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)
I can’t forget that.
It’s just really fucking hard when the person you’re interacting with is nothing like you recall.
Cameron isn’t bubbly and full of life. She’s cold and withdrawn and, at times, snarky. She snapped at the waiter for taking too long to refill her coffee, and when I jokingly said she should consider switching to tea, she refused to speak to me for the rest of our lunch date.
Her iciness is most likely my fault. I’m not known for hiding how I feel, and I’ve felt uncomfortable many times today. She’s probably been walking on eggshells all day.
There was a moment earlier, while I was tinkering with her motor, when I almost threw in the towel before the referee had even announced the start of the match. I didn’t want to force Cameron to interact with me, to dredge up memories she most likely wants to leave buried. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal I’ve mentioned previously.
Macy is encouraging my reunion with Cameron—she gave me tips on how to woo her, for fuck’s sake—but it still feels wrong.
After making sure Cameron got to her appointment on time, we spent the day together. We ate at a little café she said she liked, though she barely touched her food, before we browsed local boutiques. Our day included snippets most people would rate as a successful first date. It’s been good, I guess. But it feels forced.
Cameron carefully measures every word she speaks, as if she is reading from a script instead of her heart. Even the way she invites me in for a nightcap is weird. Anyone would swear she’s hosting a guest she can’t wait to see the back end of.
I still say yes, though.
Responsibilities are hard to forget, and I’ve been hoarding mine for years.
After opening her door and gathering the items I purchased for her today, we walk side by side down the corridor of Cameron’s apartment building. I search for words to make this feel less like a blind date between two people who couldn’t be more opposite, and more like a reunion, but my mind comes up blank.
“So…” Fuck, Grayson. Not a good start. “How long have you lived here?”
Cameron’s shoulder notches toward her ear as she shoves a key into the lock of her apartment. “A few months. It’s quiet, and no one asks questions.”
I nod, not sure what to do with that tidbit of information.
Following her inside, I want to question her about her life, but I keep quiet to avoid being reminded of how badly my father fucked this up for me.
I doubt anything could stop me from confronting him if I were once again pummeled with anger. Macy is miles away, and she’s the only person who can make me act rationally when the walls are crumbling in on me.
Needing something to take the edge off, I dump numerous boutique bags under the entryway table before heading to the small bar in the corner of the living room. Halfway there, I ask Cameron if she’d like a drink.
She glances at me with a disgruntled look, hardens her features, and then waves her hand over her midsection. “Can’t.”
“Shit. Sorry, I forgot.” I set down the pricy whiskey, then enter the kitchen. Though larger than Macy’s, it’s as empty as hers used to be before I showed up. “Do you have tea?”
Cameron shakes her head, her movements sluggish. “I probably shouldn’t drink, anyway. I’ll be up all night.”
“Peeing.” I grimace when recalling how often the pipes in Macy’s bathroom interrupted my sleep last night. My sleep schedule was already minimal, but it became almost nonexistent since joining Macy’s investigation.
“Peeing?” Cameron looks confused.
Her daft expression is cute, and unlike Macy, she can pull it off.
Although Macy popped into my head for the hundredth time today, I’m not annoyed, but I still strive to keep the focus on Cameron. “I’m guessing your bladder feels pretty squashed right now. It will only get worse the further along you get.” I move closer. When my lengthy strides double the worry lining her face, I arch over the island and prop my arms on the granite counter. “How far along are you?”
I’ve been dying to ask that question all day, and it feels good to have it finally off my chest.
“Oh…” Cameron glances at me, then looks away. “Five months.” My head is full of questions, but she answers the most important one. “The father isn’t in the picture.”
I pretend not to notice that the images in the frames on her mantel are the ones that come with the frames. “Do you have any other kids?”
She follows my gaze before shaking her head. “No. None. You?”
I hesitate.
What the fuck?
Why am I hesitating? I’ve not even had a close call—you need to have sex for that—so why am I acting like condom breakages are a regular occurrence for me?