used to fantasize aboutbeingone of them, I know I need to have some faith. “Okay. Then I’ll trust them too.”
Surprise splashes over his face, and then he’s clearing his throat, scratching at the side of his neck. “Look, Ava,” he starts, and I brace myself. “I know I agreed to this, and while I’m not exactly thrilled about it, I’m also not going to change my mind. I’d just really like to make sure we don’t hurt each other any more than we already have in the process. It’s been a long time, since . . .everything, and I’ve long moved on.”
“You never hurt me, Kasey,” I breathe out. “Not once.” His gaze slices to mine again, pinning me in place. “You didn’t,” I insist. “And I don’t plan on hurting you again, either. I’m . . . I’m sorr?—”
“You said you were going to tell me what you get out of this.”
I cringe. “I was kind of hoping you’d forget about that.”
“I don’t forget anything.” He studies me so hard my face flames.
I look around the barn, trying to come up with anything that might save me. “Got any plans tonight?”
His brow furrows. “Work at the bar, why?”
“Can one of your brothers cover you?”
He shrugs. “I guess so. Probably.”
“Okay, let’s kill two birds with one stone: take me out on a date in town where people can see, and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
His face falls, and I pretend like it doesn’t hurt. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Where?”
“I don’t know. We could share a pizza and a couple of milkshakes? Just an hour, maybe two.”
In high school, we spent countless nights at Mustang’s Pizza. I’d sit cross-legged in a red vinyl booth while he folded our napkins into triangle footballs. It was one of very few places we ever spent time together in town. Usually we were too busy hiding from my dad or trying to take each other’s clothes off.
“Okay,” Kasey says. “I’ll pick you up around six.”
He turns back toward the stall he abandoned, all evidence of his fire gone. I look at the waves of his overgrown hair wisping out from beneath his hat, damp with sweat and sticking to the back of his neck. I think of how I used to run my hand through that very sweat-slicked hair while he moved inside me, hungry and urgent and not at all careful. And then a thought hits me.
“Wait,” I say. He turns around to face me and I give him an apologetic smile. “What about . . . physical boundaries?”
His eyes sharpen, and he goes preternaturally still. “What do you mean?”
“Like, affection? In public? We need people to believe that . . . that we’re in love, so we should probably talk about what’s allowed.”
He looks at me like I’ve asked him to set this barn on fire, and I’m not sure what’s worse: that even the mention of touching me is sending him into a tailspin, or that my hands are shaking at the mere idea of it. “Let’s”—he clears his throat—“uh . . . let’snot push it. At least not yet.” He clears his throat again, looking pained. “Maybe we could hold hands, but?—”
“Right.” I nod. “Okay. That works. See you at six.”
“Yep,” he says, turning away from me.
I march out of the barn and all the way back to my car. As soon as I’m inside, I lock the doors, bow my head, and force myself not to cry.
CHAPTER SIX
