Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
The first thing I notice when Cameron guides us into the living room is clutter. The mess covers almost every inch of the room. Clothes are draped over chairs, shopping bags from pricy boutiques hog the floor space, and unopened mail stacks cover nearly every solid surface. Compared to last night, the room looks like a bomb went off in it.
“Sorry about the mess.” Cameron brushes a pile of scarves off an armchair so Macy can sit. “I’ve been so nervous about tonight that I tried on half my closet, and I still couldn’t find anything to fit over this.” She thrust her hand at her bump, grunting through a snarl.
Macy holds up a dress she fished off the back of the armchair, its width barely the circumference of her arm. “I doubt this would fit anyone with a pulse, let alone a baby bump.”
Cameron’s laugh returns, but it’s not genuine. “Yeah, well, a girl can dream.” After snatching the lacy dress out of Macy’s hand, she tosses it onto a pile of many. “Make yourself at home, Macy.” She cranks her neck toward me. “I need your help in the kitchen.”
After telling Macy I’ll be back, I follow Cameron into the aromatic space. Even with the floor plan of Cameron’s apartment being double the size of Macy’s, I’m able to keep Macy in my line of sight. As I place the pie on the only section of the counter not taken up with utensils and pantry items, Macy perches her backside on the edge of the armchair Cameron somewhat cleaned. Her fingers intertwine as her eyes bounce around the room. I can tell she wants to snoop. It is as apparent as my wish for her to do precisely that.
The many missing elements of Cameron’s reappearance could be right in front of us, hidden in plain sight. I just need to get over my belief that trust goes both ways. I can’t pray for Cameron to trust me and then invade her privacy. That would make me a hypocrite.
Cameron blocks my view of Macy when she hands me a cutting board and knife. “Can you slice the tomatoes?”
I nod before clearing a section of the counter so I can get to work. The kitchen is just as cluttered as the living room. Spices and utensils are everywhere, and the sink is brimming with dirty dishes.
Cameron is oblivious to the mess. She floats around the junk with a frenetic energy that even an untrained profiler would pay careful attention to. “I hope you still like pasta. It’s the only thing I can cook these days.”
Still? We ate nothing but chicken and rice when we dined together because Cameron said it was the better choice, and what she said was final.
When she stares at me with a cocked brow, awaiting an answer, I bow out of what was always a guaranteed fight like a disobedient dog about to get smacked over the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. “It smells great.”
After flicking her eyes to the living room, she steals a slice of tomato I cut and slowly eats it. She’s looking at me, but not in awe. I feel more judged than admired.
I’ve almost finished slicing the tomatoes when she finally breaks the awkward silence with three short words. “Macy seems nice.”
“She is,” I reply, and I mean it. Macy is the nicest and most genuine person I’ve ever met.
While placing the tomato slices into a garden salad, Cameron adds words to her previously silent interrogation. “Have you worked together long?”
I slice through a tomato, and my knife pauses on the board. “We don’t work together.”
“You don’t?” Cameron tilts her head and hits me with a mocking glare. “I could have sworn you said yesterday that she was your work friend.”
“No.” I slant my head to hide the suspicion brewing in my eyes. “I said she was my friend.”
“Yeah… but we both know what that really means. You don’t have female friends, Grayson. You have girls you fuck and girls you’re not allowed to fuck since you work with them.”
There’s the jealous, accusatory Cameron I remember. Except back then, she used to say the only female friends I had were the girls I fucked or wanted to fuck. There was no in between.
“With Macy’s child not being yours, I assumed that meant she was your work friend. Unless you still see anything with a pulse as fair game like you did when we dated?”
“I was seventeen then, Cam, and I didn’t fuck anything with a pulse. You just accused me of doing that. An accusation isn’t an automatic conviction.”
“Because I had no proof.”
“Because there was no proof,” I correct. “I didn’t cheat. Ever.”
The only release I’ve had in the past three and a half years was achieved by my own hand, because any time I was propositioned, Macy’s sultry features would pop into my head. We weren’t even a couple, for fuck’s sake. We were merely playing the role of one. Yet I couldn’t get over the feeling of betrayal enough to end the drought. So the fact Cameron thinks I’d cheat on her when we were the real deal shows she doesn’t know me at all.