Page 13

CHAPTER 13

Camden

Was it a mistake not to give Naomi a heads up about the extra guest on our date? Probably.

Is it still considered a date when you have a chaperone? Probably … not.

But, as Noami’s laughter rings out over the story Mike’s recounting about something stupid I did when I was sixteen, I’m not exactly sorry either.

“Since he lost a bet he never should have made in the first place, his teammates got to pick a task.” Mike has always been a good storyteller, and Naomi is hanging on every word.

When I picked her up at her office, she burst out of the door with a big smile, then paused at the sight of Mike standing next to me. It was only a tiny pause, though, and after introducing Mike, explaining that I’d lived with Mike’s family as a teenager, she just rolled with it. And by that, I mean she spent the car ride all the way through our meals at this bistro that Felix recommended goading Mike into telling her as many embarrassing stories as possible.

There are way more than I remember, and Mike’s memory is sharp when it comes to this period of time. He’s been more than willing to share. Comparatively, I was a pretty good kid. But when you’re playing youth hockey, there’s always some kind of trouble. I guess a little dose of humiliation is what I deserve for springing this on Naomi.

So far, Mike seems to be keeping the past in the past. I’m not sure when now is for him, but he’s telling the stories like they are distant memories, not like I’m currently the teenager who recently lost a bet with his teammates.

Naomi’s eyes, sparkling with mirth, fix on me. “You’re telling me this guy, the one who uses as few words as possible as often as possible, did Lady Gaga karaoke—complete with choreography?”

Mike grins. “Yup.”

“Can he even sing?”

“Absolutely not.”

As she turns to me, she grins. It takes work not to let my gaze fall there or my thoughts to go back to our kiss last night.

I swallow. “How about dancing, Cam?”

The nickname slips out, and she doesn’t seem to notice. I do. And it reminds me of last summer and the way she stopped using my whole name by the second week we were hanging out. I wonder if she was aware back then? It makes light, warm and golden, flood through my chest.

I want to reach for her, but so far, I’ve kept my hands to myself. It just seems wiser, at least for now. I didn’t tell Mike this was a date per se, only that I wanted him to meet someone. His eyes lit up knowingly when he saw Naomi, but nothing else has been said. Somehow, I feel like taking Naomi’s hand across the table might curse how well this has gone.

Trying to navigate this situation isn’t easy. My thinking was that having Naomi meet Mike would make more sense than just an explanation. I’ve never been great with words anyway.

Naomi leans forward, and the movement reminds me that she’s still waiting on my answer. I got lost in her lips and then in my thoughts.

“I’m terrible at dancing,” I say. “And it took me hours to learn the steps.”

“But he fully committed,” Mike says, sounding as proud as if he’s talking about a game-winning goal. “Outfit and all.”

Naomi cackles. “ Outfit? Tell me you have photo evidence.”

“Of course.” Mike already has his phone out.

I’m sure he did have pictures at one point. But as he starts swiping through his photos, his forehead creases in a frown.

“Huh. I can’t seem to find them. I must have …”

He trails off, and I tense, realizing perhaps too late that scrolling through his phone might mean crashing directly into a confusing reality. It’s the first stumble he’s had during our lunch, but it’s subtle enough Naomi hasn’t noticed.

Mike’s frown deepens, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t …”

She notices now. Concern paints her features as she reaches over to touch Mike’s shoulder gently. He jumps and drops his phone on the table. I catch a glimpse of his screen, still lit up where it landed. It shows a lot of pictures of Mike at the lake with some people I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to recognize them either.

“It’s okay,” Naomi tells him. “You can show me the pictures another time.”

“Mike—” I start.

“Right,” he says. “Maybe I’ll find them later.” A smile appears, smoothing out the worry lines from his face, though I can see the effort it takes for him to override the moment of confusion. “I probably have one printed out somewhere.”

He clicks off his phone and turns it facedown, abandoning the hunt for pictures as well as any sense of momentary confusion he had.

Naomi looks between us, too observant to have missed the brief tension, even though it’s clear she doesn’t understand it.

