A low thump against one of the walls echoed through the house, and then Ivan lowered his voice so all Cassie heard was the raspy growl of it. A brief struggle ensued, and then Bill yelled, “Like hell she will! Cass! It’s not over between us, not by a long shot! You’ll never find another man like me!”
Rubbing her forehead, Cassie whispered, “That’s what I’m hoping for, you jerk.”
Ivan closed the front door with a solid thump, locked the deadbolt, and then chained the door while Bill continued his tirade outside.
Cassie made sure the drawer was closed on the dresser, all her sexy plans withering on the vine, ruined by all of the drama and words that shouldn’t have been spoken. She’d wanted to retain an amicable relationship with her ex for Joseph and Tamara’s sake, but the son of a bitch was pushing it by shaming her for the very thing she’d thought was special. She’d saved herself…for that.
“You okay?” Ivan asked as he met her in the entry to the hallway.
She nodded and went to the kitchen island and got out the cutting board for the vegetables. Ivan took the board from her and placed his hand over hers as she gripped the chopping knife in the wooden block on the counter. “Hey, I’m supposed to be cooking for you. Why don’t you have a seat here,” he said, indicating the bar stool he pulled around the island for her, “and I’ll get this chopped up and sautéing for us.”
“What did you say to him before you threw him out?”
He gazed at her as he debated, and then he laid the knife on the counter. “I told him there would come a morning where he’d wake up alone and realize just how perfect you were, honey—and that he’d lost you, and when that day came, you’d be waking up with men who already knew how perfect you were. Sorry, I know it was presumptuous on my part since I’m the third wheel, but after what he said about you… I couldn’t let the opportunity slide.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said as she put her hands to her cheeks, feeling as though she was outside her body, watching him watch her as he peeled the onion. He’d just described her ultimate fantasy, but the ache from Bill’s spiteful words overshadowed everything.
A furrowed brow marred his smile, and he gave a shake of his head. “Sorry? You have nothing to be sorry for, baby.” He set everything down and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her against his big, solid frame. He kissed the side of her head and whispered, “I don’t know why he’d say such cruel things in your hearing.”
“I don’t understand it either,” she murmured, her voice muffled as she pressed her cheek to his chest. “He got me right where it hurts.”
“You’re a lovely, loyal, and faithful woman. I wanted to hit him. What he said was uncalled for.”
She looked up at him while holding on to his arms around her. “What if I regretted saving myself for him?”
Shifting his stance, he brushed his nose against hers. “What-if is a losing game to play. Everything happened the way it did, and there’s no changing it, but if you’d given yourself to Samson…or to me…there would’ve been no going back. Neither of us would’ve been able to let you go, beautiful. Not in a million years. And if either of us had been lucky enough to have claimed you first, you can take it to the bank we’d never discuss the fact with anyone else, especially not in so crude a fashion.”
Her cheeks grew hot as she imagined him being “the one,” and she tightened her arms around him, welcoming his kiss, opening to him. She fumbled to get her arms around his shoulders and his neck and moaned as he bent her slightly backward, making her hang on to him.
Finally, he drew away, out of breath and flushed, his eyes heavy lidded. “Baby, let me feed you first. Then I want to make a meal out of you. Will you let me?”
Panting, she let go of him and took a seat on the barstool to give her shaky legs a chance to recover. “What would you do?”
“Show me where your large cast-iron skillet is first, and then I’ll tell you.” The trace of a smile and glimmer in his eyes made her pussy go liquid.
She pointed to the cabinet containing her best cast-iron skillet and chuckled when he looked at it with something akin to lust. He swiped a thin coat of olive oil around the thoroughly seasoned skillet with a paper towel and placed it on one of the large front burners and set it to low heat.
“That is beautiful,” he said, looking at her six-burner gas cooktop as he pumped soap from the dispenser by the sink into his hands. She watched as he carefully lathered them and took his time washing. He was a man who was meticulous with everything he touched.