Chapter Nine
Cassie didn’t hear from Braden again until Friday afternoon when he came into the library. She was guiding an elderly patron through the self-checkout process and showing her how to unlock the DVDs she wanted to borrow. He waited patiently until she was finished, pretending to peruse the books on the Rapid Reads shelf, but she felt him watching her, his gaze almost as tangible as a caress.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Garrett?” she asked when Elsa Ackerley had gone.
“You could accept my apology,” he said.
“What are you apologizing for?”
“Not having a chance to say good-night before you left the other night.”
“You were obviously focused on your conversation with...what was her name?”
“Lindsay,” he told her.
“Right—Lindsay.” She kept her tone light, feigning an indifference she didn’t feel. Pretending it didn’t bother her that less than a minute after his mouth had been hovering over hers and anticipation had been dancing in her veins, he’d forgotten she was even there as he gave his full and complete attention to Lindsay. Proving to Cassie, once again, how unreliable her instincts were when it came to the opposite sex.
“And it’s not what you think,” Braden said to her now.
“I’m not thinking anything,” she lied.
He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then closed it again when Helen approached the desk. After retrieving the basket of recently returned DVDs, she steered her cart away again.
“Have dinner with me tonight and give me a chance to explain,” he said when Helen had gone.
“You don’t owe me any explanations,” she assured him. “And I’m working until seven, anyway.”
“Then you’ll probably be hungry when you’re done,” he pointed out.
“Which is why I have a pork roast in my slow cooker at home.” Although she hadn’t been able to firm up plans with Irene and Jerry, she’d impulsively decided to cook the roast anyway, figuring she’d take the leftovers to her friend on the weekend.
“I was offering to take you out for dinner, but that sounds even better,” he decided.
She blinked. “What?”
“Dinner at your place is an even better idea than going out.”
“I didn’t—”
But he’d already turned and walked away.
Cassie huffed out a breath as she watched him disappear through the door. She didn’t know if she was more amused or exasperated that he’d so easily manipulated the situation to his advantage, but there was no doubt the man knew how to get what he wanted—though she was still uncertain about what he wanted from her.
And while the prospect of sharing a meal with Braden filled her with anticipation, she couldn’t help but wonder if he only wrangled dinner with her because Lindsay had other plans.
* * *
He wasn’t waiting outside the door when she left the library and he wasn’t in the parking lot, either. Cassie exhaled a sigh as she headed toward home and told herself that she was relieved he’d changed his mind. But she was a little confused, too. Braden had deliberately twisted her words to suggest an invitation she’d never intended, and then he didn’t even bother to follow up on it. Maybe she hadn’t planned to invite him, but she still felt stood up.
She shook off the feeling that she refused to recognize as disappointment and focused on admiring the many colorful flowers that brightened her path as she walked to her modest one-and-a-half story home that was only a few blocks from the library. The spring season was evident in the sunny yellow jessamine, vibrant pink tulips, snowy bloodroot and bright purple irises, and she felt her mood lifting a little with every step.
Her steps slowed when she spotted an unfamiliar vehicle parked on the street in front of her house. A late model silver Mercedes sedan. And leaning against the hood of the car, looking ridiculously handsome, was Braden Garrett with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
He smiled when he saw her, and her resolve melted away like ice cubes in a glass of sweet tea on a hot summer day.
“You said you were cooking a pork roast,” he said by way of greeting. “And while some people claim that pork is the other white meat, you once mentioned that you preferred red wine so I picked up a bottle of my favorite Pinot Noir.” He offered her the bouquet. “I also brought you flowers.”
“Why?” she asked, unexpectedly moved by the commonplace gesture. Because commonplace or not, it had been a long time since any man had brought her flowers.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a first date, but I always thought flowers were a nice gesture.”
“This isn’t a date,” she told him.
“Then what is it?”
“It’s you mooching my dinner.”
“I offered to take you out,” he reminded her.
She nodded in acknowledgment of the point. “And then you deliberately misinterpreted my refusal as an invitation.”
“You weren’t asking me to come here for a meal?” he asked, feigning surprise—albeit not very convincingly.
“The pork roast isn’t anything fancy,” she told him, as she unlocked the front door. “And there’s nothing for dessert.”
“No cheesecake?” he asked, disappointed.
She was helpless to prevent the smile that curved her lips. “Sorry—no.”
“Well, I’m glad to be here, anyway,” Braden said, following her into the house.
Waning rays of sunlight spilled through the tall windows that flanked the door, illuminating the natural stone floor. The walls in the entranceway were painted a warm shade of grayish blue and the wide trim was glossy and white.
He was barely inside the door when he felt an unexpected bump against his shin. “What the—” He glanced down to see a cat with pale gold fur rubbing against his pant leg. “You have a cat.”
“Two actually.” She glanced over her shoulder. “That’s Buttercup. She’s much more sociable than Westley.”