Thankfully, Jordan appears by the table then, just as he and I talked about earlier.

“Hey,” he says, running a hand over his dark ponytail. “I hope I’m on time.”

Mike smiles, clearly recognizing the man who’s been spending most days with him but then seems to fumble for his name or any context. With his long hair, hemp necklaces, and patchy goatee, Jordan has the crunchy hippie thing going on. It threw me off the first time I met him, but his warmth, confidence, and his way of handling Mike with ease earned my confidence quickly.

“Good to see you … again,” Mike says, still searching through a mental database and coming up short.

I step in. “Naomi, this is Jordan. He’s my personal assistant and acts as Mike’s personal chauffeur.”

This is the story Jordan suggested to explain his presence to Mike. “A hockey player could use an assistant,” he’d said with a shrug. “Easy.”

It’s worked so far, though every so often when Mike thinks I’m back in high school, he assumes Jordan is an unlikely looking teammate.

“Nice to meet you.” Jordan holds out a hand to Naomi, who shakes it, offering him a friendly smile. “I’m here to grab Mike.”

Naomi glances at me, eyes narrowing a little. I give her a little nod that I hope communicates, Hang on and I’ll explain everything.

“I can drive, you know,” Mike tells her. “My car just … isn’t here.”

And it’s true; he can drive. Technically. Up until he moved here, he was driving, and the thought terrifies me. His car actually is here, but I’m currently paying for long-term storage.

Mike’s driving is actually how his family found out he needed help. Mike left home, then forgot where he was going and where he lived. Eventually, he ran out of gas and the police found him on the side of the road, overheated, a little dehydrated, and totally beside himself. They found his daughter’s contact info in his phone, and Lisa called because she thought I’d want to know. I’m sure she didn’t expect my offer to take him in.

Anyway, the whole incident started the process that led to him being here. Without a license. Or access to his car.

I keep my car keys hidden at Jordan’s recommendation.

“But Jordan loves your company,” I tell Mike.

“I do,” Jordan says easily. “Are you ready to head out? I thought you and I might stop for a malt on the way home.”

Chocolate malts have always been one of Mike’s favorite things. I didn’t even know what they were before living with him, and I don’t particularly like the taste. But for him, they make an easy bribe.

He pats his belly. “I’d love a malt. But how will you get home?” he asks me with a frown.

Naomi takes a sip of water, watching me carefully over the rim of her glass.

“We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“Will you give him a ride home?” He glances earnestly at Naomi. “He’s not supposed to drive our cars. Insurance purposes—you know how those companies are.”

“Um,” Naomi says, still looking at me.

Jordan jumps in to save us. “They’ll be fine,” he tells Mike. “And I bet they’ll enjoy their privacy.” He gives me a roguish look then elbows Mike, who chuckles. “If you know what I mean.”

I’m not a man who blushes, but I can feel the heat traveling up the back of my neck. This was not part of the plan Jordan and I discussed earlier. But then, when we’re both playing roles, playing along is part of the game.

I heave a good-natured sigh and roll my eyes.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Mike says with a smirk, and I have a brief and terrible flashback of him saying those exact words the one and only time I had a girl over to their house back in the day. “And remember your curfew, young man.”

I give him the only correct response in this case, which is a polite “Yes, sir.”

To her credit, Naomi sits quietly through the exchange, not looking embarrassed or even confused—just like she has a million questions she’ll lob at me as soon as Jordan and Mike are out of earshot.

“Hope to see you again soon, sweetheart.” Mike winks at Naomi. “And I’ll dig up that photo of Camden for you. In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s a video of the whole thing somewhere.”

“No,” I groan dramatically, though if such a thing does exist, I’m sure he won’t be able to find it.

“Yes! Please. It was great to meet you.”

“Normally, I might try to tell you you’re too good for him,” Mike tells her, then cuts his eyes to me. “But he’s a pretty decent kid. No singing voice and zero rhythm, but otherwise, decent.”

