Page 11

CHAPTER 11

Naomi

I wasn’t wrong in my assessment about the futility of resisting Parker. Which is why a few days later, I’m dashing into a barbecue restaurant she recommended, picking up dinner for Liam and a whole smorgasbord of appetizers in preparation for a ladies’ night at my house.

Not just any ladies’ night, but one with hockey WAGs. According to the informative texts Parker has sent me, this specifically includes a fiancé (Parker), three wives (Amelia, Bailey, and Gracie), a girlfriend (Evie), and a sister (Greyson). Oh, and Evie’s bringing a baby, who is not a hockey progeny but apparently has all but been adopted by the recently retired team captain.

Not unlike how all of these ladies seem overeager to adopt me . It’s messing with my head a little bit. Do they want to include me for me? Or is it because they’re hoping Camden and I get back together? And though that seems to be our trajectory, I’m still just as scared as I was when I broke up with him.

The difference now is that I know how much it sucks to be without him.

And with his daily texts—checking in, asking how Liam and I are doing, adding some light flirtations—I’m trying to keep my expectations in check. Trying is the operative word.

Failing would be a more apt one.

The teenager at the to-go counter sets my bag of food on the counter with a big smile and a toss of her ponytail. “Here you go!” She is in way too good of a mood for my nervous energy. The only thing shinier than her attitude is her braces. “Order for Fieldstone, all set and ready. Looks like the start of a barbecue-tastic night!”

“Um, yes,” I mutter. “Something like that.”

I’m handing over my card and trying not to wince at the total when my whole body freezes. Because I happen to spot a familiar head of brown hair across the restaurant. It’s like wherever Camden is, my body homes right in on his exact location.

And his exact location happens to be in this very restaurant, just a few short tables away from the to-go counter.

He is not alone.

A pretty blond woman sits across the table from him, smiling widely and fluttering her lashes hard enough to cause gale-force winds. I have plans Tuesday night , he’d said. Not once did I consider “plans” to mean what looks to be an intimate dinner.

A riot of emotion careens through me.

Jealousy. Rage. Hurt. Insecurity. Panic. Betrayal. Regret.

All set to impossibly high levels, despite the fact that Cam and I have no official status warranting it. I don’t deserve these reactions. I have no right to them—I gave up my rights when I broke up with Camden. But my emotions do not seem to give any credence to logic.

Maybe it’s not a date. I’m an adult and shouldn’t jump to conclusions just because, from where I stand, it looks like a date.

If you break up with a man, you aren’t allowed to have these kinds of feelings when he has dinner with a pretty woman, I scold myself.

But a very persistent little voice in my head reminds me of the way Camden looked at me just days ago on the catwalk and the almost-kiss I’m sure I left hanging in the air between us.

I think of the way I’ve woken up every day since to find an early morning text from him that’s been better at perking me up than a pot of coffee.

I think of him patiently helping Liam and the way his eyes met mine over my son’s head. The way Camden’s hand covered mine on the railing at the Summit after Liam’s practice, and the way that touch sent sparks cartwheeling through me.

Not to mention all the wayward thoughts I haven’t fully been able to remove from my brain since … well, summer. These thoughts have taken up residence despite my eviction notice, moving all their boxes and furniture in like a bunch of no-good squatters.

And this is a big problem since Camden really does appear to be on a date.

I jump when the server’s cheerful voice yanks my attention away from Camden. “If you’ll just turn your attention to the screen, answer a few questions, and add your signature, we’ll be all set.”

Her cheery mood sets my teeth on edge, and I jab my fingers at the iPad screen while keeping an eye on the table across the room. The woman just reached across the table toward Camden, and I think I might scream.

“Whoa!” the server exclaims. “Thank you! This awesome tip is deserving of a little more cowbell!”

“What now?” I once more jerk my attention away from Camden and his date, wondering what she means by this awesome tip as well as a little more cowbell. I certainly didn’t mean to leave a large tip, and so far, there has been no sight nor sound of cowbell, which is how it should be.

According to my receipt, I tipped fifty percent. My bank account is weeping. I can only hope cowbell is some kind of metaphor.

Unfortunately, it is not.

The teenager retrieves an actual cowbell from underneath the counter and starts clanging with wild abandon. She adds a yeehaw for emphasis.

I want to grab her wrist to stop her, but would that be considered assault? My brother Jake would probably tell me yes, legally it could be construed as assault. Since I’ve already punched one person this month, I should really find better ways to manage things.

