Thank you all for the wonderful comments/feedback! Believe me, they kept me motivated to update!...music is also a great motivator for me to write, so if you know of any songs that you think fit C&S, leave a suggestion!

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Chapter 14

"Where are the extra sheets for the guest room?"

It's the first words his son's said to him since their one sided argument in the car. Nick isn't any less angry with him, and he's learned the last few years it would be futile to try and work anything out now. "I think they're still in the dryer; run them again for a few minutes so that-"

"-I know," Nick cuts off, heading back upstairs.

It's been months since he's seen this side of his son. Nick has grown so much, their relationship has grown so much, that his irritation with him stings in a way it never has before. Rubbing the back of his neck, he exhales, turning his gaze back to his kitchen widow. From here he's got a clear view of the front of Grey House and the light that's still on in the sitting room.

She's still up.

The police cruiser remains parked out front and it eases his mind just a little bit at the thought of her being anywhere but in his arms right now.

His phone buzzes from the counter beside him, and he's surprised to see Abigails name flash across his screen.

"Abigail," he greets. "Is everything alright?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Sam," she counters back. "Cassie shouldn't be staying at Grey House alone."

His brow furrows. "How-"

"-I'm a Merriwick; we know everything."

He smiles, hanging his head. "I don't suppose you know what's going through your cousins head, then?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

He waits for her to explain, and he's only met with silence. "Care to fill me in?" He can practically see Abigails knowing smile through the phone at her silence. "She said that we were a mistake….that we shouldn't have done any of this…."

"My cousin is a lot of things, but ignorant is not one of them; why do you think she would say those things? Certainly not because she believes them, Sam."

The realization comes like a flick of a switch. "I have to go." He hangs up before Abigail can even responded, and he's out of his seat, out the front door and making his way across his driveway before he can give it a second thought. The night air is cool and catches his breath a minute as he cuts across the small patch of grass between his drive and hers. As he makes his way up towards the step, the front doors of Grey House open and she's standing there, as if expecting him.

His steps falter a minute, stopping at the bottom of the stoop. He recognizes his t-shirt that she's wearing with the simple shorts and bare feet. The wind picks up and he watches her shiver in its wake and he exhales, just taking her in.

"You pushed my buttons," he begins. "Back at the hotel….you knew exactly what to do, what to say to manipulate the situation."

She shifts her weight on her feet, leaning against the door. Her gaze drops to her feet and her hair becomes a curtain between them.

"You pushed me away on purpose, Cassie, and the only reason why I can think of is that you're scared."

"Sam…we can't do this," she says softly.

There's no conviction behind her voice and he shakes his head. "I don't believe you and if I didn't love you as much as do…." He places his hands on his hips, shrugging his shoulders. "I'd walk away, I wouldn't fight for you, for us….I'm not walking away."

He waits.

He's not walking away. He's not going to give up. Not this time.

She exhales, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't want to hurt you, Sam…."

He's taking the steps two at a time to get to her, his hands framing her face. She leans into his touch and he drops his forehead to hers. "Doing this is going to bring me to my knees, sweetheart."

"Sam."

"Whatever it is, Cassie, we can figure it out, we can work it out I know we can….just talk to me," he implores gently.

She's nodding, sliding into him and he's got her in his arms, next to him.

He exhales.

. . . . . . . . . .

She's settled onto his couch just as he returns from the kitchen with two mugs in hand. The dull ache that had settled behind her eyes only hours ago, is dissipating, the nausea that had so quickly overcome her, settling. There's tea in both, which surprises her and warms her heart at the same time.

He's a coffee drinker, and yet he has tea, for her.

"Nick and Grace….they're both out like lights," he comments, offering her a mug.

She nods, accepting the mug he hands her. She takes a sip as he settles into the couch beside her. He sits patiently next to her as she tires to gather her thoughts. It's been so long since she's spoken of any of this to anyone.

"My parents died when I was very young," she begins. "….it was a car crash."

He reaches out, placing a supportive hand on her knee.

"….We were living in Zurich and they were going out…to the theatre I think. I didn't want them to go, and I begged and begged for them to stay home with me. My father assured me that they would be home before I knew it….they never made it to the theatre; their care hit a patch of black ice."

"How old were you?" He questions softly.

"8."

He sets his mug on the coffee table, scooting closer towards her. His arms rest on the back of the couch, his fingers running through her hair gently.

"I was sent here and placed in foster care….I never seemed to fit in very well so I moved to several different places until I finally had enough. I ran away, travelled the world and it ultimately led me here, to Middleton." The tea has gone cold between her hands, and she sets it on the coffee table, leaning forward on her knees. She relishes in the tender way his hand brushes the hair from her shoulder, sliding rhythmically up and down her back in comfort.

"I met Jake here and it was magical. I found a place where I belonged and I loved him….and then it happened again: the one person I loved the most was ripped from me….I foolishly opened my heart to Ryan, thinking it would be different, but it wasn't….he almost lost his job, his reputation-"

"-You think you're to blame," he states. "Cassie," he sighs.

"I've always been different-"

He rises from the couch to sit on the coffee table in front of her. "-which isn't a prerequisite to being some kind of…." He searches for the words. "…omen, or witch or something. Cassie, the tragedies you've experienced have not been your fault," he implores gently. "You can't carry that kind of guilt, sweetheart."

