by B. B. Miller
She twists away. “Hey! You love some of those films. Don’t even try to deny it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter, watching as she tugs her jacket off the back of one of the chairs.
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m doing a bit of shopping. I’d ask you to come, but what with your jammed-packed diary and everything, I know how busy you are.” She purses her lips, heading for the door. “Even if I have no idea what a mud run is.”
“It’s exactly how it sounds. I’ll send you the info and you can come to cheer me on. I’ll see you later tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” With a wave, the door to the penthouse closes and I’m left alone with a canyon-wide silence I’ve never noticed before. She’s good. She’s making me question everything. Damn twin.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter under my breath as the adrenaline floods my veins and my vision blurs from another round of mud splattered onto my face. I’m nearing the end of this sheer hell of a race, and while I’m caked in mud from head to foot, I couldn’t feel more alive.
I’m battered and a little bruised, my back sporting scrapes from army-crawling under barbed wire through yet another deep mud puddle, but damn is it worth it. An A-framed cargo net and the inverted wall are all that sit between me and the sweet finish line.
The die-hards who actually train for this finished long ago and have joined the crowds to cheer the rest of us on. It’s an inspirational and tight-knit community they have, that I’m just happy to play in once in a while.
Muddy shoes hit the slick ground and I lose my balance a little before sprinting to the damn inverted wall. Halfway up, I slip back down, landing on my arse, only to be hauled to my feet by some stranger who doesn’t give me a second glance before he’s up and disappearing over the top.
I return the favor for another participant who slips when we both reach the top of the wall. My arm shoots out, my hand catching his arm before he falls, and I tug him up and over with me.
He gives me a wave before racing forward and crossing the finish line ahead of me. I hear Syd before I see her, her loud cheers lifting above the crowd. I seek her out once I’m over the line, and ignore her shrill threats to not coat her in mud. Instead, I wrap my arms around her and lift her up from the ground in celebration.
She hits me hard in the chest when I set her down. “You actually meant mud race.” She tries to wipe a glob of mud from her arm.
“That I did. You should try it with me next time.”
“I think I’ll take a pass,” she says, handing over a gym bag full of clean clothes.
“Thanks for cheering me on.” I take the bag and fish out my phone from the side pocket. There’s an anxiousness running through me, something more than just finishing the race. I want to share this with someone other than Syd. I want to share it with Cass.
“I’ll get us some water for after you’re cleaned up.” Syd gives me a wave, wandering toward the refreshment area. I don’t waste any time taking a photo of my mud-stained face and sending it to Cass with a text:
Want to get dirty?
I hope she sees it before she goes to bed. I hope it gives her something to think about, maybe even dream about.
I’m kept waiting for Cassidy’s response until long after I take a hot shower, trying to rinse away the mud. It’s past one in the morning, and I’m lounging in the living room alone, Syd having packed it in once we were home and had a cup of tea.
My muscles ache, a sure sign that the mud race isn’t something I should do more often. Although, I can’t deny that rush is addicting. So is my phone when it finally chimes with a message. Even though she stored her name under Cassidy, I changed it to Fly-girl, and heat floods my veins when I see the name flash in the darkness.
Fly-girl: Do I want to know?
Sean: You’re not afraid of a little mud, are you?
Fly-girl: I grew up around mud at the ranch. Never met a puddle I didn’t like.
I grin, stretching my legs out against the sofa.
Sean: Tell me more. Did you fancy getting down and dirty with the cowboys?
I watch the little dots and wait for her reply. To my dismay, they disappear after a while, leaving me hanging with an unwelcome ache in my chest.
Sean: I take it that’s a no.
More time passes, and I can’t stop myself from trying once more.
Sean: Fly-girl? I meant no offense.
The dots appear once more and I feel instantly better. Something is better than nothing after all.
Fly-girl: Sorry. I’m just trying to finish up an alteration. No offense taken, but no to the cowboys.
