The Last Guy
He gives me a little wink, and for a moment, I’m not sure how to take that. Is it possible Cade Hill is actually serious about me? He pulls a navy tee over his head and steps into the bathroom. I hear the sound of brushing teeth, and I hop out of bed, skipping to the living room where I retrieve my panties and my dress . . . It’s red silk. Clearly, a dinner outfit, not brunch. I’m frowning at my reflection when he returns to the bedroom.
“What’s wrong?”
“This dress.” I lift the sides. “It’s too fancy for a farmer’s market. I’ve clearly spent the night with you.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Walk of shame much?”
He shakes his head and goes to his dresser, opening drawers. “You could wear one of my shirts. I don’t know about the bottoms . . .”
“One wardrobe malfunction is enough for me, thanks.”
“What if you put my dress shirt over it and here . . .” He pulls a new white shirt over my arms and twists the ends into a knot at my waist. “Now you look even more fuckable.”
“Cade!”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Come on.” I catch his arm, and we make our way to the first floor and out into the brilliant sunshine.
It’s another perfect fall day, with low humidity and a light breeze. Cade pulls my hand into the crook of his arm, and I’m pretty certain we look nothing like coworkers meeting for brunch. We look like a couple out for a stroll after the most amazing night of fucking in the history of ever. The park is a brilliant blend of autumn colors along with purple and gold Halloween decorations. Tables are arranged under large white tents, and we stop at one where a lady is working with several of her kids, whipping up the most delicious-smelling breakfast foods.
Cade stops and orders us both huevos rancheros wrapped in soft tacos with coffee, and we carry them to a nearby bench to eat.
“Did you grow up here in Houston?” I ask around a bite of breakfast.
He nods, swallowing quickly. “Born here, went to private school here . . . I went to college in Austin, but my first real move was to Atlanta to play for the Falcons.” I’m nodding, devouring the luscious Tex-Mex as I listen. “You?”
“I was actually born in Galveston.” His eyebrows rise at this revelation. “My parents loved being near the coast, but they wanted more crystal-blue waters. It’s why they moved to Key West as soon as I left for college.”
He shakes his head. “My family is not like that. Mom claims she cried every day I lived in Atlanta.”
“That’s really sweet.” I have the sudden desire to meet his mom, but I keep it to myself. “And Trent?”
His brow lowers, and he takes a sip of coffee. “He didn’t cry . . . as far as I know. Still, he’s part of the reason I came back.”
I remember the things Cade has told me about his dad. I remember his anger. “Was your dad also glad you came back?”
“Yeah, but for completely different reasons.”
We’ve ventured into unhappy territory again, and I want to steer us back to the light. Cade’s eyebrows quirk, and I can tell he’s with me on changing the subject. “What else, besides that cute little nose, made you pick TV news, Stone? Over law?”
I grin at him. “Hmm . . .” I look around at the people strolling by, holding hands, walking dogs, carrying children. “I like getting outside, meeting people, talking to leaders in the community . . . or even just regular people making a difference.”
“That’ll change if you become an anchor.”
“It’s true,” I nod. “But as an anchor, I can be more involved in story selection, and I can still get out and do interviews occasionally.”
Cade stands and takes our breakfast trash, tossing it in the can before coming back to hold out his hand to me. I take it and we follow the walking path around the small park. I’m preoccupied with another reason for why I love my job, one I’ve only ever told Nancy.
“You look like there’s more,” he says.
“Well . . .”
Cade steps in front of me, stopping our progress and looking straight into my eyes. “What is it?”
My chin drops, and I let out a little laugh. “It’s silly.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
Shaking my head, I look up at him. “You know that nervous feeling . . . that flutter in the stomach . . . like right before you pick up a newborn baby for the first time?”
“Yes.” He answers so fast, I laugh more.
“It’s the feeling I get when I’m right there, on the edge, capturing a great story for everyone to see. Like when I interviewed Petal, or . . .” I stop myself before I say or like the first time I saw you.
“Or?”
Shaking my head, I say instead, “It’s the most amazing thing. It’s exciting and electric, and I love to share it.”
Without a word or a moment’s hesitation, he steps forward and kisses me, warm lips on mine, no tongue, all feeling—that feeling. The one I never want to lose.
Cade
I’M IN A fantastic mood when I drop Stone off at her apartment around five and head to my next destination, the River Oaks Theatre, a cinematic Houston landmark. I’m meeting Mom and Trent for our Sunday date. Last week we’d hit a local art gallery where one of Mom’s friends had a photography exhibit. It’s a new place each week, usually Trent’s choice.
I walk in the majestic entrance of the smallish theatre. Built in the thirties, the interior’s been refurbished but still has the original Art Deco feel with black marble sculptures, triangular-shaped lighting fixtures, and modern lounging areas with clean lines and straight edges. Grinning, I take it in. I know this “artsy” stuff because Trent tells me.
My mood plummets as I get a gander at who’s here. My father is standing next to my mom at the concession stand.
I’m going to need a stiff drink with my movie.
Trent waves and strides over, seeming fairly cool for a guy who hasn’t seen Dad since Mom’s birthday party about three months ago. Sure we get together as a family periodically, but only for holidays and funerals. Even then, the tension between Dad and Trent is thick.
“What the hell is he doing here?” I hiss.
“I invited him,” Trent murmurs.
I rear back. “Why?”
He lifts his hands up and shrugs. “He called me last week—and the week before. I didn’t answer because I never answer my phone unless you’ve texted me first. But get this . . . yesterday he sent me a text: Please call me. I need to talk to you.”
“Dad texted?” My voice is incredulous.
He nods. “Yep. I thought about it and called him. He just wanted to say that he’d been thinking about me and could we get together.” He pauses. “He also wished me happy birthday. Is it possible he’s dying and hasn’t told us?”
I shake my head. “He just had a physical for the company’s insurance.”
“Maybe he’s trying to get Mom back,” Trent replies.
Narrowing my eyes, I sweep them over my father who’s currently purchasing a combo for my mom and smiling down at her. No matter their differences—mostly dealing with Trent—I never doubted he loves her. I’d seen the pure joy on his face the day she’d told him she was in remission. He’d dated periodically in the years they’d been divorced. So had she. But neither of them had formed long-term attachments.