My jaw clenched tight as memory after memory slammed into me.
I didn’t have to wonder.
I already knew.
“An eighteen-year-old with the reading level of a—oh, wait, you have no reading level.” A soft, condescending laugh left her. “I can imagine it now. The way everyone will laugh. The way they’ll pass you notes, waiting to see if you’ll even try to read them. The way teachers will call on you and reevaluate your grades.” A sharp gasp sounded behind me. “They might not even let you graduate.”
With each sentence, my chest’s movements became more uneven.
My breaths grew rougher.
My body was trembling with a lethal mixture of adrenaline and dread and humiliation.
“I can already hear the way they’ll wonder if there’s something deeper happening—something wrong, you know? Or if you’re just stupid.”
I turned and grabbed her so abruptly that she was still gasping when I brought my mouth down onto hers.
With all of my fear and hatred and anguish, I kissed her.
Until my hatred for her had shifted back to me—to whatever was wrong with me.
Until she was trembling, her whimpers disappearing into the kiss as she clung to me.
Pulling away so I could look into her lust-hazed eyes, I peeled her hands off of me and forced her back a step, my voice dropping low. “Fuck you, Caroline.”
Before she could react—demand anything else or push me some more—I turned and stormed out of the otherwise empty hall.
Two weeks.
Two motherfucking weeks of hell in the form of Caroline Bowman.
She followed me around school, slipping me notes and laughing like a damn maniac whenever my glare found her as I tossed them in the trash without bothering to open them.
Whispering how she missed my lips.
The feel of me pressed against her.
How she wanted another taste.
And always when Brooke was close by. Only when Brooke was close by.
I’d found a pair of underwear on the floorboard of my truck after school the day before. They weren’t Brooke’s, and I still hadn’t figured out how or when Caroline got into my truck.
Now there I was, standing on stage, holding a plastic crown for winning Prom King. Already knowing exactly how this was about to play out because she’d cornered me about half an hour before. Telling me what she’d done between begging me to fuck her while wildly attacking my pants.
At prom.
In a room surrounded by people we’d known our entire lives.
Where Brooke was looking for me.
“You got what you wanted,” I had ground out when she made another frantic reach for my zipper, forcing her back a step and causing her to stumble.
After the past two weeks and whatever the hell she was trying to do then, I couldn’t find it in me to feel bad or even try to steady her.
Hell, I couldn’t feel anything but my panic and fury.
“I’m done,” I’d snapped. “I’m done with your reminders and taunts. Do what you want, I don’t give a shit anymore.”
“I’m trying.” It was all seductive smirks and implications as she took back the step I’d put between us and grabbed my dick through my pants.
I’d gripped her wrist and yanked her hand away, knowing I was holding her too tight but refusing to let go until she heard the threat in my words. “Touch me again, Caroline, I will ruin your life.”
“I can ruin yours with a few words,” she’d said with a little giggle as if this were a game.
As if this push-and-pull was turning her on even more.
“You don’t have that power,” I’d lied, making sure I held her stare as I did.
Dropping her hand, I’d walked away.
But over the next thirty minutes, I’d worried, waiting for this moment.
When she would be crowned Queen instead of Brooke because she’d altered the votes.
I watched as she made her way up to the stage, feigning her surprise to our classmates but slanting me with a devilish look.
As soon as the tiara was on her head and she reached for me, I angled away from the gathered crowd of our friends and the mic that had been used to announce us.
Holding her stare and keeping my distance from her outstretched hand, I lowered my voice so only she could hear. “Anything you say now will only look like a pathetic, made-up attempt to get back at me.”
Her lashes fluttered a few times as she tried to grasp what I was saying before her brows drew together in silent rage.
Before she had the chance to act, I dropped my crown and left the stage. Grabbed Brooke on my way and pulled her out of the dance with whispered promises of a better time.
But I worried. Stayed distracted as I wondered what Caroline had done after my departure.
When we stepped into the after-party a couple hours later, I held my breath, preparing for whatever was about to happen.
Emberly was the first person I saw.
Not surprising—pretty sure I would always instinctively seek her out first.
And I hated it because the instant I found her, I found the guy she was never far from . . . my younger brother.
Sawyer shook his head when he saw me and steered me away from Brooke. “That was cold, Cays. Caroline started crying and ran off. Everyone’s talking about it—they’re all pissed.”
I just shrugged.
Accepted it.
Concealed my relief.
I’d gladly take everyone’s anger over the truth.
“Not the time,” I groaned when the door to my office opened a few minutes after I’d escaped to it. I lifted my head from my hands and scrambled from the chair when I realized the person standing in the doorway wasn’t one of my employees.
My stomach dipped and filled with heat. The kind that spread slow and uneasy, like tar.
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him a dozen things while also demanding he leave. But I stood there, my body trembling just being near him.
Breathing him in—all bourbon and sandalwood.
Staring at him and silently begging him to say something.
Face unreadable, but those blue-green eyes were a raging sea of anger and question.