I should probably be worried that I’m glad to hear that answer. The thought of Cass with anyone else before or now doesn’t sit well. I glance out to the lights of Manhattan twinkling away.
Sean: You’re still working? Isn’t it late for that?
Fly-girl: Tell that to my bride who’s getting married next weekend. And I don’t mind. I work better under pressure.
Sean: “Under Pressure” is a kick-ass song. Shall I ring and sing it for you? Give you a little inspiration?
It doesn’t take long this time for her reply.
Fly-girl: *eye roll* Then I’d never get this done.
Sean: Do I distract you?
I shift around on the sofa, more than a little intrigued for her reply.
Fly-girl: I reserve the right to remain silent… As should you. The little smiley face she adds at the end makes me laugh.
Sean: I’ve never been good at following that rule.
Fly-girl: Something to work on then? Goodnight, Sean.
I feel a bit crest-fallen that I’m being given the brush off, but I also understand. Cass’s work is important to her, just as mine is. I’d never want to get in the way of that. So, as much as it pains me to, I bid her good night.
Sean: Sweet dreams, Fly-girl.
I follow up the text by sending a clip of “Under Pressure” from one of our concerts in London where we paid tribute to Queen. I shove my earbuds in and put the song on repeat. If I can’t talk to her any more tonight, at least we can share the same song.
The morning dawns with breakfast that Syd has made and a welcome message from Cass that instantly puts a smile on my face.
Fly-girl: That’s some performance! I think I need to see you play live.
Sean: *hand-to-heart* I’m wounded you haven’t.
Fly-girl: I think you’re doing just fine without me in attendance.
Sean: Yes, but I’d like you to be in attendance.
Syd clears her throat from across the table. “Important message?” she asks, eyebrows lifted.
“One of the most important.”
Syd shakes her head at me as I enjoy the rest of my cup of the tea. I wasn’t wrong in my original assessment that texting with Cass could easily become an addiction. I’m strangely okay with that.
Fly-girl: So much tulle… so little time.
The next day, I’m checking in at the music academy when I read her text, and I laugh at the photo that accompanies it. This time, it’s piles of tulle in every pastel color imaginable that spill over a mannequin form in her shop. We’ve been exchanging quick texts and random photos, and I’m not afraid to say that I’ve started looking forward to them. Last night, she fell asleep mid-text conversation, no doubt exhausted from trying to finish up the adjustments for the woman she calls her “bridezilla from hell.” She has the patience of a saint to deal with some of these women and their outlandish demands.
Sean: Is this an S-O-S that you need rescuing?
Fly-girl: No, no. I’m okay! She follows the text with a thumbs-up.
Sean: You just say the word and I’ll whisk you away. Paris is beautiful this time of year.
Fly-girl: Paris in springtime? Sign me up!
I feel a jolt of excitement, wondering if Kennedy is hogging the jet, or if it’s out of his clutches long enough to let me use it. I could make Paris work either way.
Fly-girl: OMG. No! Do not book a trip to Paris! I was joking.
Sean: I wasn’t. I take a photo of myself pouting on the rooftop of the academy and send it to her.
Fly-girl: I know you weren’t. How scary is that? I already seem to know you.
Oh, how I wish she did.
Sean: Ah, Fly-girl. You’re just starting to.
Sean: Does this jacket make me look fat?
I fire off a photo of me trying on a dark green leather bomber jacket in a dressing room at a vintage shop in Brooklyn. Syd has been dragging me around whilst she finishes shopping for her honeymoon. Not that I need to be dragged to go shopping, actually. Typically, it’s me leading the charge.
Fly-girl: Seriously?
I frown before replying.
Sean: Seriously, no? Or seriously, you look like a beached whale?
Fly-girl: *eye roll* If you’re fishing for compliments, you should try a different pond.
Sean: But I don’t want to fish in a different pond. You’re the only one I want.
Fly-girl: Are you comparing me to a fish?
