Love Me Crazy

by Camden Leigh

  Quinn sets the tray down, then tucks his hands in his pockets and hugs his arms to his side, hiding the ink. “Stopped by to pick up the truck, but figured, what the hell, I’m here, might as well stay the night.”

  “You figured what?” Mrs. Covington tsks at his bluntness and tightens her lips into a prune.

  Quinn’s gaze flits to Ellie, then stops on me. “I’m staying.” He shrugs, dark eyes penetrating me as a teasing smile plays across his lips. “Things just got interesting.”

  My brain processes the words after his gaze drops away and the trance I’m under fades. He’s staying? My temperature spikes and suddenly I’m sweating in an over air-conditioned room in wet clothes. How is that possible? I fluff my shirt and the dampness makes everything worse.

  “Staying? Wonderful,” Mrs. Covington says flatly. “But no need to bother yourself with wedding details. I’m sure you have plenty of ties to mend.” Mrs. Covington waves him off and drops her attention to the colorful glass disks in the hatbox. “Annabeth would love to see you again. I met her just this morning for coffee. She’s Eleanor’s maid of honor and home for the summer.” She peers up from the color samples for a split second. “You two could pick up where things left off.”

  “Not likely,” he says as he moves closer.

  “That’s a shame.” She taps the table. “But you never know.”

  “Let’s look at the color choices for the champagne flutes,” Ellie butts in. She dumps the box over and glass tinkles across the table.

  Quinn joins us at the table. My personal space begins to shrink, claimed by something impossible. The only other time I’ve felt like this was when I met the last guy I thought I’d ever date. My ex-fiancé, Preston, had the same collective presence, the kind that demands attention but had my approval before we’d even talked. He was the guy at the bar who would take no for an answer only after an exhausting game of stupid one-liners and romantic overkill. A skillful brush of a finger here, a questionable administered pat there. My heart triple dares me to even think the off-limits Quinn Covington–who isn’t as “out of the country” as his mom suggested– would be any different.

  “Too dark.” Mrs. Covington tosses one of the colored disks into the box, startling me.

  I focus on the other colors, counting them in pairs, then by threes, wishing this was over, that I could escape Quinn and his uncanny similarities to the guy I was to marry.

  “This one,” Mrs. Covington chirps as she holds up a matte navy blue disk.

  “It’s so muted,” Ellie frowns. “I don’t—”

  “It’s perfect.” Mrs. Covington dusts her hands like she’s done her good deed for the day.

  “May I make a suggestion?” I ask, wanting to appease the bride. It’s her wedding after all.

  Mrs. Covington’s eyes shrink. I take it this is when I should be a fly on the wall like she’d instructed, but staying quiet reminds me of a time when I believed saying nothing was best. And now my parents and I don’t speak. I refuse to let that mousy, sad part of me surface again.

  “A suggestion?” Mrs. Covington grows taller, straightening her spine like someone just poled her up the ass. “Enlighten me, Casey.”

  Too intimidated to correct my name, I hold up the piece she’d selected. “Um, this would be great as a stand-alone, but with all the other blues being integrated, this one looks kind of on the muddy side. Maybe something more vibrant so the goblets at least match Ellie’s eyes.”

  “Kind of?” Boss Lady snaps. Her voice crescendos into an earsplitting glass-cracking pitch. “Be sure,” she corrects. “There is no ‘kind of’ in this business. We’re here to know. Know factually or don’t speak.”

  She sounds like my mom. That I did not sign up for. I swallow stiffly. My eyes burn, so dry from not blinking. The reminder sparks a flame under my skin, setting off all the triggers that gave me the balls to push my family out of my life after high school. Attempting restraint in my voice, I say, “I know this won’t work against the other blues.”

  Mrs. Covington elicits a sound similar to Crockett. Not quite a purr, more a growl, definitely a warning. “It’s a dusk wedding.”

  “Even more reason the crystal should be bold.”

  “It overpowers the bride.”

  “It complements her,” I spout. I’ve got to get a grip. She’ll send me packing before this meeting concludes, but I didn’t drive a thousand miles south to stand idly by and say nothing.

  “My stars,” she exclaims. “Insulting me on your first day?”