It took him a minute to figure out why the names sounded familiar. “The Princess Bride?” he guessed, carefully stepping around the cat to follow her into the bright and airy kitchen.
She seemed surprised that he’d connected the names to the story. “You’ve read the book?”
He frowned. “It’s a book?”
Cassie shook her head despairingly, but another smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It was a book long before it was a movie.”
“I haven’t read the book,” he admitted, as he looked around to admire the maple cupboards, granite countertops and mosaic tile backsplash. “But it was a great movie.”
“One of my favorites.” She took a meat thermometer out of a drawer and lifted the lid of the slow cooker to check the temperature of the roast. “And the book was even better.”
“You’re a librarian—you probably have to say that.”
“Why don’t I lend it to you, then you can judge for yourself?” she suggested.
“Sure,” he agreed. “Mmm...that smells really good.”
“Hopefully it tastes as good,” she said. “It’s a new recipe I’m trying out.”
“So I’m a guinea pig?” he teased.
“As a result of your own machinations,” she reminded him.
“I’m here for the company more than the food, anyway.” He looked over her shoulder and into the pot. “Are those parsnips?”
“You don’t like parsnips?” she guessed.
“Actually, I do. And sweet potatoes, too,” he said, chunks of which were also in the pot. “I just didn’t think anyone other than my mother cooked them.”
“How lucky that you decided to invite yourself to dinner tonight,” she said dryly, replacing the lid.
; He grinned. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Why don’t you open the wine while I take care of these flowers?”
“Corkscrew?”
She pointed. “Top drawer on the other side of the sink. Glasses are above the refrigerator.”
While he was opening the bottle, she slipped out of the room. The cat stayed with him, winding between his legs and rubbing against him.
He glanced down at the ball of fur and remarked, “Well, at least one of the females here is friendly.”
“She’s an attention whore,” Cassie told him, returning with a clear glass vase.
“Where’s Westley?”
“Probably sleeping by the fireplace—he spends most of his day lazing in his bed until he hears his food being poured into his bowl.” Setting the vase aside, she opened the door of the pantry and pulled out a bag. She carried it to an alcove beside the fridge, where he saw now there were two sets of bowls neatly aligned on mats, and crouched down to pour the food.
As the first pieces of kibble hit the bottom of the bowl, he heard a distant thump of paws hitting the floor then saw a streak of black and white shoot across the kitchen floor. The plaintive meow made Braden realize it wasn’t his bowl that Cassie had filled first. Her attention diverted by her sibling’s call, Buttercup padded over to her bowl and hunkered down to feast on her dinner while Westley waited for his own.
“I’ve never seen a cat reluctant to eat out of another animal’s bowl,” he noted.
“Neither of them does,” she told him. “Which makes it easier for me when I need to put drops or supplements in their food, because I know they’ve each gotten the right amount.”
“Did you train them to do that?”
She smiled at that. “You’ve obviously never tried to train a cat to do anything.”
“I’m guessing the answer to my question is no.”
“No,” she confirmed. “It’s just a lucky quirk of their personalities. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that, as kittens, they were crammed into a boot box with four other siblings. Now they appreciate having their own space—not just their own bowls but their own litter boxes and beds.” Although they usually curled up together in one or the other when it was time to go to sleep, because apparently even feline creatures preferred not to sleep alone.
“Six kittens and you only ended up with two?” he teased.
“I wanted to take them all,” she admitted. “But I’m not yet ready to be known as the crazy old cat lady.”
“You’re too young to be old,” he assured her.
She lifted a brow. “I notice you didn’t dispute the ‘crazy’ part.”
“I don’t really know you well enough to make any assertions about your state of mind,” he pointed out. Then, “So what happened to the other kittens?”
“Tanya—you met her at the Book & Bake Sale—took Fezzik, Mr. and Mrs. Bowman—regular patrons of the library—chose Vizzini, Mr. Osler—the old bachelor who lives across the street—wanted Inigo, and Megan—one of the librarian assistants—took Prince Humperdinck, but she just calls him Prince.”
“You named them all,” he guessed.
“I found them,” she said logically.
“That seems fair,” he agreed, watching as she snipped the stems of the flowers and set them in the vase she’d filled with water. She fussed a little with the colorful blooms, so he knew she liked them. A fact she further confirmed when she set the vase on the windowsill above the sink and said, “Thank you—they’re beautiful.”
“They are beautiful,” he agreed. “That’s why they made me think of you.”
“You always have the right line, don’t you?”
“Do I?” he asked, surprised. “Because I often feel a little tongue-tied around you.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true,” he told her.
While Cassie sliced the meat, Braden set the table, following her directions to locate the plates and cutlery. Then they sat down together to eat the pork roast and vegetables and drink the delicious Pinot Noir he’d brought to go with the meal.