Sean: Never! Come over here. The dressing room has a lot of mirrors I’d like to put to good use.
Fly-girl: Brides are calling my name.
Sean: Lucky brides. I’d like to be the one calling your name.
She doesn’t answer my last text.
I toss the jacket on the table at the register and spot a bowl of vintage hairpins and barrettes that remind me of the ones Cass had in hair when I was inside her last. That seems like a lifetime ago. I dump the bowl on the table and buy them all.
A few days later, finding a place to park near Cassidy’s shop is a chore, but eventually I squeeze the Maserati into a space where I hope I’m not going to get towed. Even I know it’s ridiculous to own this car in the city, but when I get to open it up? Man, what a rush. The open road, the boundless sky above, it comes close to the feeling I get when I play.
The midnight blue car tends to draws attention, but not as much as the VW. I was tempted to pick her up in the Pink Tornado but thought better of it. Baby steps, so they say.
The little bells on her shop door chime with my arrival, and I shut the door behind me. Her shop is quaint, a bit quirky with artfully placed gowns showcased throughout. I can hear muted women’s voices in the room ahead. Lots of ohhing and ahhing. Studying one of the gowns draped on a mannequin, I know why. Fly-girl is insanely talented.
I slide my fingers over the lace silhouette. The amount of work gone into this is crazy, with sheer details and a fitted corset that’s the perfect combination of classic and sexy.
I wonder where she gets her inspiration. I wonder what she’d look like in this dress. The thought is unnerving and has me stepping back from the mannequin as if it’s on fire. I take a long breath in. My thoughts typically don’t wander to women in wedding dresses, but Cassidy has me thinking all sorts of things I normally wouldn’t.
“Can I help… You’re back.” I turn to the sound of Cassidy’s voice, feeling that punch in my gut when I see her. Those hypnotic eyes, wide and wondering. The curious tilt of her head, every curve of her body highlighted in that skirt, and those legs. Fucking distracting is what they are. I imagine hiking that skirt up to reveal just how long and flexible they are. Maybe bending her over the arm of the chair in the corner.
“Free for a late lunch?” I finally rasp out after my blatant gawking. I have no idea if she’s free, but I hope to hell she is. I’ve set up the rooftop at the academy with pillows and blankets and a hamper full of the best Thai takeout in the city being delivered in the sheer hope that she’s free. If she’s not, I’m eating alone.
She wets her lips, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m in the middle of something.”
I take a step toward her. “I can wait. It’s just lunch. Come.”
The corner of her mouth kicks up in amusement. “You know women don’t just come because the men in their lives tell them to.”
“You know you just made me hard as a rock.”
“What?”
“Mhmm. You just referred to me as the man in your life, Fly-girl.” Can she hear the sound of my heartbeat? I sure as hell can.
As she shakes her head, those blue-gray eyes darken. “You know what I mean. I was just saying—”
I press my fingers over her soft lips, shutting her up. “Don’t take it back. I like being the man in your life.” Slowly, I slide my thumb against her lips, watching as they part. Fuck, I want to taste her. I want her to want me to.
“Just lunch,” she whispers, taking a step back.
“Fair warning. A lot can happen at lunch.”
Pulling in a breath, she backs up, nearly knocking over one of the mannequins. I try not to laugh. Honest to fuck I try.
She scrambles to steady the mannequin, muttering under her breath before she turns to face me, lifting her chin. “I’ll just finish up.”
“I’ll just wait right here.”
Minutes drag by like hours. She finally finishes with her clients, who leave in a flurry of excitement and pure joy she’s brought to them. Then, I can hear creaking of the floorboards above the shop where she disappeared up the stairs. I have to fight the urge to go after her. I want to see where she lives and find out if the space smells of lavender, like she does. Fucking hell, she’s got me twisted up.
It seems to take an age before she descends the stairs. I let my gaze drag over her, appreciating every single sultry step. She sails past me with that confidence that turns me on.
