One Last Gift, page 6
“Don’t,” she snapped, a sob bursting through her at the same time. “Don’t say that you’re sorry.” Her voice was bitter, scathing. Good.
“But I am,” he insisted. He pulled both hands through his hair, the way he did when he was stressed. “I didn’t mean to—”
“To what? Get with another girl in front of me? After you kissed me?” But it wasn’t the kiss—or not just the kiss. She’d told him, hadn’t she, how much it meant to her? There was no way he could pretend not to know. She’d opened herself up, admitted it, because she’d felt sure he felt the same, and now he…
She held in the next sob, tried to turn away from him. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have this conversation with him. “Go away, Sam.”
He blocked her, moving so that he was still in her line of vision. “I tried to tell you,” he said, his tone pleading. “I tried to tell you that I didn’t…that I couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t what?” she snapped. “Be with me?”
His wince was enough to tell her. Yes. Yes—that was what he’d come into her room to tell her. It wasn’t Tom he was unsure about, it was her.
She jerked her chin in the air, tried desperately to stop her lips from trembling. “So, what, this was to prove a point, was it?”
He winced again, but didn’t deny it. And she felt something inside her break at the realization that yes, he’d done this deliberately—to hurt her, to make it clear that there would be nothing between them. Instead of talking to her, instead of manning up and telling her, he’d decided to show her.
She shoved aside the hurt, the pain, the goddamn grief of it, and focused only on the anger as she drew herself up to stare down at him, no matter her height. “Well, she’s welcome to you, whoever she is. I’m sure you have a deep, lasting, meaningful connection after all of, oh, five minutes. What’s fifteen years’ worth of memories in comparison to that?”
With a surge of inspiration, she reached behind her neck, fumbled with the clasp of the necklace, then thrust it at him. “Here,” she said. “You can have this. I don’t want it anymore.” Didn’t want the reminder—of him, of that night outside the pub on Christmas Eve, when she’d decided that her feelings were real, that this was real.
He backed away from her. “No, I—” But she shoved it into his hands so that he had to either take it or drop it.
“You’ve made your point very clear, Sam. And I’ve got it, OK?” She was speaking loudly, she knew, but she didn’t care right then that anyone could hear, that Tom could be watching. But Sam clearly did. He glanced around them to check, and Cassie laughed bitterly, even as her heart felt like it was splintering. “That’s all you care about, is it? What Tom might think?” He flinched as he looked back at her and she considered, for a moment. She could tell Tom. She could cry on his shoulder, let him comfort her. She could work him up into a big-brother rage—and she could very possibly do some serious damage there.
She took a breath, let it out slowly. She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t stoop to it. Tom loved Sam, she knew—and she wouldn’t take that away from her brother. She could live with them being friends. And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? He was always Tom’s friend, not hers. So, she’d let him keep that friendship. But that didn’t mean she’d extend it to herself.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Cassie said, drawing up every ounce of self-preservation she had as she spun from him, as she held the tears in, until she was out of sight. She heard Hazel calling for her and knew she’d catch up. Knew that Hazel would come back with her, would let her cry, and wouldn’t ask too many questions. As for tomorrow…Well. She’d deal with that then.
“Cassie, please, wait, talk to me, I—”
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “Either you stop following me, or I’ll tell Tom everything that happened.”
He stared at her, expression twisted into something she’d never seen before. But when she walked away again, when Hazel came alongside her, linked her arm through Cassie’s, Sam did not follow.
And Cassie decided, then and there—she was done with Sam Malone. Done with him for good.
Five Years Later
Chapter Six
Cassie almost ran into a bald man in a bright blue suit as she barged through the door into the swanky bar-slash-restaurant in Soho—the type of place she’d never choose to come to if it was down to her, because it all seemed far too expensive to be justifiable. “Sorry!” she squeaked, trying to move her wet umbrella away from where it could do any damage to his designer suit, nearly jabbing him in the ribs in her fluster to get it closed. He gave her a disdainful look before stepping around her to take his coat from the hostess, then headed through the door and out into the cold, a gust of rain swooping in to fill the space he’d left behind.