“Less cowbell,” I hiss, as other servers around the restaurant start whooping and clapping. “Please, I beg of you— less cowbell! ”

The server rings it harder, as though the survival of the human race is dependent on the enthusiasm with which she cowbells.

Why couldn’t I have gone to a normal restaurant? But no—I listened to Parker’s recommendation, choosing one where accidentally enormous tips are rewarded with the ringing of a cowbell. And coincidentally the exact restaurant where Camden happens to be on what looks like a date.

Camden is now, of course, looking my way with a very intense expression on his face as we lock eyes. The cowbell is now more of an alarm bell.

Run, Naomi! it seems to say. Run now!

It’s far too late now that Camden has seen me, but I still snatch the cowbell out of the server’s hand, tossing it out the open door as another group of people enters the restaurant.

Thankfully, the cowbell sails over their heads and out into the parking lot. A car alarm blares.

What’s next—will my hair spontaneously combust? Is a cartoon anvil going to fall on my head?

“Hey—my cowbell!” the server protests.

“My Lexus,” a woman by the door says, glaring.

And for me—without a word, I snatch my bag off the counter and take off.

Not toward the closest door, since that’s blocked by a woman whose Lexus I allegedly just nailed with a projectile cowbell, and not toward Camden, who is now standing up, but toward the hallway next to the kitchen. Common sense tells me this will lead to the bathrooms and another exit.

Possibly the alarmed kind of exit, but at this point, if I could, I would run straight through the wall and leave a Naomi-shaped hole in my wake. Anything to get out of what is quickly turning into one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire life.

What’s a little emergency exit alarm, all things considered?

Thankfully, at the end of the dimly lit hallway is a door with a red exit sign above it. I’ve almost reached it when an arm curls around my shoulders, pulling me to a halt.

“Naomi, wait.”

I do. Partly because Camden’s strong arm is banded around my collarbone, making it really hard to keep moving. But also because his voice has more of an effect on me than I care to admit.

I wait for him to loosen his hold, but he doesn’t. I don’t fight, instead slumping against him in defeat. My back lines up with his chest, and I can feel him breathing heavily.

“What is it, Camden? I need to go.”

“Out the emergency exit?”

“I already made a scene. Might as well finish strong.”

He sighs, and as he does, his chin drops until it rests on the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes closed.

“Why are you running away from me?” he asks.

“I was running from the cowbell.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Are you some expert in my motivations now?”

He dips his head, and now his voice is a low growl in my ear. “No, but I intend to learn them—along with everything that makes you tick. I’m still not sure what really made you shut things down between us last summer, and I’m scared you’ll cut and run again before we can talk things through.” He pauses. “Before you give me a chance to win you back.”

I blink back tears, grateful that Camden can’t see my face. The brush of his lips against my ear and the low timbre of his rumbling whisper combined with the words he said—words that have me trembling from the top of my head to my toes—hit me like a sucker punch.

He wants me back .

My relief is almost as palpable as the same fear that made me escape down this hallway in the first place. Our lunch date tomorrow has been hovering at the very front of my thoughts like a shimmery mirage. I’ve been hopeful about how it will go, but even Camden’s most flirtatious texts have not been firm proof of anything.

I’m still not sure if considering this will be good for Liam, but I shove those thoughts away for now. If Camden wants to start over, to try a relationship not founded on words like casual and temporary , I will give serious thought to what this means for my son. First things first.

“But you’re on a date?” I whisper, hating that I feel so unsure but also hating the mental image I have of the pretty woman across the table from him.

“It’s not a date. There’s a longer and more complicated story, but this was a job interview.”

So much to unpack in that sentence, but I land on one word. “ Was? ”

“She did not get the job. Mostly because I think she wanted this to be a date, not a job interview. And the only person I want to go on a date with is you, Naomi.”

For a very long moment, we stand in this dim hallway, me relaxing into his strong embrace, his breath soft on my neck. I can’t feel his heartbeat, but I have to wonder if it’s going at the same impossibly fast rate as mine. I’m both limp with relief and coiled tight with anticipation.

I forget to even clarify what kind of job that woman was applying for.

“Say something,” he begs. “Do you want me to let you walk out of this door? Do you still want to go on our date tomorrow and talk things through?”

“No,” I say, slumping against him until he has to wrap his other arm around my waist to keep me upright. “I don’t want to walk away from you.”

My thoughts and emotions are like a swollen creek overrunning the banks in a wild torrent. I’m drowning, getting sucked under only to pop up again and again, trying to find air.

