“That’s because you don’t volunteer information,” he says.
“Maybe you should take the hint.”
He smiles, sweeping his eyes over my face. “What’s your family like?” he asks again.
And for some unknown reason, I actually consider telling him. But I don’t. “They’re awesome.”
“That’s cool. Is your mom pretty?”
“What the fuck sort of question is that?”
He raises his hands in apology. “I’m just curious.”
“You’re always curious.” I stand up, not knowing how to answer his question. I haven’t seen my mother in a long time. I have no idea if she’s still pretty.
Cameron takes both of our cereal bowls and brings them to the kitchen sink. He turns, leaning against the counter.
“What do you want to do now?” he asks. It’s not even flirtatious. It’s just a question, and I miss the dirty jokes. At least that way, we’re not pretending there isn’t tension.
“Is there anything fun to do here?” I ask.
“I have a pool table downstairs.”
My mouth opens. “You have a pool table?”
“Yep.”
“You are such a rich bastard.”
“Does that mean you want to play?” he asks.
“I’ll play.”
He seems to like that. “Let’s go, then.”
Cameron walks to the staircase in the corner of the kitchen and goes down to the basement. I glance around, surprised that I can feel this comfortable here. It could be because we have something to do, but I know that it’s him. He makes me feel this way.
I run my fingers through my hair, smoothing it and pretending that I belong. I descend the stairs and find Cameron already at the table, racking up the pool balls. He looks up at me.
“Does your brother have red hair?” he asks.
“No.” I’m distracted by the basement—the low-hanging amber light, the old-timey vibe of it all. There’s a bar, wood paneling, and a giant-ass pool table.
“You want to break?” he asks, holding out the cue to me.
I shake my head. Cameron leans over the side of the table, taking aim at the white ball. He slides the stick between his knuckles, looking outrageously hot as he concentrates. There’s a loud noise when he breaks the triangle, and it startles me out of my daze.
“You’re stripes,” he says, walking around the table to get an angle for his next shot.
“Oh. Okay.”
He takes aim. “You probably should’ve gone first,” he says.
“Why’s that?”
He makes another shot. “Because I’m pretty good.”
“How do you know I’m not good?” I ask.