Cassie felt her cheeks warming as she handed her own coat—damp, despite the umbrella—over to the same woman and self-consciously smoothed down her red top, which she was wearing over a pair of black skinny jeans. She still had her work clothes in her bag and had changed hurriedly in the staff bathroom at the hotel before rushing onto the tube. Now that she was here, surrounded by all these posh business types in among the overly trendy London crowd, she thought that she should have picked a different outfit. But Tom had said it would just be a casual drink.
“I’m meeting my brother here,” she said to the hostess, who was wearing big, gold star earrings—a nod, perhaps, to the fact that the two-week Christmas countdown had officially begun. Or maybe they were just an effort to assert some individuality onto the black-and-white uniform they were all wearing in here. “Tom Rivers?”
The hostess nodded, her earrings glinting in the dim, moody lighting, and gestured for Cassie to follow her without saying a word. Michael Bublé’s Christmas album was playing in the background, and Cassie found it a little odd, like the music didn’t match up to the classy interior of the place, what with its leather booths, overhead wooden beams, and candles in glass containers around the sides of the room.
Cassie spotted Tom in a corner booth and wrinkled her nose when she saw that, yes, Sam had indeed come along too. She’d been hoping for him to cancel last minute, but the two of them were deep in conversation, leaning toward each other. Sam ran a hand through his dark hair that was so clearly styled to look messy—something he’d taken to doing since he moved to London. Cassie fought to control the scowl that wanted to take up residence on her face.
Tom leaned back and took a sip of his pint of beer, glancing over in time to see Cassie approach. He broke into a smile, his brown eyes, almost exactly like hers, only with lighter tones if you looked closely, crinkling at the corners. She couldn’t help smiling back as he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the booth next to him, shifting up so that he was in the middle between her and Sam. “There’s my girl! I was getting worried you’d never get here.”
“I know, sorry,” Cassie said quickly, “I—”
But the waitress with the gold earrings talked over her. “What can I get you to drink?” Cassie noticed that, though she was clearly addressing her, her eyes lingered first on Tom, with his tanned skin—even in winter because of all the traveling he did—and floppy blond hair, then on Sam, his blue shirt unbuttoned at the top, suit jacket shoved on the wooden ledge behind him, far too close to the candle, in Cassie’s opinion. He’d probably chosen that shirt deliberately to make his eyes stand out more, she thought scathingly. She couldn’t help shifting in her seat a little, though, aware of how scruffy and bedraggled she must look in comparison. Not just her outfit, but the fact that her hair had been attacked by the wind and rain outside—and she was not one of those people who could pull off the beautiful windswept look, her hair just matted and worked itself into wet clumps in bad weather. It was unfair, really, that though she was blond like Tom, his hair was soft and amenable, whereas hers was wiry and wild.
“What would you like, Cassie?” Tom prodded.
“Umm,” Cassie said as the waitress’s eyes moved to her.
“The Malbec’s good,” Sam said, raising his glass to her in a little salute. In all honesty a glass of red did sound good, and the atmosphere in here certainly lent itself to it, but she didn’t want to go with Sam’s recommendation.
“I’ll have a glass of Sauvignon.” The waitress nodded. “Well,” she said as the waitress walked away, “this is all a bit posh, isn’t it?” She looked over at Sam, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. “I take it this was your choice?” He was always doing that, trying to pick places that were either expensive and traditional or else trendy, up-and-coming new bars. Trying to prove something, no doubt.
“Yep,” Sam said easily, taking a sip of wine. “Allow me to introduce you to some culture, Cass.”
“Yes, I did hear that ‘culture’ is all about the table service and posh bars these days and nothing else.” She angled herself toward Tom to stop Sam from retorting. “Anyway, sorry I’m late—Robert made me stay on after my shift to sort something out.” Sam frowned a little—he clearly had no idea who Robert was. And why would he? To him, she was very much just an accessory to Tom, a little pet that his best friend wheeled out every now and then. Tom’s little sister, nothing more. He’d made that very clear five years ago, and he’d increasingly put distance between them since then—something she didn’t have a problem with, given the type of person he’d turned out to be.
