by Tara Wylde
“Like I’m the only one,” she says. “We both know that thing is hypnotic, like a cobra’s stare. No, I’ll give you a hint: it was somebody famous.”
“Man or woman?”
“Woman.”
“Young or old?”
“Young.”
Hmm. Nothing on the menu at Patty’s is less than three hundred calories, so that rules out supermodels.
“Singer or actress?”
Tricia frowns for a second. “Sort of both. Mostly actress.”
That rules out Miley Cyrus; she’s “mostly singer.” Who else is on the list of dual threats these days? Selena Gomez? Singer. Hailee Steinfeld is mostly actress. Jennifer Lawrence sang in that Hunger Games movie. None of those are pinging on me, though.
Tricia looks at me triumphantly.
“You’ll never guess,” she says. “Want me to tell you?”
“What did she buy?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow. “A gallon of Fudge Fantasy. Why?”
A face flashes in my mind. It’s only going to be an educated guess, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years. They’ve kept me alive more than once.
“Anna Kendrick,” I say, taking another sip of my espresso.
Tricia’s face drops for a second, then contorts into a mask of frustration.
“How do you do that?” she yelps. “I never get one over on you!”
“It’s obvious,” I grin, pretending I was way more confident than I truly had been. “I happened to read once that her favorite food is Taco Bell. Any woman who eats at Taco Bell on a regular basis isn’t going to be afraid of Fudge Fantasy. Did you get any selfies with her? Pics or it didn’t happen...”
Tricia brightens again and comes over to my side of the table with her phone out. She flips through a half-dozen shots of her with her arm around Anna Kendrick’s neck. To Anna’s credit, her smile seems genuine.
The bell over the front door jingles, signaling the entrance of a new customer. I don’t jump and spin to see who it is, because that would be a dead giveaway that I’m paranoid. I’ll check out the new arrival with a casual glance in a few moments.
“She said Elizabeth Banks told her about us,” says Tricia. “I’ve talked to Elizabeth lots.”
Her eyes light up suddenly and I can practically see the light bulb over her head.
“What if we could get them to do a commercial for us when we go national with Tricialicious? That would be amazing!”
I chuckle. “Slow down, Turbo. Let’s make sure Anna doesn’t get sick from all that fudge first.”
She drops into a pouting pose and sticks out her tongue. “Killjoy.”
Now I’m full-on laughing. “Okay, okay,” I say. “It’s actually not a bad idea. We’ll have a pretty substantial marketing budget when we’re ready to launch next year. I’ll see if I can track down their agents and see if they might be amenable.”
“See?” Tricia says. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re the smartest person I know. That would never have occurred to me.”
“Of course it would have.”
She gathers up my empty cup and stands. Just before she goes back behind the counter, she leans down beside me and nods her head toward the window, where I heard the new arrival sit down a couple of minutes earlier.
“Whoa,” she whispers. “If you think UPS guy is hot, check that out.”
I grin and turn to my right to see who could possibly have taken the place of the man in the brown shorts in Tricia’s eyes. The first thing I notice is the chiseled torso under his white tee-shirt and the sleek, powerful legs protruding from his tight gym shorts under the table. I can’t see his butt, but I’m quite sure it would put our delivery driver’s to shame.
The summer glare through the storefront window is strong, dimming the features of his profile a bit a bit. As if to rectify the situation, he turns and looks in my direction.
Our eyes meet and suddenly my world turns inside out. It’s a face I know as well as my own. The chin is a little wider than the last time I saw it in the video two nights earlier, the hair a bit longer and a shade darker.
But there’s no mistaking those smoky gray eyes.
I’m looking at Carson Drake. And he’s looking at me.
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Five
15. CARSON
Welcome to Patty’s ice cream and treats. Here’s your coffee. Would you like a side of teenaged heartache to go with that?
I came in here because I love their brownie sundaes, even though Matthias always makes me do a dozen extra burpees whenever he finds out where I’ve been. Plus, it’s on the list of places “the quarry” has been known to frequent on occasion, so I thought I’d scope it out and see if anyone set off any alarms in my brain. Like a dozen other places on the list, I planned to set up a baseline that I can compare against over the coming fortnight.
Now, out of nowhere, I’m staring into Cassie Vincent’s pale sapphire eyes.
I feel like I’ve been caught in the gravity well of a black hole – I can’t look away. I’m trapped. It’s a vision of the life I always wanted, but one I’d given up on.
Cassie has changed a bit since the last time I saw her. Her hair has gone a shade lighter, almost strawberry blonde but not quite, and straightened somewhat. The freckles that I used to count during our make-out sessions have faded a bit, but the skin is still the same milky pale it always was.
Her body, though. Wow.
She was always reedy, almost to the point of being gangly, back in high school – we both were. Not that I could have cared less. She was still a goddess in my eyes.
But now there are wicked curves under her yellow sundress. Shapely legs that have seen more than their share of exercise. And the cleavage peeking out to say hello to the world was definitely not there the last time we were together.