Tears have welled in her eyes and she wipes them away. "….I don't want anything to happen to you, Sam, it's already happening-"

"-because of Amy? My job at Hillcrest?….I can live without them. What I can't live without….is you….if you never took that chance with Jake, you wouldn't have Grace, you wouldn't have experienced that love. Call it the pragmatist in me, but I'll take what I know right now over what I don't in the future."

His conviction in his own beliefs halts the wayward fears inside of her. Looking up into his blue eyes, she lets his words sink in, lets them tether her to the here, the now.

"I'm not naive enough to think that the worst couldn't happen tomorrow, but I am a realist."

She smiles at this and he takes her hands into his own.

"I take my health seriously, I don't speed and I look both ways before crossing the street. I get a full eight hours of sleep and don't partake in activities that could cause me bodily harm. I'm doing everything I can to be here, present, with you. That's all any of us can do. Don't short change us for fear of what could happen."

Framing her hands around his face, she leans in, pressing her lips to his. He mirrors her hold, kissing her back.

"Stay," he murmurs against her lips.

She nods against his lips. "Yeah."

. . . . . . . . . .

French Toast.

Rolling over, Nicks stomach growls, waking him. Squinting at the clock he inwardly groans at how early it still is, flinging the blankets back over his head.

French Toast.

His stomach growls again and he knows he's not dreaming the smell that's pulling him awake. He crawls out of bed, running his fingers through his hair, yawning. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Nick makes his way downstairs, his bare feet heavy on the stairs.

"Grace!" He calls. "It's waaayyyy too early to be making French toast!" He yawns again, rubbing his eyes as he turns the corner into the kitchen.

Cassie turns from the stove, smiling. "Morning."

The shock of seeing her in his kitchen quickly gives way to the relief of seeing her in his kitchen. She's dressed in pyjamas and he'd bet his fathers t-shirt and he crosses the kitchen giving her a hug. "You changed your mind."

Cassies arms wrap around him, welcoming him into her embrace. "Your dad convinced me."

He deflates in her arms and when she pulls back, her gaze is questioning. "….I yelled at him in the car yesterday…" He'd given his dad the cold shoulder ever since knowing it would hurt him the most. "…I guess I should have trusted him to figure it out."

Cassie gives him a supportive smile. "If there's one thing I know about your father, it's that he always has your best interests in his heart, and on his mind."

He nods, exhaling.

"Want to help me finish this up?" She turns back to the French toast waiting in the batter for the frying pan.

Nick smiles. "Sure…but I have to warn you; I'm a terrible cook."

"You aren't learning anything when you're talking," she comments.

He laughs, going to the sink to wash his hands. "Can I quote you on that?"

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Lyndon B. Johnson," Sam offers, joining them in the kitchen. He'd heard bits of their conversation as he was making his way downstairs and his gaze connects with hers.

The recognition crosses her eyes and her gaze softens in such a way that there's no mistaking her love for him and his son.

"Who just randomly quotes dead presidents," Nick jokes, joining Cassie at the stove.

"People who pay attention in history class," he jokes back.

Nick roles his eyes, a smile spreading across his face. "I pay attention….most of the time."

Their easy banter does his heart good and he knows he has the women standing in his kitchen making French toast to thank. He passes by them both, planting a kiss on her check, and on the crown of his sons head, heading straight for the coffee maker.

"What is even in this?" Nick asks, soaking the bread in the batter.

Cassie is nothing if not patient with Nick as she explains the ingredients and steps to her families secret French toast recipe. He starts his coffee, filling the kettle he recently purchased with water. Coming to stand beside her at the stove, he sets it on the opposite burner for it to boil. Nick is watching over the French toast dutifully, and he takes the brief minute he has slide his hand up and down her back.

"I'm literally standing right here," Nick comments, a smirk on his face.

"Well, get used to it pall." He leans in, kissing her quickly.

. . . . . . . . . .

Grace would recognize the smell of her mothers French toast anywhere. What she doesn't understand is why she's smelling here, at Sam's place. The minute she steps into the hallway she recognizes her mothers presence and she hurries down the stairs to the kitchen.

She's there, sitting at the breakfast bar with Nick eat French toast.

"Mom? What are you doing here?"

Her mother turns on her stool to face her. "Sam and I talked last night, and he convinced me that you were right; we can't stay at Grey House right now."

Relief washes over her and she looks just beyond her mother to Sam who's leaning against the sink, coffee mug in hand. She opens her mouth to say something, only the words don't come.

"Can I make you a plate?" Same offers, gesturing to the dish of French toast on the counter.

"It just may be the best French toast you've ever tasted," Nick chimes in. "It was made by yours truly."

"Your Mom kept a watchful eye," Sam jokes.

Nick feigns hurt, causing her mother to laugh. "You did an excellent job, Nick."

"Thank you, Cassie!"

Sam shakes his head, holding up an empty plate. "Well?"

She nods. "That would be great." There's an empty stool beside her mother and Grace slide onto it, leaning into her mothers hug as she wraps an arm around her shoulders.

Tbc