“How’s it at the love-rekindled shack?” Cassidy asks when our food arrives, and we dig in.

Archer crashes with Georgia most nights, but they make appearances at our penthouse. It’s funny at times—my brooding brother dating the spunkiest, loudest, and most outgoing person I’ve met in my life.

“As much as I’m glad they’re back together and that my brother is happy, love can be gross.” I bite into my carnitas and groan at how much more delicious it gets with each chomp.

“If you ever want a break, you can stay at my place.” Her lips tilt into a smirk. “My bed is always open.”

I chuckle, shaking my head, and decide to change the subject before taking her up on that offer. “You have community service tomorrow, right?”

“Ugh.” She throws her head back and groans. “Yes. The last day of hell awaits me.”

“Is it an all-day thing?”

“Nope, just until noon.”

“Picking up trash again?”

“Unfortunately.”

I bite back the urge to ask what she did to earn community service. This isn’t the time or the place to ask. I know from experience, from when I’ve had someone blurt out questions regarding my past in front of people, it’s not a good time. It’s humiliating—something I’d never want Cassidy to experience around me.

The woman eating a quesadilla while dancing in her seat is becoming one of my closest friends. And if I dig deep into my soul for answers I’ve shoved away, just like I’m biting back that urge to ask questions … I know there’s the urge to have more with her.

Chapter Eight

Cassidy

My community service options sucked.

It’s not like in the movies, where you get a simple task of painting a wall or washing a car, and then when you arrive, a hot guy is working. You bond, fall in love, and live happily ever after. No, my type of community service isn’t Hallmark movie–worthy.

Mine is picking up litter.

The guy I’m working with? Said I was cute for a girl with a small ass.

I check my watch for the thousandth time and sigh in relief.

My work here is done, ladies and gentlemen.

I’m ripping the latex gloves off my hands when a car similar to Lincoln’s parks on the curb next to me. The window rolls down, and sure enough, Lincoln is perched up in the driver’s side, staring at me with interest.

How can he afford such an expensive car?