  “Discussing alternatives.”

  “Bold, aren’t you?”

  “Driven.” I lift my chin.

  “Trouble,” she spits.

  I give her the same stare she gives me. Do not break. Do not back down. I took on a fucking turkey. I can take you on, too.

  Quinn moves behind me and peers over my shoulder. His breath moves the hairs that fell loose from my bun, tickling my neck. I bite the inside of my cheek as Ellie slides several vibrant disks away from the main group. Mrs. Covington’s lip quivers. She drops her gaze to the table when Quinn begins to whistle like he has nothing better to do than sort through crystal samples.

  He reaches across the table. His other hand grazes my lower back before gripping the table on my opposite side. Unnecessary. Seriously. I hold my breath as he holds one up. His reach causes his arm to hug around me. My back muscles coil then flinch, the electrical jolt refreshing my senses. The glass samples shudder. Oh my God. What if he gets the wrong idea? I can’t be having these reactions around him. Not ever. I’d promised myself not to feel anything for anyone ever again. I close my eyes. This can’t happen.

  He leans unnecessarily into me, then backs off. “You are the one.”

  Me?

  Ellie snatches the piece and I blink it into focus.

  Oh, the disk. My heart shudders in relief. Or is it dismay?

  Ellie’s eyes glaze as they mirror the same cloudy sadness as Quinn’s. “Yes. Dad would’ve loved this shade of indigo.”

  I glance at Ellie, then her brother. I press my fingers against my chest, wanting to settle the panic magnifying the emotional bite his words created. I swore I’d never let a man affect me in this capacity again. Yet this guy just turned an ant’s bite into a hornet’s sting.

  “So tomorrow at eight, Casey, meet me at my office in town and we’ll go over the orders.” Mrs. Covington’s words bring me from my stupor.

  “Um, yeah.”

  Her eyebrows angle into a steeply pitched roof over her wide eyes. “I’m not sure what the protocol was for your former positions, but as my assistant, it would do you well to remember ‘yeah’ is not a word.”

  “O-okay.” Former position as a student? A kid?

  She glares.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I mumble, feeling emotionally drained. When will this day end?

  “Good day, Casey.”

  “My name’s Cassidy, not Casey.”

  She studies me as she reaches an arm into the rain coat Quinn holds up. “I’m sure, if you want this job bad enough, you’ll answer to either.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Carlson.”

  She freezes, coat collar turned up, bottom flapping around her shins. She tries to hide her surprise, and after a quick glance at Quinn, adds, “That will be all, Cassidy.”

  Quinn offers a wink over his shoulder as he and Ellie walk their mom out. I collapse into a chair and rap my forehead against the table.

  I’m doomed. My boss came from the looney bin and the hottest guy I’ve seen in months—no, years—is a freaking Covington. Worse, he reminds me of Preston, which makes my heart split because half wants to be loved again, but the other half knows for certain love is nothing but a candy-art sculpture—sweet, beautiful, and breakable. Trusting anyone with something so fragile is a mistake I can’t make again.

  I spin the selected blue glass like a coin. I examine the extraordinary blue until it collapses flat against the table. The perfect match to Quinn’s
eyes. I frown. He flirts like a pro. His stares, his touch . . . his innuendos. All dead giveaways to the type of guy he is—the fuck-him-and-forget-him type who forgoes the precursory buildup to sex and nixes the morning-after cuddles.

  An hour ago I called him an asshole—and hoped to God I was right—but the warmth he shows with his sister insists he’s more than a player with a charming face, sexy as hell tats and one mega-rocking body.

  Players don’t evoke emotions. Not from me. So he’s either a damn good player or a damn good faker. And I’m betting on the latter, which sucks, because if he can pull the feels out of me without trying, it means my tungsten carbide shell is deteriorating. And worse, it means he might not be an asshole.

  My phone rings and I hurry across the room to the couch where I’d dropped my purse. “Lilian?” I answer.

  “Cass? Thank God.” Her whispers grow louder. “Why haven’t you answered your phone? I’ve been calling for two hours.”

  “I was dealing with . . . shit. What’s wrong?”

  “Have you gotten any other calls?”

