I’m tempted to remind her of the promise she made only days ago, but since that will open a can of worms I can’t consider wrapping my head around just yet, I shift the course of our conversation. “Dinner shouldn’t be too far away. It smells almost burned. Charcoal is Cameron’s specialty.”
Macy laughs before she shoots up her hand to cover her mouth, horrified at her snarkiness.
I wink at her to assure that it is warranted before I return to the kitchen.
Cameron is stirring the sauce on the stovetop. The sloshing of her overzealous stirs cannot conceal her angry mumble. “Iguess I assumed wrong. Picking up another man’s unpaid tab a regular thing for you now, Gray?”
She steals my ability to answer by announcing that dinner is ready before she slaps the table with the pasta dish she made, spilling some of the sauce.
Dinner is awkward as fuck. Cameron plays the role of perfect hostess, but it’s just that—a role. She asks Macy a range of questions and laughs at the right times, but a ton of hate fills her eyes, and they’re firmly homed in on Macy.
I can’t stand that. Macy hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s the only one rooting for us, so doesn’t Cameron realize that wedging a divide between us is injudicious and immature? No good will come from it. Not for Cameron, anyway.
When it’s time for dessert, I get another reminder from my watch. I fill Macy’s glass again and hand it to her with an apologetic smirk. She rolls her eyes like my apology is solely about overloading her bladder before she sips on the water. Even without using words, she’s a horrible liar.
Eager to get this shitshow wrapped up, I enter the kitchen to gather the pie and plates. I find Cameron at the sink, rubbing her bloodshot eye.
“Are you all right?” My concern feels fake, and I hate to admit it, but it’s time to be honest. I’ve been lying for too long.
Cameron blinks in rapid succession before wincing. “I’ve got something in my eye. An eyelash, maybe.”
“Let me see,” I say, moving closer.
She’s too short for me to get a good look, so I lift her onto the kitchen island. Her girlish giggle bounces around the kitchen before she angles her head toward the pendant light dangling above us. We’re close—closer than we’ve been all night. But there’s no spark. No thickening below the belt. There’s nothing.
“I think I see it,” I say, needing to distract my head from its thoughts.
My hunt for the felonious black lash in the corner of her eye brings our faces to within an inch apart. Her breath batters my cheek, and I can’t miss the flecks of gold in her eyes. We’re so near that someone outside of our bubble could misconstrue what we’re doing.
Which is precisely what happens when a loud crash reverberates from the kitchen’s entryway. I inch back from Cameron before twisting to face the noise. Macy is standing barefoot in the entryway, surrounded by shards of glass glistening in the dim light of the hallway.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice is shaky. It isn’t in fear or pain. Well, not physical pain, anyway. “It slipped.” Her wet eyes dance between us for two heart-thrashing seconds before she asks Cameron where her dustpan and hand broom are so she can clean up her mess.
“In the linen closet. Third door down the hall.”
Macy is so desperate to hide her inflamed cheeks and wet eyes that she’s forgotten a broken glass circles her. I yell for her to wait, but she’s already moving. As she steps on the shards of glass, she winces and blood blooms from her heel.
I cross the room in three lengthy strides, uncaring that I stomp right through the glass I just warned her about. My foot throbs, but I collect Macy in my arms and head to the bathroom, ignoring the pain.
After setting her on the edge of the tub, I grab a towel and press it against the cuts in her feet. Cameron hovers in thedoorway. Her eyes are wide but not at all apologetic. She’s not at fault, but concern is free. It can be given to anyone.
“I’m fine,” Macy says when I hiss upon removing the towel and finding a large shard wedged in her heel.
When she attempts to stand, she howls, and it rips through me like a knife.
“Sit.” I hit her with a stern glare that sees her backside returning to the tub’s rim before I can remind her that I carry my cuffs everywhere I go. I have ways I can make her sit, and not all of them involve an instrument. Most that run through my head include only the use of my body.
After gathering a first aid kit I spotted peeking out of the bottom of the vanity upon entrance, I kneel in front of Macy.
“Stay still,” I plead when her foot naturally jerks from me placing tweezers near the shard.
I can’t hurt her.
I won’t.
I remove the shard with a bit of coercion, wipe her foot clean, and then check for any more felonious debris. A handful of minor cuts surrounds the larger gash, but nothing overly deep or concerning.
“I’ll patch up your foot with a couple of Band-Aids, but when we get home, I’ll need to bandage it properly.”