“Em—”
“Dinner,” I said as he spoke, the word something like a sneer or a sob or maybe even a laugh. “Clever.”
But my words seemed to pull him up short, confusing him. “What are you talking about?”
“Dinner. The reason you’re here,” I reminded him through clenched teeth. “She was a little hard to miss.”
Dark brows rose and stormy eyes widened. “Come again?”
“Caroline.”
A sharp sound burst from him—like anger and frustration and disgust all wrapped in one. “The fuck?”
I jerked my head to the side. “No need to keep her waiting, we weren’t exactly in the middle of a conversation when she showed.”
Instead of leaving or doing any of the things my heart needed him to in order to stay whole, he took a step closer. “You and I both know I didn’t come here to eat.”
I flung a hand out, indicating the bar. “I’m aware.”
His head slanted a little, his voice dropping so, so low when he said, “The person I wanted to see when I stepped into Brewed tonight sure as hell wasn’t Caroline.”
I wanted to call him on his lie, say the visual I’d been subjected to was a little hard to refute, but the emotion in his eyes and depth of his words pinned me in place.
Had my breath stalling in my throat and my heart pounding this chaotic boom, boom, boom as my mind raced.
As I tried to fortify my heart and told my mind not to fool itself.
He couldn’t mean what I wanted him to.
But then he was moving, closing the distance between us so my entire world was bourbon and sandalwood and Cayson fucking Dixon.
His air mine. Every give and take feeling like another step in a dance we’d been trapped in all our lives, b
ringing us closer and closer to this moment.
Because he was leaning down and coming nearer.
And for the life of me, I wasn’t running.
Just when I’d convinced myself this man was going to kiss me, he tipped his head toward my ear and whispered, “I don’t know why you’re trying so hard to keep me back, to convince yourself I’m someone you used to know . . . but I see the real you too, Emberly Olsen.”
My next breath rushed from my lungs, rough and jagged. My body trembled from his implications and his nearness as he moved past me, letting his fingers trail across my hip and leaving fire in their wake.
“What’s up with the food?” he called back casually as though he hadn’t just rocked me.
This is a dream.
This isn’t real.
This has to be a dream.
I pinched the inside of my forearm and bit back a pained grunt when the sting raced up my arm.
Motherfucker.
Turning around, I looked at Cayson Dixon.
Real.
There.
Waiting for me, and I was pretty sure flirting with me.
“What?” I said when I realized he was waiting for something from me.
“Y’alls food. Should I be worried about it?”
“Wait, what?”
He gestured to the pizza boxes on my desk. “I’ve eaten here a couple times now. Just wondering if I should be worried about the food considering you’re eating from somewhere else.”
“It’s Sunday,” I said lamely.
“Yeah,” he said with a soft laugh. “You keep reminding me.”
“No, um . . .” I shook my head, trying to clear it. “It’s my Sunday tradition.”
“Pizza?”
“Inventory,” I corrected. “I get a ton of food and eat off of it while doing inventory.” I shrugged, feeling my embarrassment rise. That icy hot feeling that spread too fast and made me feel like I was choking. “It’s something I’ve done since I took over inventory in high school. It’s stup—”
“Can I help?”
The question stunned me, forcing a hushed “what?” from my lungs.
Another one of those soft laughs sounded in his throat. The corner of his mouth ticked up in a smirk that was so unlike Cayson Dixon and had my knees threatening to give. “Keep saying that, and I’m gonna worry I have a problem with talking too.”
“Too?” I gave another rough shake of my head, sure I was hearing everything wrong.
Having him this close to me had to be messing with my head.
“Wait, you wanna help. Me.” Before he could respond, I demanded, “Why?”
“Because I do,” he said simply. “Is it really that hard to believe?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation, but it came out all soft and sounding like a question. “If you just want food, take some. I have plenty.”
“I don’t . . .” His gaze darted to the boxes, his head shaking a bit. “I don’t want your food, Emberly. I just wanna be here. Helping you . . . bothering you. It’s as simple as that,” he said on a defeated breath.
“O-okay,” I stammered.
“Okay?” he asked, sounding about as surprised as I was that I’d agreed.
“Okay,” I repeated.
Turning, I headed for my desk, mentally shaking myself out as I reached for the boxes and set them side by side, flipping the lids open to show off the contents.
Garlic artichoke, cheesy focaccia bread. Antipasto. Wood-fired pizza.
Enough to feed six of me.
“Hello, Sunday,” I said with a little giddy smile that fell when I remembered exactly who was in the room with me and who I was showing this to.
“Jesus,” he said with a laugh that was pure affection. “I can’t wait to watch this.”
My stare darted between him and the food a few times before I lifted a shoulder and explained, “It isn’t what you think. I eat off of it throughout the night and let whoever’s working take what they want until it’s gone.” I hesitated for a moment. “Which means I have more than enough for you.”
“What? No,” he said quickly, taking a step away from the desk and me. “I’ll help you with the inventory . . . or mess it up. But I’m not gonna fuck with your tradition.”