  I pull my phone away from my ear and scan the missed calls.

  “No, just fifteen from you. Miss me much?” I smile. I miss her tons and I’ve only been gone two days.

  “Yes, but Preston misses you more.”

  I clamp my teeth together and nick my tongue. Copper fills my taste buds. Anger fills my veins.

  “He cornered me, and, well, I may have told him you were vacationing with your new boyfriend.”

  “What?” God, the last thing I need right now is to deal with my ex. Now he’s the definition of asshole. And I won’t ever make the same mistake I did with him ever again. I rap my fist against my forehead.

  “I’m sorry. Really. But he had his hot roommate with him and I got sidetracked.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head. “Weakling.”

  “I know. Forgive me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Pretty please? If it’s any consolation, I told him you were meeting your imaginary boyfriend’s parents. That you guys were super serious.”

  “Lil! What the hell. The less he knows about me the better.”

  “He deserves to think you’re happy. You know he revels in the thought of you brokenhearted over his no-good, cheating, dick-for-brains self. Don’t give him what he wants. Let him think someone else is reaping the benefits.”

  “I’m not brokenhearted.” But I am. He took my trust and split it over his knee like kindling. Brokenhearted doesn’t cover it.

  I’d never let anyone close to my heart until him. And once he was wrapped around it, I couldn’t help but trust him. I wanted us to work and saw a future with him. I broke out in hives the night I told him about my past, about who I was. When he didn’t get that mad-eye, greedy look, I was relieved.

  I thought he loved me wholly, that he could replace the ache in my chest with his compassion. He talked of marriage before I thought it a responsible option. He brewed a happy-ever-after into my plans and suggested I deserved it. I held off agreeing until, with my roommate’s help, he led me on an extravagant, romantic scavenger hunt that ended in the park where we met. Him on one knee. Me crying “yes” before he popped the question.

  That happy-ever-after ended when I found him in my bed, naked, and my roommate riding him like a rodeo queen. More like fucking his brains out. The guy I’d trusted with everything, screwed me over mentally, physically, and royally.

  That was a bittersweet day. I just shut the door when he called my name. I split myself in two and walked away from my pained reflection, my building anger, my stupidity for trusting again so easily. I hate Preston for how much he hurt me. But I love him for giving me a reason to keep everyone in my life at arm’s length.

  “And I am happy,” I add. “Except about this job.”

  “Uh-oh, what now? Your boss got you scrubbing her skivvies?”

  “That’s just . . . ew. Gross.” Her underpants would be, like, huge and flesh colored and . . . no. Just can’t even go there. “Change the subject. Please.” Bleh.

  “South Carolina hot?” she asks. “They’re supposed to have kick-ass beaches.”

  “Yeah, hot.” I step toward the window and pull the drapes aside. “Very. Especially the six-and-a-half-foot, blue-eyed guy living here.” I scan said blue-eyed wonder who’s offering his arm to his sister as they walk back toward the house.

  “Fuckable?” she breathes.

  “Definitely, but I need this internship more than I need one night with him.” I’d gotten into art school on a four-year scholarship, but it ended in May. I had to beg for the extra summer semester, pleading a case of hours versus semester allowance. I devised a confusing formula to prove what the scholarship was worth monetarily versus the percentage I’d used. It’s a rarity for math to work in my favor. The board awarded me the extra semester, but if I fail, I’ll have to pay double to repeat it. Hard to do when my piggy bank echoes.

  “Tell me more,” she salivates. I can practically hear her smacking her lips.

  “He’s”—I bite my lip— “exploding sexiness. Tan. Muscular. Dark hair. More muscles. Gorgeous eyes . . .”

  “And?”

  I worm off the couch to the floor and rest my cheek against the cushion. “Tattoos. So hot. So . . . yum.”

  “Do I sense a late-night rendezvous in your future?” she asks.

  “Uh, no. He’s Hoss Boss’s son.”

  “Ooh là là. A southern gentleman and heir to an empire.” She’s a sucker for romance.

  “No ooh and no là là. He’s off-limits.” If I don’t curb the wedding-bell visions floating in her head, Lil will have me barefoot and pregnant before I get off the phone. “I just hope he’s more asshole than not. Easier to ignore a jerk.”