She starts to open the door, but I place my palm on the thick wood, closing it. The little crease in her forehead appears when her eyes flicker up at me.
“I want you to wear something.”
Her eyes widen as I tug a blue blindfold from the pocket of my jeans. “What the hell is that?”
“Never seen one before?” I dangle it in front of her face.
“Of course I have. But why do you have it? Just where are you taking me?”
“I told you. Lunch.”
She glares at me with her hands on her hips. “Lunch with a blindfold?”
“Cassidy, there are endless ways to have lunch.” As I dangle the blindfold in front of her face, she ignores it, instead staring at me, neither of us wanting to break first.
“Trust me,” I finally say.
“Okay.” Her voice is clear, commanding, not wavering in the least. Fuck, that just makes me want her more. “Let me lock up first.” Finding her keys in her bag is a challenge, but she finally does and locks the shop.
Turning to me, she tilts her head back. The afternoon sun catches her hair and makes it glow. “Darken my world, London.”
Fuck this woman and the things she does to me. Slowly, I lift the blindfold over her head and position it over her eyes. “Don’t let me fall,” she whispers as I tuck her hair back.
“Never.” I set my hand against the small of her back and guide her forward around the corner. “Steady now, up and over.” She laughs as I steer her away from a lamppost.
“This is crazy. I have no idea where you’re taking me.”
“Does it matter?” She shakes her head, stretching her arm out to the empty air in front of her.
“Not even a little.”
“This is us.” I tighten my arm around her and reach down to open the passenger door. Her hand flails in the air and I see her frown.
“What is this?”
“A car.”
Laughing, I help guide her into the seat. “Smart-ass. There’s no top to the door,” she says, her hands blindly searching the dashboard, the seat, the gear shift.
“No. There’s not.”
She turns her head to the sound of my voice. “It’s a convertible?”
“That it is.” I tug the seatbelt around her and fasten it into place. I can’t resist letting my hand linger on her hip, tracing the belt across her stomach.
Pouting slightly, she leans back against the white
leather. “I want to see it.”
“You will. After lunch.”
Closing her door, I move around the front of the car and slide in behind the wheel. It roars to life and her smile widens when I rev the engine. “What kind of a car is it? At least give me that.”
Chuckling, I step on the gas and merge into afternoon traffic. “I think I’ll make you wait.” Her laughter is infectious as I swerve through the streets, winding my way to SoHo. I can’t help watching as she lifts her head back to the sun, feeling the wind in her hair. I’m tempted to just keep going. Take us outside the city so I can really open it up. Maybe next time. Shit. I’m already thinking about the next time I’ll see her.
She reaches out for the console, and I guide her fingers to mine on the gearshift. Her fingers mesh with mine, and I feel the heat from her skin with each gear change. Slowly, she traces my forearm, the little smile of hers growing the longer we stay in the car. It’s erotic, causing my veins to hum in anticipation.
The drive to SoHo has never taken this fucking long in the history of time. Thank fuck the building has reserved parking. I swing into my assigned space and shove the car into park, causing her to laugh louder.
“You’re a menace on the road,” she says, touching the blindfold.
“I was completely in control of the vehicle at all times.” Getting out of the car, I hurry to open her door.
“Can I take this off now?” She unbuckles her seatbelt and swings her legs out. I take her hand, tugging her forward against my torso. She melts into my arms, sending a shot of desire through me.
“Not quite yet.”
“You’re no fun.” That damn pout again. I want to kiss her. I could easily. Claim those sweet lips as mine. But I want her to kiss me. And yes, I’m well aware of just how lame that sounds.
“You’ve had plenty of fun with me already and the day is still young.” The little dimple deepens in her cheek from her smile. She’s happy. Truly happy. And it makes me feel like a king.
“Lift’s this way.”
“Are people watching us?” she whispers, leaning into me as I guide her inside to the lift.