The last time we were together before she stood me up for the prom and disappeared from my life for a dozen years.
Her eyes are as wide as I imagine mine must be. We’ve been staring at each other for what seems like a week, but is probably only twenty seconds. In the real world. Which couldn’t be further from how I feel right now.
“Uh, do you guys know each other?” the blonde to Cassie’s left asks. I’ve seen her here before; she’s the owner, I think.
Cassie finally blinks and seems to come back to herself. Thank God. I don’t know if I would have been able to break the spell on my own.
“Yes,” she says with a smile that looks about as genuine as a $3 bill. “We, uh, we were … friends. In school.”
Friends. All right, then. I guess I know where I stand, at least now.
My charm autopilot kicks in and I stand up. The blonde gasps slightly as I do. I lean forward and extend my hand to her.
“Carson Drake,” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cassie says, obviously flustered. “Carson, this is Tricia Clarke. She owns Patty’s.”
“Not for long,” Tricia says as she takes hold of my hand. She holds onto it for longer than most would consider polite, but eventually lets go. “Pretty soon Sandra and I are going to be partners. Why don’t you have a seat with us?”
Cassie flashes her a look as I sit.
“So,” I say. “Still going by Sandra?”
She looks like she swallowed a bug. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s, uh, it’s my name.”
This obviously confuses Tricia.
“What else would you call her?” she asks.
“She was always Cassie to me,” I say. “But her dad thought Sandra sounded more serious.”
“You were the only one who ever called me Cassie,” she says.
I knew that. How could I forget?
I’d whisper it in her ear during the nights we spent exploring each other’s mouths with our tongues. It made her feel special, something only the two of us shared. And that meant more to me than any night spent with a supermodel in the last few years.
Tricia looks Cassie
up and down, appraising her like she’s a used car.
“You know what,” she says. “I think you look like a Cassie. It suits you. Suits your personality, too. I like it. I’m going to call you Cassie from now on, too.”
Cassie flushes. I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. Sometimes I’m a real bastard.
“You have good taste in friends,” I say.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
Tricia looks back and forth between the two of us, obviously waiting for us to talk to each other. When we don’t, she takes it on herself to continue, papering over the tension.
“So,” she says. “How long has it been since you two saw each other?”
“Twelve years,” we say in unison.
Three months and five days, I don’t add.
Tricia cocks an eyebrow. “Ooo-kay. Good to see neither of your memories is failing. So not since high school?”
“Since prom night,” I say. It’s out of my mouth before I even realize it.
I worry that Cassie will clam up now, but she seems to have recovered her composure.
“What have you been up to since then?” she asks, propping her chin in her hand. Suddenly she’s as cool as an autumn breeze.
I can’t believe this. Every time I have the dream, the one where I show up at her empty house on prom night and everyone laughs at me, I fantasize about this moment when I wake up. The moment when I get to tell Cassie Vincent that I went on to fulfill every dream I ever had.
Well, all except one.
“I went on a full ride to Harvard,” I say. “But I dropped out in sophomore year when my dad passed away.”
Cassie’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh my God, Carson, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“A training accident. He took a live round.” I keep my voice casual, but even now, a decade later, the memory hurts, an almost physical ache that fades but never fully disappears.
“That’s terrible! I loved your dad; he was so easygoing.”
I remember how well the two of them got along. Cassie’s dad was a bigwig colonel, always pushing her to use her intellect to its full capacity. He wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from her.
And I was definitely not part of his plan for his daughter.
“My dad was too easygoing,” I say. “He spent his life being ordered around by other people. I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. So I started a tech company and sold it a few years ago. Now I’m retired.”
Tricia is goggling at me now. I can practically see the drool pooling in her mouth.
Cassie gives me an earnest look and puts a hand on top of mine.
“That’s incredible,” she says. “Retirement obviously agrees with you. I mean, look at you.”
I manage to keep my grin polite instead of letting it spread from ear to ear. I’ve been waiting a decade to hear her say that. I realize now – maybe I always knew – that I would never, could never, have found satisfaction with any other woman.
“You’re very kind,” I say. “There are definitely some advantages to being able to spend as much time as you want in the gym.”
I lean in closer. The peppery fragrance of her perfume fills my nostrils and suddenly I can feel myself getting hard under my gym shorts. I lean back again; I don’t need that kind of embarrassment.
“Whatever you’ve been up to agrees with you, too,” I say. “You look incredible.”
“Well, thank you,” she says.
“So what have you been up to for the past twelve years?”
She fidgets in her seat, tugging at the hem of her sundress.
“Well,” she says, “that’s a long story.”
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Six
16. CASSANDRA
It’s taking all of my training right now to not bolt out the front door and lose myself in the streets of Manhattan. Every instinct in me is shouting “Abort! Abort!”