  “All guys with tattoos aren’t bad,” she says.

  “But this one can’t be good.” He’s a temptation in the wrong direction. I’m supposed to be tempted to finish this job. Graduate. Not drool over the Covington I’m not allowed to befriend.

  “I know you’re totally opposed to relationships, but geez, give one guy a chance.” She sighs heavily. “And I don’t mean to wet your panties.”

  “Forget it. Dating complicates sex and tears you apart after.” I know she’s speaking hypothetically, but Quinn’s silent, forward approach to flirting comes to mind. And the way he took charge and prepped me for my meeting like he actually gave a damn about me. He’s . . . I don’t know, sincere, with kind eyes. Like a seasoned guide dog who doesn’t know anything but to be helpful.

  “If you take him for a spin, I’ll curb my fascination with one-nighters,” she says.

  She’s lost her nuts! “I’d rather talk to my parents.”

  “That’s . . .that’s a mega-fucking counteroffer, Cass. You haven’t talked to them in four years.”

  I cut her off before she can elaborate on her vision of my life as one-third of a family unit. “And easier than dating because good guys don’t truly exist. You imagine this insane world where guys—”

  “But they do, Cass. They exist for us. And I’m not talking like play toys, though I like a good, fun fuck. What I’m saying, is they were put on this planet for a reason. Why would there be such things as soulmates if they didn’t really exist?”

  “What have you been smoking?” I run my hands through my damp hair and release the elastic holding my bun in place.

  “Give someone a chance.”

  “And you’ll quit sleeping with every cock that pays you attention?”

  Silence.

  I muffle my laugh because she’d fail in the first twenty-four hours and we both know it.

  “There’s only one Preston, Cass.”

  “Stop.” I push to my feet. Blood singes my ears.

  “Stop rejecting guys because you think they’re him. You always say I deserve better; well, so do you.”

  “Fine.” Red flags fly up around me because she’s right. I’m fine with waiting a year or two before considering
love again . . . if at all. But I don’t have to tell her that.

  Chapter 4

  Cassidy

  “Damn cheap hairdryer.” I jerk the plug from the outlet and toss the piece of crap in the trash. I grab a towel from under the sink and wrap it around my soaked hair. I tidy up the mess I made in my race to take a shower, and stack my bag of makeup and brushes neatly in the corner. A crash sounds in the kitchen, making me jump and clutch my chest.

  I open the bathroom door and peek around the wall toward the door leading to the kitchen.

  “Stop throwing stuff!” Quinn yells.

  “I’ll stop when you tell me why”—crash—“you’re”—crash—“here.”

  The deafening noise sounds similar to crunching ice, increased by four-thousand. I tiptoe up to the door, not wanting my presence discovered, but curiosity has me wondering who on earth has the vocal ability to yell that high pitched.

  I push the door open slightly, and peer through the crack. A younger version of Ellie stands on a stool, pulling plates with blue snowflakes on them from the top shelf. She near decapitates Quinn with an expertly aimed frisbee toss.

  “Did Ellie know you’d be here? Does Mom?” Crash.

  Quinn throws up his arm to protect himself. “Would you stop throwing shit. What is wrong with you?”

  Oh, Quinn, don’t ask a girl that.

  “What is wrong with me? What is wrong with you? I live here, remember? You don’t.” The girl, blond hair stuck to her face in sweaty clumps, jumps off the stool, shifts it over, then climbs back up to find more ammunition. “You think you can waltz in here and spin me around like you did when I was eight. Smile and pick up where we left off. Well, I’m eighteen now, and in the five years you were gone, I learned to shoot the nuts off the squirrels living in the barn. I’ve learned to filet fish and cook them over a pit. I’ve gotten stuck in the swamps at high tide, and survived. And why? Because of Wes. Do you remember Wes? Yeah, well he taught me those things because you broke your promises to teach me when you bailed.” She takes an entire stack of dessert plates out and sets them on the counter.

  Before she’s off her stool, Quinn takes three large strides toward her and snatches the plates. “I’m sorry, Kat. I really am, but you don’t understand what I was going through.” He tucks the plates against his side and reaches out to her with his other hand.