The fucking kicker was that Jason was right. Mac wanted her to come back from rock bottom; he was cheering her on even though he hated himself for it, for noticing, for caring. He hated her a little bit for it, too.
But he really, really wanted her. Still wanted her. He could go over right now, explain he was having a shitty moment, and be balls deep in less than an hour. No, less than ten minutes.
His dick was enthusiastic about that plan.
She was better off thinking the worst about him, though. It would keep her away from him. And being away from him, she would have a better chance of climbing back.
Chapter sixteen
Cassidy
RAT BASTARD
Cassidyconsideredquittingthebar. She didn’t want to be anywhere he might appear. The act of walking to and from her dock was bad enough, an exercise in not letting her eyes flick to the recessed cabin to see if he was on his porch, watching her. Mocking her. Judging her.
But working anywhere else in the town wouldn’t save her from interacting with him. He shopped at the Trading Post and the hardware store; he did his laundry at the laundromat; he bought pastries from the coffee shop; he ate at the diner. He was a local. He couldn’t be avoided.
So she insisted on working the afternoons. Mac was more of an evening creature, so afternoons were safest. And ever since she had thrown herself at him and he’d sent her packing, he’d been good enough not to darken the bar door until after her shift—she assumed. She hadn’t seen him, and that’s all she cared about.
Of course, she couldn’t avoid him altogether. It happened at the Trading Post, and if she hadn’t been so shaken, she would have thought it fitting because that was where her nightmare with him had originated.
After her shift at the bar, she handed Fred off to Silas at the back of the Trading Post. She needed milk. She was on a milk kick. Whole milk. She wasn’t eating much, but she drank an excessive amount of milk. The craving reminded her of when she had been pregnant; she’d craved milk then, too. Errantly, the thought crossed her mind that she was glad she hadn’t had sex because she would be freaking out over her milk craving.
Her timing couldn’t have been worse. She’d sailed in through the back door and steamed toward the coolers. She grabbed her gallon of organic whole milk and let the refrigerator door suck closed. Looking back, Cassidy couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking about. She only knew she hadn’t been thinking about Mac.
Everything happened within the space of seconds. Striding down the aisles toward the front check out, she heard his voice. How it hadn’t registered before, she didn’t know. But it was his voice: rich, rough, and deep. It shot straight to her center. At the same time, Marge spotted her from another few aisles over and called out her name in greeting.
Cassidy froze, her eyes darting to the front counter where Mac was turning at the sound of her name. His own eyes were scanning the place to seek her out now he was alerted to her presence. Lonnie was still in mid-conversation, chuckling, handing over Mac’s two boxes of condoms, not noticing he’d lost his customer’s attention. And then Mac’s gaze crashed into hers. Flames infused her cheeks at the heat in his eyes; she flicked her attention to what Lonnie was holding out. Realizing what he was buying, her embarrassment came back to her tenfold; the rejection, her admission, his dismissal.
Sucking in a breath, she took a step back.
“Day,” he drawled her name out, low, calming, trying not to startle her, taking a step toward her.
“Cassie?” Marge asked, noticing her distress, walking down the aisle toward her. Her eyes narrowed as she saw who Cassidy was staring at.
Cassidy shoved the milk onto a random shelf, turned on her heel, and ran for the back exit.
“Cassidy!“ Mac shouted, giving chase.
He would have followed her out, Cassidy was sure, but Marge wasn’t a woman to be waylaid. That he wasn’t on her heels meant Marge had stopped his progress.
Cassidy hit the back dock running along the concrete slips, barking orders at a startled Silas. She leaped into the boat with the speed and agility of an Olympian, and Silas had her cast off in record time, mystified. Slamming the throttle, she caused Silas to shout after her to slow down, his face red with fury at her reckless behavior around so many other boats in the narrow inlet—she knew better.
When she glanced back over her shoulder, Mac was exiting the back of the Trading Post, following Silas’s line of sight to her. She watched as he gauged the distance between the platform and her boat as though he considered jumping for it.
Hers had not been the most subtle or graceful departure from a scene, but Jesus, did he have to be buying condoms? It was an added slap in the face. She’d debased herself in front of him, and he’d withheld, only to hand it out to every other woman he ran across.
She couldn’t face him, his pity—poor little lost widow, begging for it from him.
So, if that meant she ran out the back of a store, that’s what it meant.
The first draft of Elijah’s book arrived. The speed of the compilation was shocking, but she wasn’t familiar enough with the process to know if that was good or bad. Cassidy didn’t want to read it, but she was the closest person to him, and the publishers had assured her she would have a say in how the book came together. She knew it was bullshit, that whatever input she had would be overridden or justified away if they disagreed.
They were humoring her,handlingher.
Taking the manuscript out to the garden and sitting under the tree, she tucked herself into a sherpa throw. She removed the crudely bound pages from the envelope and curled up with a glass of wine. She was bracing herself. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Elijah to reach out through the pages or not. For his sake, she wanted him there; of course, she wanted the last piece associated with him to be as wonderful as everything else he had written.
Sniffing hard, she turned the page. “Talk to me, baby.”