Chapter 17: HANS: Chapter 18

I stare at the ceiling for a solid minute before I move back to the couch.

Cassandra, my obsession, the worst baker I’ve ever met, is going to come back with who knows what to make me feel better because she thinks I’m sick.

I’m not sick. I’m just struggling to speak because I got popped in the larynx last night by a man I was in the process of killing.

I never should have opened her mail.

Settled back into my usual spot on the end of the couch, I watch through the living room window as Cassandra exits her house, makes it a few steps outside, turns around, goes back inside, comes back out, this time pausing to lock her door with her bundle of keys, then hurries back toward my house.

She’s dressed casually. But if she thinks skin-fucking-tight leggings are less provocative than shorts, she’s as wrong as she is tempting.

I grit my teeth, silently telling my dick to chill out.

I can’t sit here tenting my pants.

I shouldn’t even let her back into my house.

There are so many reasons why getting close to her is wrong.

So many reasons for me to jump up and lock my door. Tell her to stay away from me. Tell her to sell her house and move across the country.

But I can’t turn her away.

Because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

And I don’t actually want her to go.

I want her to stay.

Cassandra hops up my steps and knocks once on the door before turning the handle.

Like she requested, I left it unlocked.

The door cracks open an inch, then swings in, allowing her entry.

“Hey,” Cassandra greets me shyly. Which is almost laughable since she was just here, and she’s back because she boldly inserted herself into my night.

She shuts the door and pauses her hand next to the lock.

It was satisfying watching her go back into her house for her keys to lock her door. Because her safety is paramount. But watching her decide if she should lock herself into my house is amusing.

With a small shake of her head, she decides and leaves the door unlocked, then toes off her sandals next to the door.

“Okay.” She crosses the living room toward me, stopping on the other side of the plain coffee table I currently have my feet on. “I brought a few things.”

Cassandra sets an honest-to-god picnic basket on the coffee table. It’s wicker, with two arched handles, a lid, and a red and white checkered lining that folds over the top edge of the basket.

I lift a brow.

Her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink. “It was my grandma’s.”

Cassandra folds the handles down and pulls the lid open.

“I don’t know that she got it from anywhere special, but she kept my grandpa’s ashes in it for the longest time.” I lift the second brow just as she darts a glance up at me. “Not like in the basket. He was in an urn. His ashes…” Her hands go up in a stop gesture, and she takes a breath. “Pretend I didn’t tell you that.”

I have to work to hold my features steady and not smile as I give her a nod of agreement.

“So.” She reaches into the basket, and I stare down her shirt as it gapes open. “I have ginger ale, cough drops, these fizzy tablets you can put in a glass of water—” She sets the items down on the table as she names them. “I brought my favorite tea, stuff to make a hot toddy, and soup.”

I pull my gaze away from her tits to see her plunk down a frosty block of something next to the bottle of whiskey.

“The soup is still frozen,” she rattles on. “But if you don’t mind me in your kitchen, I can heat it up for you.”

I lean forward and pick up the cold plastic. “What kind?” I scratch the words out.

“Italian wedding. It’s homemade. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I like to make food.” She gives me a smile that’s so vulnerable and happy I let the edges of my mouth tip up the smallest bit.

“I’ve noticed.”

My voice cracks, and her smile pulls into a grimace. “Okay, that’s enough talking.” She takes the soup from my hands, then scoops up the whiskey, lemon, and honey until her arms are full. “I’ll get the soup started. You rest.”

I should really stop her.

For her sake. For my tastebuds’ sake.

But instead, I crack open the can of ginger ale and prepare myself for what should be an interesting Saturday night.