“Britney, I need to speak to Cassie for a minute. Can you finish this garland while we go inside and check on the gingerbread?”
His goddaughter’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever you’ve done, Jack, you should just apologize so Cassie will come to the party.”
He winked at Britney. Whatever Carl’s faults, he had raised a pretty damn amazing daughter. “That’s the idea, Brit.”
She tilted her head and regarded the garlands. “I think this is going to take quite a while. These are awful. I’m going to have to totally start over.”
Cassie was still looking adorably like a deer in headlights, so he bounded down the steps and took her arm, pulling her up after him. Once inside, he took her winter clothes and steered her toward the kitchen island where sheets of gingerbread were cooling. “I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me?” She blinked.
“I acted like an ass this morning.”
She blinked, still looking dazed. “You kind of did.”
“Yeah, well, I told you I didn’t do relationships.”
“And I told you this isn’t a relationship!” Her voice rose almost comically.
“I know, I know. We set out the parameters at the beginning, and there was no reason for me to brush you off like that. I just kind of…” I don’t bring women here, much less wake up with them in my arms. So I panicked and acted like a dick. Except that sounded ridiculous to actually say.
“You kind of freaked out.”
Wincing, he nodded. That was it exactly. “I know it sounds stupid, but I can’t afford to get distracted.”
“Dude, you should have just let me go home when I tried to.”
She was right. Except he hadn’t wanted her to go home right then. And in truth, that’s what worried him. It wasn’t that he was breaking the rules—it was that he was getting a little too comfy with them broken. Still, it wasn’t her fault. And they only had a little time left together. It wasn’t like Winter Enterprises was going to crumble around his ears if he let himself be distracted by her for a couple more days. “Look, come to the party. Call in sick to work—I bet you’ve never done that.”
“I can’t,” she said automatically.
Before he could argue, there was a clattering noise from the entryway, followed by the sound of Britney coughing theatrically.
“We’re in here, Brit,” he called.
“I just need to get my hat,” she called. “It’s freezing, and my ears are turning into icicles.”
“It’s okay. Come in and help me convince Cassie to call in sick to work. She’s too conscientious.”
“Oh, please come to the party, Cassie!” Britney came forward clutching her hands to her chest as if she were having a heart attack. Good. Let Cassie resist Hurricane Britney.
Five minutes later a deal had been struck. Cassie would start her shift at the restaurant but would try to find someone to sub for her so she could come to the party later.
“I’ll have to run home after I get off, though, and change.”
“No you don’t!” said Britney at the same time that Jack said, “Wear the red dress.” He didn’t care if he was being overly prescriptive. They only had two days until Wexler. Two days till it all ended. Suddenly it seemed criminal that he wouldn’t get to see the red dress again in the interim.
“What red dress?” said Britney, looking between the two of them. When she got no answer, she grinned and said, “I vote for the red dress, too.”
Chapter Twelve
The next time Cassie arrived at Jack’s, she did so by cab. It was dark—she’d been able to beg off Edward’s early, but since she’d had to go home and change, it was still ten o’clock—and she was wearing the killer pumps. She’d undergone an internal debate, but the “why the heck not” side had won out and she’d abandoned her winter boots and called a taxi, texting Jack that she was on her way. After all, her time with Jack was almost up, so why not squeeze all the fun (okay, all the sex, too) out of it while she could? As long as he didn’t get weird again. The minute that happened, she would bail.
The lights blazed inside, and Britney had salvaged the outdoor decorations and added strands of twinkling lights. Though she’d been nervous, Cassie felt lighter just looking at the festive, welcoming house. As she stepped out of the cab, the front door opened, and Jack bounded down the steps dressed in a button-down shirt and the jeans—she’d begun to think of them as “the sex jeans,” because he just oozed sex appeal when he wore them. She rolled her eyes at the Pavlovian response those jeans elicited as she watched him pay the cabbie. Her nipples tingled and moisture gathered between her legs. Gah. Did he have to wear them so often? Wasn’t he rich enough to afford a more expansive wardrobe?