Tom, however, wrinkled his nose. “That guy’s a dick. I don’t know why you’re still working for him.”
Cassie didn’t bother answering. Tom knew full well why she was still working for the hotel—it was good money, and events management jobs were not so easy to come by. It was a step on the ladder, a way to work herself up in the industry. Fine, it wasn’t quite the dream she’d been hoping for when she’d come to London, the style of it all a bit cool and clinical rather than warm and personable, but it was a respectable job, she was good at it, and she was grateful for it, Robert be damned.
“You always wanted to do something smaller, didn’t you?” Tom prodded. “Set up on your own or whatever?”
Cassie sighed. “It’s not quite that easy, Tom.” Which he knew—they’d had the discussion often enough. It took a lot of money to fund your own place—as well as the guts to take the risk, when it may very well go wrong, especially in the current climate. “And a lot of people would kill for my job.” It was true—something which Robert liked to remind her of at least once a day. Tom said nothing, but he gave her a knowing look.
It was a new waitress who brought over Cassie’s glass of wine, the outside of the glass already beaded with condensation. This girl was all smiles and rosy cheeks and she set the glass down on the table with a flourish, her brunette ponytail, tied up with tinsel, swinging with the movement. “There we go! Can I get you anything else?”
Tom shook his head and smiled, and the waitress beamed back, her eyes turning a little soft as she took him in.
“Thanks, gorgeous,” Sam said, grinning at her. She glanced at him, then flushed, while Cassie resisted the temptation to roll her eyes.
The waitress walked away, and Cassie saw her glance back over her shoulder, brow slightly furrowed. Cassie imagined she was wondering what she was doing here with two of the objectively most attractive men in the place, when she was plain and still scraggly from the rain.
She noticed that she wasn’t the only one watching the waitress walk away, and glared at Sam. “Don’t you have a fiancée?” she said sharply. Something which she still struggled to believe. Sam seemed to have made a point of sleeping around throughout the majority of his twenties, and yet he’d met this girl last year, and they were engaged about six months later.
He sipped his red wine. “Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be polite, Cass.”
“Oh really?” Cassie asked, raising her eyebrows. “Was that why you started sleeping with the boss’s daughter? To be polite? It’s super original, I’ll give you that.” And there was an ugly, scathing part of her that thought that maybe that was the only reason he was marrying her—she didn’t doubt that he’d go that far, to move on up in his career. An opinion she was going to have to force aside, given Tom was the best man, and they were having the wedding at the hotel where she worked—Tom had apparently let slip to Sam’s fiancée that Cassie was the events manager there, and one thing had led to another and now she was organizing the whole bloody thing, much to her dismay.
“Well, she’s marrying me, isn’t she? Clearly she doesn’t mind me being polite to other women. What’s got your back up?” He smirked. “Jealous?”
She narrowed her eyes, even as something hot shot to her stomach. She wasn’t jealous, not anymore, but it was a low blow. “Sympathetic, I’d say, for any woman brave enough to marry you.”
Tom sighed. “Guys, can we not?” He took his arm away from Cassie’s shoulder as he picked up his beer. “This is supposed to be a fun evening, the last time we’ll see each other before Christmas.” He nudged Cassie at that, then flung his arms out overly dramatically, catching each of them around the neck and bringing them into the most awkward group hug in the middle of the booth. “My best friend and my best sister. One big, happy family.”
