I peeked out to make sure the hallway was empty. And I was starting to think my luck had changed because it was.
So, I tightened the towel, clutched it like a lifeline, and tiptoed out, making a quick beeline for the guest room. I was one doorway away from safety when I looked up, and there he was. The only person I was trying to avoid.
Cam.
If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. He was standing there like some kind of mid-afternoon sin, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth as a knowing look glimmered in his icy blue eyes. His freckles—those maddening little constellations—danced across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, catching the slant of light. They had no right to be that distracting. His auburn hair was damp from his shower and hung just past his shoulders. It curled slightly at the ends, even though his hair was barely wavy. The black shirt he wore clung stubbornly to the muscles of his chest, shoulders, and biceps. Every line of him was defined and solid, as though the fabric itself was jealous of the body beneath it.
Even at thirty-three, Cam took care of his body. Not that it was appropriate for me to be noticing right now, but it’s hard not to stare up at the six-foot-three human wall in front of me. He radiated effortless confidence, the kind that made my pulse stumble, as he knew what effect he had standing there, waiting, daring me to look too long.
We both froze. Well… I froze.
His eyes flicked down, slow and deliberate, tracing the length of me as if he were unwrapping the towel with nothing but his stare. The air between us felt electric; every second of his silent inspection was a pull I couldn’t ignore. His gaze lingered low before dragging its way back up, unhurried, until it locked with mine again. He licked his bottom lip withoutseeming to realize it, a thoughtless movement that made my breath catch and my grip on the towel tighten.
His hands hung at his sides, tense, until one curled into a fist as though he had to restrain himself. A split second later, he loosened it. The subtle movement portrayed more than he intended. He slid both hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.
What the ever-loving fuck?
I cleared my throat and whispered through my gritted teeth, “I swear to fucking fuck, if you ever eye fuck me again after not saying a word about what happened a year ago, I will throat punch you, Cameron.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Cam gave a tiny, maddening shrug. “It was a mistake, Harper. We both know it. That kiss meant nothing. We have never liked each other; nothing could change that.”
Tears immediately welled in my eyes. I pushed past him aggressively and practically launched myself into the guest room, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it.
My face was on fire. I was so fucking embarrassed. Was I really this far off base for this entire year? He seriously felt nothing? For fuck’s sake!
I wiped my tears, knowing that I had to go back out there for Wren. I dropped the towel and rifled through my bag. I pulled out an oversized, light gray hoodie—soft, worn, and long enough to hit mid-thigh—and threw it on. I found the black shorts I packed and tugged them up, even though they didn’t peek out from under the hem. Even considered taking out my contacts because, fuck, my eyes were so irritated. But I decided against it. It was fine. This wasn’t a fashion show. It was survival.
I took one look at myself in the mirror—bare legs, my now moisturized pink curly hair pulled back, hoodie practically swallowing me whole—and muttered under my breath, “Perfect. Now I look cozy and only slightly emotionally unstable.”
There was a knock on the door.
Cam. Again. Of course.
“Pizza’s here,” he said, voice low and way too close to the wood.
I waited a minute, then two. Really was hoping he would just go away. I really didn’t want to see him. I don’t understand how he could say something so hurtful on one of the longest, shittest days of my life and then pretend he didn’t. The man was fucking delusional.
I huffed and opened the door. I could be an adult about this. Cam looked at me. And if I wasn’t mistaken—his jaw twitched. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He had hurt me enough; I wasn’t wanted here.
I brushed past him, back straight, chin high. If I were going to fall apart in this house, it wasn’t going to happen in a hallway while wearing a hoodie and no bra.
It was going to happen in private… with snacks.
4
HARPER
“I’m gonna hop on your computer,” I said, standing and stretching a little, the hem of my oversized hoodie tugging up around my thighs. “I have to email Tucker before tomorrow. He needs a rundown of the situation for his roofing buddy.”
Wren glanced at me. “Hot cowboy contractor Tucker?” I nodded. “You know where it's at. Same password. Pazuzu123 with a capital P.”
Figures. Pazuzu was the old cat they got when Wren moved in. Turns out Cam was quite allergic to that breed, so they had to rehome her.
I crossed the living room to the little desk tucked near the far wall in front of the large window, dropped into the chair, and pulled up my email. The keyboard clacked as I typed out something quick and mildly professional—just enough to make sure everyone understood the severity of the situation.
The living room lights were off, and the TV was the only real glow in the space. Cam stretched across the couch, one ankle over the other, and hooked his arm behind his head, as if this were just another regular, boring-ass Tuesday.
I could feel him watching me again. Even when I didn’t look, I knew he was looking at me.
