I open my mouth to argue that he should have asked if I wanted to be picked up first, too, but close it again to stop a laugh from escaping now that his smartass comment has had a chance to land.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
His gaze flicks to mine with a wicked grin before he angles us to fit through the door, and I pull myself in closer to help, which brings my face dangerously close to his neck. Before I can stop myself, I take in a deep breath of his smell, whichis that delicious combination of warmth and woods andhim. I come to my senses just in time to stop myself from nuzzling into the space where his jaw meets his neck and spit out a very unconvincing request for him to put me down.
“As you wish,” he says, and stops in front of the couch and lowers me to my feet, but doesn’t fully let go, and instead moves his hands to my waist to make sure I am steady. I get him to let go of me by straightening my sweater then settle into the far end of the couch to put some space between us. He walks back to the kitchenette to get the room service menus, and I take the opportunity to compose myself before he comes back, even though every part of my body that was just in contact with his is still tingly and warm.
“This is a perfect segue into that favorite things conversation that I wanted to have with you.” He sits right next to me in the middle of the couch, effectively ruining my plan to keep some distance, both physically and emotionally, between us. “Tell me everything that sounds good to you on the menu so that we can get the favorite foods question out of the way.”
I look sideways at him as he drapes his arm across the back of the couch, but my resolve breaks when he smiles down at me.
“You seriously want me to tell you what I think of every dish?”
“Yes,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What better way for me to learn what you like?”
I look back down at the menu, finding nothing that I wouldn’t eat. “Everything here sounds great.”
“Oh, come on, there has to be something you don’t like.” He leans in to point at a pasta dish. I stiffen as his delicious smell overwhelms my senses again. “This ravioli piccata has mushrooms and capers. There’s no way that you like both of those things.”
“I love mushrooms, and capers are fine. Not my favorite, but I’ll eat them.” I shrug and lean the other way as discreetly aspossible without hurting his feelings. “I couldn’t eat that dish, though, because I’m pretty sure it’s made with lemon zest.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
“Couldn’t,” I say, then realize that I never disclosed my citrus allergy to him. I probably should now that we’re going to be staying here together for a while. “I’m allergic to citrus.”
“What?” he asks incredulously as he searches my eyes. “Why didn’t you speak up when Ollie asked who had the citrus allergy yesterday?” I try to think of an excuse that would explain without having to share Leah’s secret with yet another person and come up short. “You even asked for the lemonade over the wine! Why would you do that?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t tell you.”
His eyes widen like I’ve just shape-shifted into a green alien before his eyes. “You purposefully drank lemonade when there was a completely suitable alternative, and the reason why you did it is asecret?”
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head again. “I think I might lose sleep over this, trying to figure it out. How bad is the allergy? Should I get a few EPI pens, or do you carry your own?”
“No, it’s not anaphylactic. I just get a stomachache, and it burns my throat. The reason is truly not that interesting,” I say, waving him off. “It’s just not my secret to tell.”
“Oh,” he says. “So you did it for someone else’s benefit?”
I nod.
“Well, that makes sense. I probably could have guessed that myself after a bit more time to think about it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You are incredibly selfless, so it makes sense that you would hurt yourself to help someone else.”
“What?” I ask in disbelief. “I was just keeping a secret like any good friend would. That doesn’t mean I’m selfless.”
“You are, though,” he says. “You might be the most selfless person I’ve ever met, actually.”
I frown at his words, and it deepens when he starts naming examples to prove his point. “You de-escalated fights all night to try and keep the retreat going, and you stayed with me to do the dishes even though you were a guest.”
“That’s called just being a good human, Cameron. Anyone else would have done the same,” I argue.
“Maybe, but they didn’t. Only you did.”
I look back down at the menu, unconvinced.
