I practically vibrate with anticipation. Nothing gets me going like the promise of juicy gossip. I know, I know. Gossip is technically toxic or whatever, but if it doesn’t affect my life or anyone I know? I want all the details. It’s why I’ve devoured every iteration ofThe Real HousewivesthatBravo has ever aired. Give me the drama, hold the consequences.
“Oh.” I angle in closer. “Tell me everything.”
“No.” His response is immediate; his expression doesn’t change.
I wait for more information, but it doesn’t come. He’s silent, as if “no” is a complete sentence. It is, but I have no intention of doing him a favor like this without having background information. “Then my answer is no, too.”
The people in front of us depart from the bar with fresh drinks in hand, and I wiggle my way to the front. The free drink aspect of an open bar is great, except that, well, everyone wants free drinks.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a tired smile and rolled-up sleeves. “We’ve got a few specialty cocktails available.”
I glance at the cutesy acrylic menu and grin at the three hockey-inspired drinks: Slapshot Spritz, Power Play Punch, and Bobcat Bramble. I’m a sucker for a good themed party. The other week I had three bachelorette party dessert orders, each with a creative theme. Her Last Rodeo, Seashells and Wedding Bells, and She’s Fresh off the Market.
Despite my body vibrating with excitement at the idea of a delicious Power Play Punch, I order a Dr Pepper. I need to be in tiptop shape at the bank tomorrow. All my dreams are riding on that loan approval. If they reject me, I—nope. Not even going there. They have to say yes.
Tilting his chin up, the bartender asks, “And you?”
It takes everything in my power not to look back at Cameron. It’s a challenge to ignore a six-five muscular man towering over me like this. Especially one who smells like he walked straight out of one of those mafia romance novels my best friend got me hooked on. He has a dominating aura that makes him hard to ignore, and trust me, I’ve tried.
“I’ll have the Slapshot Spritz,” Cameron orders with a completely straight face.
Amusement rolls through me. Wouldn’t have marked the Bobcats’ goalie as a man who prefers wine to whiskey, but I’m not one to judge.
Okay, that’s a lie. Sort of. I don’t verbally judge people. Unless they deserve it.Like thewoman who thought she could cut me in line at MetroMart because she had “fewer than ten items,” as if I couldn’t see the lightbulbs and wine hidden beneath the ugly Hawaiian shirt in her cart.
We wait for our drinks in uncomfortable silence, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. And there’s no way I’ll ask Cameron for more details, no matter how badly I itch to blurt out every question—and there are about fifty—floating around in my head.
I’m opening my purse to reapply my lipstick (lasts twenty-four hours smudge-free!my ass) when Cameron admits, “My ex is here.”
Head snapping up, I assess him. Forget about the lipstick. “Your ex?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, rigid. “Yes, Kennedy. My ex. Is it really that surprising that someone wanted to date me?”
“Oh, calm down.” I wave off his theatrics. “I’m simply surprised. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” he clarifies. “And why would you know? We’re not friends.”
Okay, rude.
“Yet here you are asking me for a favor.” I arch a brow. “Tell me about her.”
His brow creases. “Who?”
“Amy Poehler,” I deadpan. “Who do you think, Cameron? Keep up. Tell me about your ex.”
That crease deepens, his lips turning down as if I just asked him for his social security number rather than a very normal follow-up question. “Why?”
“Consider me curious.” I shrug.
He remains silent, examining my face.
Eventually, I sigh. “Fine, at the very least, tell me why we don’t want her bidding on you.”
“Because we’re not dating anymore.”
I huff out a breath. He’s almost worse than Maya when it comes to sharing details. If the question isn’t asked in the exact right way, they won’t give up anything.
“Yes, I understand the concept of an ex. I want to know why you think she’d even want to date you again. Were you long distance and the miles between you proved to be too hard, but now she’s back and wants to try again?” I arch a brow. “Did the spark fizzle out, but she wants to relight the match? Did someone?—”
