Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 14
CASSIE
“That dress is so hot.” Joy’s approving gaze travels over my knee-length pale green minidress. “Honestly, I should become a stylist. I’m so good at this.”
“I like how not once in that series of compliments did you mention me. The dress is nice and you’re a great stylist.”
“I assumed the Cassie part of the equation was a given. You always look hot.” She links her arm through mine as we glide toward the next table.
We’re part of the crowd by the far wall of the Manor’s grand ballroom, browsing the tables that make up the silent auction, while canned piano music blares out of the PA system. Much to my chagrin, I haven’t found the Charleston Sanctuary package yet. They fucking better not have decided to skip the event this year. I love that place, and they’re always booked solid. It’s impossible to get an appointment. One time I even demeaned myself by name-dropping my grandmother and still couldn’t get a slot.
“Ooh, how about this?” Joy suggests, picking up the sheet of crisp ivory-colored cardstock. “Six golf lessons with … drum roll, please … Lorenzo!” She dons an Italian accent when saying his name.
Lorenzo has been working as a golf coach at the club for about a hundred years. If you told me he was a ghost trapped between worlds and forced to roam the Manor for all of eternity, I’d have no trouble believing it. There are honest-to-God pictures of my mother holding me as an infant at the club, with Lorenzo lurking in the background sporting the same long ponytail and leathery skin as he has now. The man doesn’t age. He also has no concept of personal space, always leaning in way too close when he’s talking to you. As teenagers, Joy and I used to hide whenever we saw him strolling our way.
I blanch at the listing. “I’d rather eat my own hair. No joke.”
She howls before clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the outburst, which has drawn the disapproving stares of the older country-club set milling around us. Damn, and we’re not even drunk yet. These folks are going to despise us by the end of the night.
I approach the adjacent table, where my grandmother is bent over, using a black felt-tip pen to scribble an amount on a small white card. She’s bidding on a jumbo gift basket donated by the Soapery, one of the local artisan shops in town.
“Oh my God. No. Mrs. Tanner.” Joy peeks at Grandma’s bid. “You just bid two grand on a basket of soap. Soap!” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“It’s very good soap,” Grandma says primly, then slides the card into the slot of the cardboard box on the table. “Have you found anything to bid on?” The question is directed at me.
“I haven’t seen the spa package yet. That’s the only thing I want.” I set my jaw in determination. “And I’ll murder anyone who outbids me. I swear, I fantasize about their hot stone massage on a daily basis.”
“Don’t blow all your cash on it,” Joy reminds me, dark eyes twinkling impishly. “Gotta make sure you have enough left over to bid on your friend Tate in the bachelor auction.”
Grandma looks amused. “You’re bidding on Mr. Bartlett?”
“Maybe,” I say grudgingly. “He asked me to rescue him if the cougar crowd gets overzealous.”
“I like that boy.” Grandma chuckles softly.
So do I.
It’s becoming a real problem, in fact. Particularly after what happened between us the other night. Joy maintains it wasn’t a big deal. Even Peyton sort of dismissed its importance when I told her about it. But they’re both dead wrong.
When you return home after real-kissing one guy and proceed to pretend-kiss another one, that’s a problem.
And when the guy you’re pretend-kissing is the one you wish you were real-kissing, except you can’t because he’s not into you like that … this is also a problem.
Before I can dwell on my thorny predicament, my phone beeps with a text from, ironically, the person who is into me.
Aaron: How’s it going at the charity thing?
Me: My grandmother just bid 2K on soap.
Aaron: Bold move.
Me: Right?
Aaron: Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?
Me: Yup. Looking forward to it.
I tuck the phone back into my silver clutch while assuring myself I am looking forward to seeing Aaron again. And, hey, maybe in the days since the carnival he’s been honing his kissing skills. Practicing on a pillow or something. A girl can hope, right? Because the memory of his forceful tongue repeatedly plunging into my mouth like it was mining for tonsil treasure almost makes me gag. It’s a shame, because he’s such a cool guy otherwise. He’s been texting me every day since we met. Memes, random thoughts. He’s hilarious.
But …
I don’t know if Aaron is the one.