Cassie shoved him away from her, but she couldn’t help a little snort of laughter. Tom’s expression softened at the sound and Cassie felt her heart give a familiar tug of love. He was used to it by now—playing middleman between Sam and Cassie. Tom might not know why, exactly, he had to stop them swiping at each other so much these days—at least, she was pretty sure he didn’t know why. He’d asked her about it once—why she and Sam were always at odds—and she’d shrugged, told him that she didn’t much like the person he’d grown up to be. Which was true. She’d seen him let Tom down a multitude of times since they’d been in London, prioritizing his posh new friends, worried about how he looked or what money he was earning more than the things that actually mattered. She’d seen him hook up with girl after girl, never bothering to care about their feelings. And bit by bit, she’d watched as he’d changed from the boy she’d once known into someone she didn’t like, someone she had no interest in being friends with. So she’d stayed well behind the barrier she’d flung up during that damned skiing holiday, and for whatever reason, Sam had done the same. Tom had told her, in that same conversation, that Sam acted differently around her. She wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, and she hadn’t asked. It was dangerous, she’d learned, to get too invested in Sam Malone.
She sighed, rested her head on Tom’s shoulder. “Maybe I’m just angry because I’m going to miss you,” she said. “You’ll have to WhatsApp me obsessively with photos.”
“If there’s signal,” Sam piped up. She chose to ignore him.
“It’s only ten days,” Tom said with a smile. “I’ve been gone longer before.”
“I know.” She took a sip of her wine. “So, is Amy coming round for Christmas too? I’m ordering the food tomorrow.” They were planning to have Christmas together at Cassie’s flat. Hazel was going home to Highclere for Christmas, like she did every year. She’d tried to get Cassie to come home too, but Claire had expressed no interest in spending Christmas with Tom and Cassie since they’d both left for university, and Linda had taken to opening the pub for Christmas Day lunch over the last few years, saying it was a big moneymaker, so she’d be tied up.
To her surprise, Tom looked a little awkward at Cassie’s question, not meeting her gaze and looking at his beer instead. She saw Sam shoot him a furtive look, and frowned. Was Tom about to tell her that Sam would be spending Christmas with them too? She’d assumed he’d be spending Christmas with his fiancée, though hadn’t wanted to ask, worried that he would take it as an invitation.
“What is it?” she demanded.
Tom cleared his throat and Sam deliberately looked away. “Well, ah,” Tom began, “Amy and I…We actually broke up.”
Her frown deepened. “What? Why?” She couldn’t imagine it. Tom and Amy had been together pretty much since he’d moved to London and had seemed solid—they lived on the outskirts, toward Kent, and went on various adventures together while still giving each other the freedom to go off and do things on their own. Cassie liked Amy—she was warm and kind, and always had interesting stories about the books she worked on at her publishing job. Cassie had assumed that Tom would be following in Sam’s footsteps soon and getting married.
“It just didn’t work out.” But the base of Tom’s neck was turning a little red, a sure sign that he wasn’t quite telling the truth.
“But what—?”
“Drop it, Cass,” Sam said quietly. Her gaze shot to him and she felt her back go up, ready to snap something back at him, but he gave her a very small, subtle shake of the head. She hesitated. His tone hadn’t been condescending or arrogant, for once, and he was giving her such a sincere look. The kind of look they’d used to exchange, when they’d been able to communicate without speaking, back before everything had changed. So she didn’t push, and tried to ignore the little spark of hurt, that Sam knew something about Tom’s life that she didn’t.
“What about you?” Tom asked in a clear effort to change the subject. “Seeing anyone at the moment?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“Why not?” Tom asked—as if it were that easy, as if she could just pick the right guy from a catalogue or something.
“Because I’m happy being single.” It was true—sort of. She and Hazel had both decided they were better off being single than with the wrong guy. And while, OK, she did have moments where she wished she could find someone, she’d never met anyone that made her feel…like she was supposed to be with them. And maybe that was stupid, and romantic, and she should just try harder—but she’d seen Tom have it, with Amy. Or, at least, she thought that’s what she’d seen. And her parents—Linda had told her over and over again how much they loved one another. So what if she was holding out for that? At least she tried harder than Hazel—she tried to give guys a chance, whereas Hazel rarely made it past the first date—or half a date, those two times.