“Cayson, I have a ton of food, and you didn’t go to Beau’s, so I know you haven’t eaten.” My last words came out slow, drawn out, as I watched him shut down the same way he had in the bar.
Jaw clenched tight.
Body so still, I wondered if he would shatter if I touched him.
Eyes endlessly miserable.
“You went to Beau’s,” I guessed, my voice soft as a whisper. When the corner of his mouth twitched in response, I wanted to fall into him and apologize for everything I might’ve said in my defensiveness. “What happened?”
“Not important,” he said before I’d even finished asking.
“Cayson—”
“It isn’t important,” he repeated, meeting my stare to drive home his words.
It felt like I was pulled back in time to when I’d find Cayson in his room or outside their house in those rare, vulnerable states.
Wanting to go to him.
Comfort him.
Be there for him in any way he needed.
The few times he had seen me, he’d always lashed out. Put me down as if I’d been in the wrong for getting a glimpse of that side of him.
This was that same boy, and I knew seeing him again that I’d had it all wrong. That Cayson had tried tonight and been knocked down. But instead of lashing out, he was just staring at me, silently pleading with me to drop it.
Still, I whispered, “I’m sorry,” as I looked back to the food, knowing he would hear the depth of the apology. That he would know it was meant for whatever had happened at Blossom.
“Tell me how this goes,” he said, trying to shift the conversation back to my tradition.
But the gravel in his voice betrayed the emotions he was trying to hide, and it had me struggling to remember why I needed to keep those impenetrable walls around me.
I had to clear my throat twice before I was able to respond. And when I did, I kept my focus on the desk and away from him. “Right. So, Sunday. Inventory.”
Leaning over the desk, I brought my computer to life and opened up the music app. Once I’d hit shuffle on all of my songs, I reached for my inventory binder, my attention going to Cayson when he huffed in amusement.
“What?” I asked defensively, the snap in my tone not lost on him given the way he lifted his hands in a placating gesture.
“Nothing, I just haven’t heard this song in a long time.” His eyes searched mine for a moment, his tone dipping when he continued. “You don’t have to be on the defensive with me every second.”
“It’s easier.”
“How is that easier?” he practically begged, his voice rising in his frustration. “It’s fucking exhausting.”
I looked at the binder in my hands, keeping my stare on it for a few moments too long before I finally faced him and admitted, “Because then it won’t hurt so bad.”
The words I didn’t say hung in the air between us, screaming and leaving a suffocating tension.
When you hurt me.
When you turn back into the Cayson I knew.
When you break my heart.
“Emberly.” My name was a whisper, an apology, a plea . . .
How many times had I ached for him to just say my name?
But for him to say it this way? It gripped at me. It threatened to undo me and make me forget everything else.
And I couldn’t let myself.
I forced a smile and shoved the binder into his hands. “Here. You can be in charge of this—drinks,” I said suddenly, an awkward laugh tumbling from my lips as I moved around him and headed for the door. “I forgot about drinks.”
“What do you mean in charge of this?” he asked, turning to face me though his head remained down, staring intently at the binder.
But Cayson didn’t respond, he just slowly looked up at me, everything about him utterly unreadable as he stood there.
When the silence became uncomfortable, I gestured to the food and rambled, “I’m sure wine would go best with that, but I’m not a wine person. I’m actually not a huge beer person either, but I’ll drink it. I don’t know why I said any of that, you can have whatever you want.”
His brows furrowed, his chest pitching as I spoke faster and faster. “You drink while doing inventory?”
“Always.”
“And it gets done?”
It was my turn to laugh. “This is a drink or two, it would take a lot more than that to get me drunk.”
Amusement stole across his face before he could hide it. With a shrug, he said, “I’m good.”
I clicked my tongue. “Tradition.”
“I don’t know how to say this without you thinking I’m about to attack you or hurt you or, I don’t know . . . something,” he said after a while.
I considered his calm demeanor for a moment before saying, “Defense down.”
His dimples flashed for the briefest second. “As much as I want to, I don’t want to drink with you.”
“Just me?” When his eyes searched mine in both confirmation and wonder of how I was going to react, I leaned against the doorframe and asked, “And that isn’t supposed to offend me?”
“I said I want to,” he offered gently.
“You also said you didn’t.”
“Because you say things when you’re drunk that I know you wouldn’t when you’re sober,” he explained, all rough and grit and filled with meaning, his eyes on me in a way like he knew me.
“I know the real you too, Emberly Olsen.”
I slowly straightened from the frame as I wondered exactly what that meant.
As whispers of dreams teased at my memory.
“And I’d rather earn those truths sober,” he finished softly.
And there went my heart.
That wild boom, boom, boom that was so familiar with Cayson.
I cleared my throat and looked away, nodding subtly as I did. “Regardless,” I said to the floor, “it’s tradition. So, what’ll it be?”
Whiskey (Brewed Book 2) Page 14