Instead, I stare into Carson’s gray eyes and at the outline under his shirt. He must practically live in the gym to maintain a body like that. I’ve worked with elite soldiers who would look like Zach Galifianakis next to him.
He raises his eyebrows and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s waiting for an answer to his question.
Tricia takes that as her cue to go back behind the till, probably thinking she’s doing me a favor. I try to flash her a “come save me” look, but she’s studiously avoiding looking anywhere but at Carson.
“I’d best leave you two to… catch up,” she says, grinning another Cheshire cat smile at him. “Wonderful to meet you, Carson. I hope I see you again.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” he says with a grin of his own. I can’t help but notice how easily he says it. The last few years have certainly treated him well.
She turns to head back behind the counter. As she does, she catches my eye and widens her own like an owl’s. Oh my GOD, that look says.
Tell me about it.
I smile weakly. And I thought keeping an eye out for billionaire perverts was going to be uncomfortable. This is far worse.
“Well,” I say.
“Yes?”
“All right, then. Time for the Sandra Vincent – uh, I suppose it’s Cassie Vincent now – elevator speech.”
Carson settles in. “I’m all ears.”
You’re all something, but it’s not ears, I don’t say.
“Okay, so obviously I graduated and went on to college.”
“Where?”
“Wharton,” I lie. I’m in their records, thanks to government intervention, but the only time I’ve spent in Philadelphia was to internalize the details of my cover story.
“Got my MBA, specialized in supply chain management systems, and then went on to become a business consultant. Now I’m looking to sell out and partner with Tricia on expanding Patty’s into a national line of specialty ice cream.”
He tents his fingers under his chin, a habit he’s had since we were teens. He thinks it makes him look serious, like my dad. Pft. I used to make fun of him for it.
“Supply chain management,” he says. But it’s not just what he says, it’s the way he says it.
“Uh-huh.”
I’m trying not to squirm under that gaze. Even though he knows nothing about the last twelve years, he probably knows me better than anyone else on Earth. If anyone can sniff out a lie from me, it’s him.
He and I were two peas in a pod, constantly challenging each other. We’d sit around for hours after school, discussing everything from philosophy to physics. No one else could understand what the hell we were talking about, and I guarantee none of them would ever get how much it turned us on.
I can’t help but think he’s disappointed in me for giving that up to get into such a plain lifestyle. If he only knew what I’ve actually spent the last eight years doing.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “You were always good at systems analysis. You could work a program better than anyone I’ve ever known, myself included.”
High praise indeed. Carson always had a healthy dose of cockiness when it came to his intellect. It certainly didn’t help him win any popularity contests back in school. Although, if his interaction with Tricia is any indicator, he’s come a long way in the charm department.
What matters is that he bought the story.
“Anyway, I’ve picked up a loyal clientele over the years and I think I can parlay my goodwill into enough money to buy a factory. Take Tricia’s genius nationwide.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, as long as you can keep the integrity of the products. I’m crazy about the goodies here. In fact, I rode my bike here from Park Avenue just to get some.”
I can’t wait to tell Tricia that Carson is a fan of the shop. She’ll probably wet her panties.
“So you can see where I’m coming from,” I say. “I’m tired of working for other people, too.”
That’s the first time I’ve told the truth since Carson sat down.
&nb
sp; He nods. “Definitely. And with your experience, you should have no problem expanding.”
That’s true, too. I actually had to study supply chain management to be able to maintain my cover for so long. That’s the bit they don’t tell you about when you sign up. Of course, I’ll have to figure out marketing and other aspects, but I know we’ll be a success.
“What’s your long-term goal?” he asks.
“Same as you: take the company public, sell my shares for a small fortune and live a life of leisure.”
Again, just enough truth to be plausible.
“A small fortune.” He smiles. “Yep, that’s me, all right.”
We sit in awkward silence for a few moments. I know what he wants to talk about, but I just can’t. Not here. Not now. Not while I have to focus all my attention on the Chase, which I totally haven’t done since Carson walked through the door.
“I’m sorry,” I say, standing and picking up my purse. “I really am. I’ve got so much to do today. I’m working to get my capital together so we can get our leverage deal started.”
He stands up. Mr. Gallant.
“Who are you working with?”
“Tate Capital. My liaison is Miranda Winthrop.”
Carson lets out a whistle.
“That’s impressive,” he says. “They only back winning horses.”
I feel a wave of pride despite the awkwardness of the situation. The praise feels good coming from him.
He holds out a hand and I take it in mine. The touch is electric, even after all these years. He folds his other hand over mine and suddenly the heat is almost too much to bear.
“Have dinner with me,” he says. His eyes are pleading.
“Okay,” I hear someone say.
Oh shit, it’s me.
“Great,” he says. “How about I meet you here at eight tonight?”
“Sure,” says that same crazy person.
“Awesome. I’ll see you then.”
Carson holds onto my hand for a few more beats before finally letting it go. He gives me a look as though he can’t quite believe his luck, but then turns, clearly not wanting to push it.