“You’re not going to ask, are you?” Braden said, as he stabbed his fork into a chunk of sweet potato.
She shook her head. “It’s none of my business.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway—Lindsay is Saige’s birth mother.”
“Oh.” Of all the possible explanations he might have given, that one had never occurred to her.
“When Dana and I adopted Saige, we promised Lindsay that we would keep in touch. But not long after the papers were signed, she went to London to do a year of school there, and although I routinely sent photos and emails, I hadn’t actually spoken to her in more than a year.”
“Why was she calling?” Cassie asked curiously.
“Because she’s back in the US and wants to see Saige.”
“Oh,” she said again. “How do you feel about that?”
“Obligated,” he admitted. “We agreed to an open adoption—of course, we would have agreed to almost anything to convince Lindsay to sign the papers—so I can’t really refuse. And I do think it is important for Saige to know the woman who gave birth to her, but I’m a little concerned, too.”
“About?” she prompted gently.
He picked up his glass of wine but didn’t drink; he only stared into it. “Lindsay gave up her baby because she wanted her to be raised in a traditional family with two parents who would love her and care for her. And now that I’m a single parent, I can’t help worrying that Lindsay will decide she wants Saige back.”
She considered that as she sipped her wine. “I don’t know much about adoption laws, but I would think it’s a little late for her to change her mind, isn’t it?”
“Most likely,” he acknowledged. “The first thing I did when I hung up the phone after talking to Lindsay was call my cousin, who’s a lawyer. Jackson assured me that judges generally don’t like to reverse adoptions. But he also warned me that if Lindsay decided to take it to court and got a sympathetic judge, she might be able to claim a material change in circumstances and argue that Saige’s best interests would be served by vacating our contract.”
Cassie immediately shook her head, horrified by the possibility. “There’s no way anybody who has ever seen you with your daughter would believe it’s in her best interests to be anywhere but with you.”
He managed a smile at that. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
His smile did funny things to her insides—or maybe she was hungry. She decided to stop talking and start eating.
Braden’s plate was almost empty before he spoke again. “Tell me something about you,” he said.
“What do you want to know?”
“Have you been dating anyone—other than Darius Richmond—recently?”
She shook her head. “No. In fact, until a few months ago, I hadn’t dated at all in a couple of years.”
“Bad break-up before that?” he asked sympathetically.
But she shook her head. “The break-up was good—the relationship was bad.”
His dark green eyes took on a dangerous gleam. “Was he abusive?”
“No, nothing that dramatic,” she assured him. “I was twenty-six when I met him and eager to move on to the next stage in my life.”
“Marriage,” he guessed.
She nodded. “And kids. I wanted so desperately to get married and start a family that I saw what I wanted to see...right up until the minute the truth slapped me in the face—figuratively speaking.”
“Were you married?”
“No,” she said again. “Just engaged for a few months.”
She thought back to that blissful moment when Joel Langdon proposed. They’d quickly set the date fo
r their wedding and booked the church and the reception venue, and she’d been so excited for their future together, believing they were on their way to happily-ever-after.
“Until I discovered that he was still in love with his ex-wife,” she continued.
Braden winced. “How did that happen?”
“As we talked about the wedding, I realized that Joel had some specific ideas about how he wanted his bride to look. A strapless dress wasn’t appropriate for a church wedding, white satin would make my skin look pasty, and the princess-style ball gown would overwhelm my frame. Instead, he’d suggested a more streamlined style, perhaps ivory in color with long sleeves covered in ecru lace.”
“That’s pretty specific,” he noted.
She nodded. And although she’d been disappointed by her fiancé’s assessment, she’d been pleased he was taking such an interest in the details of their special day.
“He also suggested that I should let my hair grow out, so that I could wear it up under my veil—but I hadn’t planned to wear a veil. And maybe I could consider adding a few blond highlights, to tone down the auburn. The more suggestions he made, the more I realized that he was trying to change who I was—or at least how I looked.”
She shook her head, lamenting her own foolishness for not seeing then what was so obvious to her now. She knew he’d been married before, but Joel hadn’t talked about his ex-wife. He certainly never said or did anything to suggest to Cassie that he was still in love with her.
“It was only after I moved in with him that I found his wedding album with the date engraved on the front—the same month and day he’d chosen to marry me.”
And the date had been his choice. She’d thought that a fall wedding might be nice, but he’d urged her to consider spring, so that she could carry a bouquet of white tulips—her favorite flowers. She hadn’t much thought about what flowers she wanted for the wedding, and while she wouldn’t have said tulips were her favorite, she liked them well enough.
“Then I opened the cover and saw a picture of his ex-wife, in her long-sleeved lace gown with a bouquet of white tulips in her hand.” She’d slowly turned the pages, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. “And on the last page, the close-up photo of the bride’s and groom’s hands revealed that my fiancé had proposed to me with his ex-wife’s engagement ring.
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