I feel my face burst into flames right on impact of the wordhot. The rest of my body, too. Did the temperature just shoot up ten degrees or something? My mouth is still open, but now it’s just because it’s kind of hanging there, unable to close or to find any appropriate response.
“Like, what the hell, dude? It was so annoying when you opened that door on my first day here, all ‘you look like shit,’ and I couldn’t even say it back to you, because you didn’t. You look like the picture an average guy would use to catfish girls on dating apps. It’s disgusting!”
“Okay,” I say, and I can hear how short of breath I feel in the word, though I don’t think Cammie even remembers I’m here, lost in her own musings. It doesn’t feel fair to let her wax poetic about how attractive she apparently finds me—though it also feels great, don’t get me wrong—when she’s inebriated and I’m completely sober. This is a talk we should be having when we both have the same amount of our faculties.
“Think we’re ready to call it a night?” I ask, but I’m already putting the bread and olive oil away.
“Nooo,” she says, dragging the word out for at least five seconds. “We haven’t even found my dad yet!”
“Yeah, I know, but hear me out—I think we’ll have better luck if we both sleep on it and try again tomorrow,” I propose.
She lets out another huffy breath, but ultimately nods, her eyelids drooping like she’s already well on the way to dreamland.
“Come on, let’s get you up to your room,” I say, slinging my backpack over a shoulder before helping her hop down from the counter with my hands on either side of her waist. I don’t let myself linger any longer than necessary, as nice as it would be to pull her close, hold on for a while, maybe—No, I’m not going there. I’m not thinking about going there, either.
Instead, I lead the way back to our side of the building, up to our floor, and even help unlock her door when she struggles with the key.
“Hey,” I say before I completely lose her. “Here’s your computer and journal back.”
I swing my backpack around to unzip it, retrieve Cammie’s things, and hold them out to her.
She does a little twirl, in no hurry to take them from me, and singsongs, “Thank you, Weston. West, West End.” She laughs to herself. “Does anyone ever call you ‘East,’ just, like, as a joke? Imagine if that was your name—Easton. Southward. Northington.” She dissolves into a fit of giggles at her own weird humor. “Nicknames are so strange. Like, yours doesn’t even have to be West. It could be ‘Ton.’ Should I start calling you that as an inside joke? ‘Ton Jacobs.’ ”
I’m about to roll my eyes when an idea hits me. Something I can’t believe I haven’t thought of before now. Even more shocking is that Tipsy Cammie inspired it.
But I yank the journal back to my chest, still holding the laptop out toward her and giving it a shake. “Actually, I’m gonna hang on to the journal for the night, if that’s all right. I have something I need to look into.”
Cammie absolutely does not care right now.
“Look your fill, Ton,” she says as she takes the laptop, shooting me a wink that Sober Cammie wouldneverand Sober West will never forget.
Then she twirls on one sock-covered heel and saunters into her room, letting the door fall shut behind her. The last thing I see before it closes is the back of her T-shirt:’cause I dig you.
Chapter Thirteen
Cammie
I’m coming to learn thatthere are many reasons West Jacobs is a prince among men, but this morning, two stand out above the rest:
He is eating breakfast with me on the terrazzo, instead of in the dining room, because any and all light makes my killer headache worse, and it’s only socially acceptable to wear sunglasses outdoors.
He’s tracked down my second potential dad.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think ofnicknames,” I whisper in between nibbles of a piece of dry toast. “As if I didn’t feel dumb enough from limoncellogate. I’d be a shitty detective.”
“If you think about it, the limoncello actually led us tothis discovery, so maybe it wasn’t the worst decision,” he rebuts.
I down another giant sip of water before shaking my head slowly. “I remember way too much of what I said and did to agree with that.”
West diverts his gaze to his computer screen and I see a wash of pink crest his cheeks, because he remembers every bit of it, too. Like me demanding he tell me his relationship status, then going on about his hotness. I might as well have invited him to share my tiny twin bed, for all the subtlety I showed.
