Page 89 of Double Standards
I shoot her a look. “I don’t know.”
“Then at least don’t lie to him. Axel’s not the kind of man you can fool for long.”
I grab my jacket, pausing with my hand on the doorknob to glance at Lexie. “Do I look okay?”
She tilts her head, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. I’m still in the same gray sweatpants and tank top I threw on hours ago, hair half-tied, makeup smudged from whatever I rubbed off mid-panic.
Lexie’s mouth pulls into a lopsided smirk. “You look like you’ve been angsting for five hours straight, possibly cried once, and debated texting him no fewer than forty-seven times.”
I groan, but before I can say anything, she softens.
“But your eyes?” she says, stepping closer. “They’re hopeful. That’s what he’ll notice. He won’t care about the clothes, Cass. Not when you’re looking at him like that.”
Shit.
I run a hand through my hair, nerves buzzing under my skin. “I can’t go out there like this.”
Before she can argue, I spin on my heel and bolt down the hall to my bedroom, leaving her laughing behind me. I fling open my closet, yanking out hangers like I’m searching for salvation. Something that saysI didn’t expect you, but I’m still glad you’re here. Something effortless but intentional. Not lingerie, not loungewear. Something in-between.
Eventually, I settle on a soft black knit dress with long sleeves. It hugs the body just right. It’s comfortable, but it doesn’t scream ‘I’ve been spiraling into emotional chaos all day’. I swap my slippers for ankle boots, run a brush through my hair, and slick on a touch of lip balm.
It’s not much.
But it’s me.
I take one last look in the mirror and exhale. My heart isracing. My hands tremble a little. But somewhere underneath all of that is this quiet, stubborn hope.
He came here for me.
And I’m going to open the door.
I nod, heart thudding like a drumline as I open the door and step into the cool street. The air outside is sharp with the scent of winter. I glance toward the curb, and there he is.
Axel, leaning against the sleek black car I’ve seen him in a dozen times. Dark jeans, black jacket, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual. Effortless. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with the gun probably strapped beneath his coat.
And when his eyes find mine, the breath leaves my lungs.
He doesn’t smile, not quite, but his expression softens. Like seeing me calms something inside him. And he’s holding
“Hey,” he says softly, pushing off the car.
“Hey,” I echo, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. Or my heart.
We stand there for a moment, a little too far apart, the air between us heavy with all the things we left unsaid the night before.
Then, finally, he steps forward. “Miss me?” he questions with a cocky smile.
I let out a shaky breath, every nerve in my body waking up when he reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
His fingers linger. That’s when I notice him holding a small takeout bag and two cups of cocoa balanced in a cardboard tray. The gesture alone is enough to send warmth blooming through my chest, despite the winter chill.
“What do you have there?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though my curiosity is laced with something else—something that feels dangerously close to affection.
He smirks, all casual confidence, and replies, “I thought we could take a walk through the park.”
His smile is devastating. It draws my eyes to his mouth before I can stop myself, and I swear the space between us humswith quiet electricity. My pulse flutters. His eyes catch the movement.
“Okay,” I manage to say, reaching for the cocoa. “I could do with a walk.”