So I go with my gut, with what makes me feel safest.

“But I’m scared,” I say, and I try to pull away from his embrace.

At first, Camden seems like he’s going to let me. The arm around my shoulders drops, and he sighs heavily.

But then his hand grips my hip as he spins me so fast I almost drop the bag of food I forgot I was even holding. I drop it willingly when my eyes land on Camden’s face, because I need both hands to grab the loose material of his button-down shirt. Holding onto him seems suddenly imperative.

“Don’t do it again,” Camden says, and his voice takes on a gravelly rasp that hurts when I hear it. “Don’t run from me.”

“You’re the one who left,” I tell him, which isn’t fair but also happens to be factually true. “You ran too.”

“You told me to go,” Cam says, and his free hand cups my cheek. His gaze burns into mine. “And I started to think maybe you were smart to send me away. To stop things before they went too far. We both said casual, but it very quickly was not that for me.”

“It wasn’t for me either,” I admit. “But I don’t know how to do more. I never have. And with Liam to consider?—”

I have to stop. Because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.

“We need to talk about Liam. We probably need to talk about a lot of things. But I need to know what you want first.”

“I’m scared of what I want.” Swallowing, I force myself to keep going. It’s hard to do when I keep remembering the devastation I felt after Camden left. “I never want to feel again the way I felt after you left. Even if I was the one to send you away.”

“I should never have let you go,” Camden says, and his thumb brushes over the apple of my cheek with a tenderness that makes my breath shudder. “I should have fought for you. I was scared, too. I still am.”

This big, solid man doesn’t seem like he’d be afraid of anything. It feels strangely empowering to know that he’s scared of this too. Maybe two scared people together can be brave enough.

“I shouldn’t have given up on you and Liam,” Camden says. “I should have driven back the way I wanted to. I’ve thought about this over and over—I even considered leaving mid-season and returning to Oakley. I just …” His face falls, and his thumb stills on my cheek. “I believed you when you said you wanted me to go.”

He looks like there’s more he wants to say, but then he presses his lips together, his gaze sweeping over my face.

This is by far the worst and most painful conversation I’ve ever had. A big part of me still wants to choose avoidance and just run. Another part of me wants to let go of Camden’s shirt, which I’m still clutching in both fists, and wrap my arms around him, pulling him close while telling him how sorry I am.

I’ve been miserable for so many months, convinced that our breakup must not have mattered to him the way it did me. I didn’t ever consider that he might be harboring the same fears and the same hurt. Not when he said the breakup was the right choice.

I rejected him only to be rejected right back.

My tears started as soon as our phone call ended, but they didn’t really hit their peak until I’d run across the road—almost getting mowed down by tourists driving a golf cart—and onto the beach where I sprinted straight into the ocean in my clothes. The wet, salty slap of waves mixed with my tears. The ocean’s roar drowned out my sobs.

I’d never known heartbreak until that moment. Sad songs always felt a little melodramatic to me. The dark moments in romantic movies always had me rolling my eyes.

Even when my brother was miserable after Eloise left for grad school, I thought he was being a little over the top. Even if Eloise is amazing and totally worth him winning her back.

Finally, standing in waist-deep water and being knocked around, I understood what it felt like to have your chest cracked open and to have all the good things spill out, lost and ruined.

The echo of those feelings now rise in a painful wave. Liam wasn’t the main—or at least—the only reason I broke up with Camden.

It was self-preservation, pure and simple. The fear of exactly what happened: I fell in love, and I got really hurt. Even if it was set in motion by my own hand.

“I guess we both weren’t quite honest. With each other or with ourselves?”

“That’s a good assessment,” Camden says. Then he chuckles softly. “I didn’t plan to have any part of this conversation in a hallway beside the bathrooms.”

His lips curve up in the smallest smile. “Look, you obviously have somewhere to be, and I need to politely tell whatever-her-name-is that she’s not getting the job. Or my number.”

“Want me to tell her?” I offer.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Camden says. “Please know this: I don’t want to do the lack of communication or miscommunication thing with you anymore. I’m not good at this relationship … stuff. I don’t know what I’m doing or how to do it or even what you want. But we will talk about this tomorrow—about us . About a future. You. Me. Liam. Some complications in my own life.”

I suck in a breath, and this draws his gaze to my lips. Almost immediately, he jerks back up to my eyes.

“Are you agreeable to this?”

“That sounds very formal, sir.”

