yours, Beautiful?
The first time I asked her out, she said she was busy. The second time, she had school. The third time, she was stuck at work. “Maybe this weekend,” she’d type, and I could almost hear the hesitation between the words.
Most guys would’ve stopped asking. Hell, I would’ve, if it were anyone else. I had my pride, and I wasn’t in the business of begging anyone for their time. But this wasn’t begging.
Late at night in the garage, the smell of oil and gas in the air, I worked on my bike. Every turn of the wrench helped clear my head. My phone sat on the bench, screen lighting up with her chat. She laughed at my jokes, actually seemed to care if I was alright. She sent pics from work, her textbooks laid out on a coffee table, her in scrubs, and it made me grin every time. There was something about Camille that made me want to keep pushing. Maybe she was worth taking another shot.
So I asked again, but this time I switched up my tactics.
Me:Alright, Camille. You keep dodging
me. So here’s the deal…FaceTime.
Tonight. Ten minutes. No excuses.
Camille:What if it’s a valid excuse?
Me:Only valid excuse is death. Since
you’re texting back, you’re very
much alive. So no excuses.
I smirked at the screen, already hearing her laugh in my head, already picturing the way she’d roll her eyes but secretly smile.
For a minute, nothing came. Just the three blinking dots, her hesitation stretching long enough that I tapped the side of my phone as if I could will her answer out faster.
Finally, the message lit up the screen.
Camille:You’re ridiculous. But fine.
Ten minutes. If I look like death,
it’s on you.
I read that line five times, a grin spreading so wide my buddies gave me shit for it, but it didn’t matter. I’d waited for firefights longer than this. I could handle a few ‘I can’ts’. Because the second she said yes, I knew she’d be worth every single one.
Chapter Three
Camille
Iprepared myself for the call, considering the advice Dani had given me as I ran around, scrambling to make myself presentable. “When in doubt, smile, you’ll distract him from whatever craziness comes out of your mouth.” It was relatively unhelpful advice, but that is what I planned to do.
The screen flickered, and there he was. Blue eyes, brighter than any photo could have captured. Ginger beard, fuller than the clean-shaven shots he’d posted. My first thought wasn’t fair. No one should look better on FaceTime than in their carefully chosen profile pictures. My second thought was worse:I can’t keep my eyes off him.
I tried to play it off, angling the phone so the lamplight wouldn’t catch every tired line on my face. My reflection stared back, curls twisted into a loose bun, dark circles louder than anything I could say. I almost wished I hadn’t answered. I decided to put my degree in psychology to work and redirected my anxiety. Deflection would suffice here. I found my voice, tilting my head. “You know, I think thistechnically counts as catfishing. You lured me in with Mr. Clean-Shaven Military Man, and now here you are, rugged mountain man with a ginger beard.”
His laugh was low and easy, warmth settling somewhere deep within me. He leaned back, the light catching the copper in his beard. “Catfish, huh? Should I be offended?” His voice teased, soft and sure, washing over me.
I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the smile that wanted to give me away. “Not really. Turns out I don’t mind at all.” My gaze lingered on the scruff, how it softened him, made him look less polished, more real.Too real. Too good. Too close to dangerous.“You wear scruffy well.”
The grin he gave me should’ve been illegal. “Glad you approve, Beautiful.” His voice dipped just enough on that last word to make my pulse skip. “And for the record, I wasn’t lying. I don’t take pictures often. Those were… older.”
Beautiful. The word echoed in my mind, unexpectedly heavy. He didn’t toss it out the way people do with pet names; he meant it, called me that like a fact. I felt exposed, uncertain how to receive it. Why does this word feel like a risk? I touched my hair, trying to steady the nervous flutter in my stomach, unsure of what to make of things.
“Older, like six months?” I teased.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Try a couple years. From before I got out. I don’t like pictures, never really did.”
