Falling For My Dad's Friend

I can feel my face growing hot and I’m thankful he can’t hear my thoughts.

A knock on the door makes us both turn in a hurry, and the spell is broken.

“Oh, I didn’t realize—” Alice says quickly, a little flustered. She looks away from us.

“It’s alright, Alice,” I say, waving her over to where the fireplace is burning low.

My heels click on the hardwood floor as I leave the room, and I can feel Magnus staring after me as I leave him.

CHAPTER THREE

Magnus

From the moment I laid eyes on Cassandra I knew I wanted her to be mine. I wanted her like I’ve never wanted anyone in my life.

Women have come and gone from my life, but none have ever interested me, none have ever touched my heart, but I can feel that she might just be the one for me.

For some damn reason, she sticks to my consciousness like glue. I can’t shake her. When she leaves my office in a flurry of soft perfume, I want to ask her to come back to me, but I don’t.

I need to get my head on straight.

Cassandra, or Cassie, which I’ve heard Renner call her, which feels more intimate, is like a strange sort of kryptonite for me, even though I’ve really only just met her. I always knew Renner had a daughter, but he always kept her separate from us. I wonder why he’s involving her now, but it’s not a problem. It is a problem that I can’t keep my mind off of her, though.

I can smell dinner cooking sometime later, the savory scent of spiced carrots and baked chicken. The cook has prepared my favorites and I know my mother must have instructed him, or at least my new assistant on what to prepare. When she wants to have a serious conversation with me, my mother always has the cook make foods that I’m fond of to keep me happy.

The dining room is set with glittering plates and fragile-looking glasses. I don’t much care for the splendor of decor, but my mother insists we keep up the tradition. You won’t ever catch Piper St. James eating from a plastic plate or scooping cereal from a ceramic bowl with her sterling silver spoons.

At the head of the table, I sit down heavily in my chair. My mother sits primly in her seat at my side, tapping her fingers over the expensive, custom-made European dining table.

A mousy-haired maid pours her a cup of tea, mother’s before-dinner ritual, and stirs in cream and sugar. My mother adds a slosh of whiskey when she’s done, and she sips the tea like it’s not shot through with alcohol.

The maid fixes our plates and my stomach grumbles at the sight of the chicken, carrots, and sautéed asparagus stems on the shining plate. When our plates have been set in front of us my mother sets down her teacup and stares at me, her fingers drumming on the delicate porcelain.

“Whatever it is,” I tell her, sighing. “Just say it, why don’t you?”

She looks at me with eyes that have seen far more than I can ever fathom.

“You know I can’t let you sell your father’s estate,” my mother says frankly, though I can hear the minute tremble in her voice. “It was the one and only place he was truly happy.”

I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t. My respect for my mother is too high for that.

“You’re not going to sway me with sentimental memories, mother,” I tell her, staring down at my fork as I stab it into my savory carrots. “I never saw him in the way that you did.”

She brings her hand down on the table hard and sighs. I’m surprised she would treat her precious dinnerware in such a way and when I look up, her gaze could cut me up into pieces. She looks like she wants to bury me in the backyard and forget about me. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

She points at me and the glittering diamond ring on her long finger glimmers brightly.

“Magnus William St. James—” she begins, looking like a storm that’s about to break.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a voice says from the doorway. “Am I interrupting something?”

Cassandra stands in the doorway like some kind of heaven-sent boon of good timing.

I glance down at her hand, at the ring glittering softly there, and I recall our conversation. I was so relieved to find that she didn’t belong to anyone else. That she is free of hangers-on, though I’m sure she has her fair share of men following her like loyal dogs waiting at her beck and call. She’s much too alluring to think otherwise.

Cassandra is a catch and I ache for her.

“Cassandra—” I begin but she shakes her head, giving me a small smile.

“It’s just Cassie,” she tells me, blinking her big green eyes at me. “I mean if you want, sir. I’d like you to call me Cassie, but it’s up to you.”