Camden narrows his eyes. “Answer the question, Naomi.”

“Yes. I agree to your proposal.” I realize what I’ve said when his eyes crinkle with laughter. “Not that kind of proposal! I was just trying to match your weird formal language. Shut up.”

He’s laughing now, but as I try to wiggle away, he stops. His gaze darkens, and he places both palms flat against the wall on either side of my head. A shiver of delight rolls through me as he leans close.

It feels like we’ve gone from arguing to digging out emotional turmoil to now … something very deliciously different.

Camden’s eyes narrow as he studies me.

“You look like you need convincing.”

“Do I?” I say breathlessly.

“You look like you still have half a mind to run.”

“I’m good at running.”

“Then I promise to be better at chasing. For now, I’ll give you some food for thought.”

I don’t know what I was expecting—I guess words .

Not Camden’s mouth to descend on mine: hot, eager, and very, very convincing.

Though I’ve replayed Cam’s kisses in moments of weakness more times than I want to admit over the past seven months, experiencing the real thing again almost knocks me off my feet. Mostly because I am no longer aware of my feet. Camden’s mouth demands my full attention.

I can barely keep up as his lips move against mine, and he seems to sense my overwhelm, quickly shifting gears and slowing to a pace that’s almost excruciating. His hands leave the wall and cup my cheeks, his palms a deliciously rough contrast to the gentleness.

That’s the thing with Camden: he is a study in contrast.

So strong yet so gentle.

A quiet man of few words, but when he decides to talk, he has so much to say.

His kisses are demanding, and yet it feels like he is giving me everything.

A sound escapes me, something shamefully revealing, and I can’t even bring myself to care. Especially not when Camden chuckles against my mouth, trailing kisses along my jaw until he reaches my ear. His teeth give my earlobe the lightest tug before he whispers, “I’ve missed your mouth.”

I’ve missed your everything.

I’m glad I don’t have enough breath to say the words. If I thought the sound I just made was embarrassing, it would be nothing compared to confessing how I feel.

But it’s true.

Kissing Camden is only a confirmation of how much I’ve missed him. How much better I feel with him. Maybe it’s wrong to feel more whole around another person—but that’s how I feel. Whole.

I’ve been on my own for so long. I mean, I’ve had my family around, and I’ve had Liam. But I’ve been functionally and enthusiastically independent for years now, in a way I had to be as a young, single parent.

So, it doesn’t seem like a dangerous codependence to admit that Camden makes me feel more me . I’ve conquered independence. And now, maybe it’s time to stop making it the goal.

“Naomi?”

“Hm?” My eyes open slowly, like I’ve just woken from the most luxurious sleep.

Leaving a too-quick kiss on the tip of my nose, Camden steps away and bends down to grab the takeout I’d forgotten all about. “Your food is probably getting cold.”

He holds it out, and I want to shove him because after that kiss he wants to talk to me about takeout?

But I do need to go. Parker and everyone else might already be at my house. I don’t want to show up late and looking totally kiss-drunk.

“You better call me,” I warn, taking the bag of food.

The grin Camden gives me is absolutely gorgeous. “Promise,” he says.

And before he can tell me not to, I push right through the emergency exit. The alarm is so loud that I’m almost to my car by the time I hear my phone ringing. Glancing down at the screen while balancing the takeout bag and my keys, I grin.

It’s Camden calling.

I can hear the echo of the alarm through the phone as I answer. “Ye-e-e-s-s-s?” I stretch the word into one long syllable, grinning all the while.

“Naomi.”

Hearing my name from him, even though the phone line, makes my stomach do a dramatic swan dive. “This is she.”

He chuckles. “It’s Camden.”

“I know.”

He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, he sounds adorably nervous. “I wanted to remind you that I need the address for your office so I can pick you up.”

“I’ll text you.” I suddenly remember the nagging questions that have taken a backseat with all of the other big things we’ve addressed. “By the way, what kind of job interviews are you conducting?”

“Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“You don’t have a Jane Eyre in the attic, do you?”

“From what I remember of Jane Eyre, it was a Bertha in the attic. And no—I don’t have a wife, girlfriend, or anyone else hidden in my attic.”

I’m oddly pleased he knows enough about Jane Eyre to correct me. More pleased that he says no.

“I promise, it has nothing to do with any kind of romantic entanglement.”

“Okay.”

“Naomi?”

I love the way he keeps saying my name. It’s as though he takes a little joy in it each time. “Camden.”

“I can’t wait.”