Page 29 of Concerted Chaos

“You’re baking?” he asks in surprise.

“I felt like making breakfast.”

“But in the oven?”

Oh, I get it. He thought I was only capable of reheating one of Joel’s microwavable concoctions. That’s a fair assumption, given that Joel’s meals are all I’ve served him so far.

“Are you assuming I can’t cook just because I don’t make a perfect pie crust like a fifties housewife?”

“Ouch. I’m not a fifties housewife. If anything, I’m the perfect modern man. I have a job, I’m fiscally responsible, and I can bake anything. And, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of cute.” He winks, and I laugh. Truth is, he is kind of cute. He has that dimple in his left cheek that only appears sometimes, and when it does ... yeah. He’s cute. Too bad he’s also a spy. Or something like that.

“Right. Sit down, I’ll get the plates.”

“And coffee?” He looks around hopefully, as though a steaming mug will magically appear in front of him. I point to the espresso machine, which, as it turns out Mr. Modern Man doesn’t know how to operate. So much for perfection.

As we’re enjoying our breakfast—after I fixed the espresso machine and he cleaned up his mess—he decides to ruin everything.

“So when does your brother get back?”

There it is. He did hang out after the shoot hoping to elicit information. This wasn’t about me at all; it never is. He fooled me with his willingness to pass up money for setting up an interview with me, because he had bigger fish to fry.

“Why do you ask?” I’m going to give him a chance to tell the truth.

He glances down at his plate. “I was just wondering if he was going to walk in and see us. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.” It’s a clever lie; he’s fast on his feet.

“Like what?” Now I’m intentionally needling him.

“I don’t want him to think I heard about your relationship with Jace and tried to move in on you while you’re grieving over losing the love of your life.”

“Jace wasn’t the love of my life,” I correct him automatically. Oh no! He did it! He got me to say that out loud. Wonder how much money my little slip up earned him? Newsflash:Cassidy Blaine-Corbitt didn’t love Jace. She led him on! He died broken-hearted because of her! I can’t wait for all the hate mail that gets me.

“Sorry. Anyway, whatever your relationship was, lovers, friends, whatever, you are in mourning, and everybody wants to harass you for details. I don’t want you or your brother to think I’m like that too.”

See what he’s doing? He’s slithering in like the snake that he is, hoping to trick me into revealing more. I was expecting this, but it still hurts, especially after all the fun we had yesterday. This is yet more evidence that I can’t trust anybody.

“Maybe you should go.”

He laughs, like he’s not taking me seriously. “Why? Is Powell on his way home?”

“Maybe you should go because you’re exactly like everybody else. You’re trying to worm your way in so you can ask about Jace too.”

“No, I’m not!”

I’ve said it before, he’s a good actor. He pulls off a plausible show of looking offended by the insinuation when all I’m doing is describing his current behavior.

“You are, you’re doing it right now. ‘Whatever your relationship was,’ like that’s not fishing for more information.”

“I’m not, I only care because ...” He pauses and his eyes shift away. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re clearly not someone who trusts, and I doubt you’re ever going to believe me, so I won’t bother defending myself.”

“Good, because there’s no defense for your behavior.” I cross my arms and glare at him. He continues to eat, as though we’re having a discussion rather than a battle.

“Cassidy, I want to be your friend. But you aren’t the kind of person who has friends, are you? You don’t let anyone get close to you, and when they try you push them away. You must lead a sad, lonely life.” He forks his last bite of food into his mouth and gets up and walks away. I hear him gathering his belongings from the dining room.

Part of me is disappointed. We had been having fun, until he ruined everything, twisting the conversation to Jace like that. I stay in the kitchen, finishing my breakfast, and listen to him leave without saying goodbye. The front door closes gently behind him—I bet that annoyed him. I’m going to view the exterior security footage later and see if he tried to slam it but was foiled by the soft close latch Powell had installed. He claimed the door jarred the equipment in his recording studio if it slammed too hard. It makes storming out far less satisfying.

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