A swell of emotion rises, and my gaze falls to my hands in my lap. Mike’s approval hits me in a visceral way, a warm wave that buoys me at first before I’m dragged under by unwelcome thoughts of my own father. Who probably doesn’t know or remember my lack of singing or dancing ability.

Who might suspect I’m a decent guy but not have any actual data points to be sure.

I’m vaguely aware of Naomi standing to give Mike a hug. By the time she turns and hugs a surprised Jordan, I’ve mostly shuttered up the thoughts of my family.

Jordan is a hugger. He squeezes Naomi back tightly, giving me a wicked smile over her shoulder, as if he knows I don’t like seeing him touch her. It’s probably written very clearly on my face. So, why hide it?

I glare at him.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again sometime soon,” Naomi tells Mike. “How long will you be in town?”

Confusion flashes quickly across Mike’s face, and he glances between Jordan and me. “I think …”

“A while,” Jordan answers quickly. “Ready for that malt?” Jordan gives Mike’s shoulder a squeeze and starts to move toward the front of the bistro.

“Absolutely.” Mike’s expression smooths out and he smiles once more at Naomi. “You’re welcome at our place anytime. But”—now he turns to me— “remember the house rules. No girls in the bedroom. Especially pretty ones.”

Jordan laughs. “You’ll have to remind me of the other house rules,” he says. “I think I forgot a few.”

“Will do. Important to keep these young guys in line. Speaking of which—and this is the last thing before we go—can you convince Camden to let me cut his hair?” he asks Naomi.

I swear, they are never going to leave this restaurant. This extended conversation is making me twitchy. I’m starting to think this was a really terrible idea in the first place.

Naomi tilts her head a little, giving the top of my head a once-over. I want to squirm under her attention but force myself to be still.

“I kind of like the messy look,” she says. “But maybe a trim wouldn’t hurt.”

“I do a great job,” Mike says.

“He does,” I agree. During the time I lived with him, he was the only person who touched my hair with scissors. I still think he does better than anyone else I’ve found, no matter how much I pay now for a cut. “Can we talk about this later?”

“You could use one too,” Mike tells Jordan, who looks aghast and touches his ponytail protectively.

“Locks of Love would be able to make a beautiful wig,” I tell him, payback for the extended hug with Naomi.

“It would,” Naomi agrees, giving Jordan a little smirk.

He presses a hand to his chest in mock horror. “You two deserve each other. Let’s go, Mike. And if you so much as mention my hair again, I’m not stopping for that malt.”

As the two of them walk away, laughing and talking, Naomi’s sharp gaze lands on me, somehow at once both inquisitive and accusatory. But before she can ask one of what I’m sure are many questions in her mind, our waiter stops by, asking if we want dessert.

I order a cappuccino and Naomi does the same but also adds a chocolate raspberry cheesecake. The waiter clears our plates, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, Naomi leans forward, steepling her fingers together. She doesn’t ask a question. She just waits, which is almost worse.

Clearing my throat, I wipe my hands on the khaki pants Mike insisted I wear when he saw me in jeans. “Can’t wear jeans for a date,” he’d said.

“Did I say it was a date?” I asked.

“No, but your nerves did.” He was right. Though I wish I’d gone with jeans. I don’t get the feeling Naomi cares about my pants.

Right now, for instance, she’s more concerned with the very confusing scenario I just dropped her into.

“You met Mike.” Not a great way to start, and Naomi seems to agree, giving me the smallest of eye rolls.

“I did meet him. And Jordan. Your … assistant?”

“Not quite.” I take a sip of my water while Naomi waits. “He’s actually a caregiver I hired who helps out with Mike when I’m not home. You might have noticed a few times, but Mike has early-onset dementia. He’s not aware anything’s wrong—at least most of the time. But his short-term memory is very affected, and he kind of bounces back and forth between the present and the past.”

Understanding passes over her face, then something a little sadder. “So, you just … play along?”

“Basically. He’s able to make some sense of things, even if he’s mixing up the present and the past in the same conversation. When he runs into a wall, like things that he can’t make sense of or remember?—”

“Like the photos on his phone?” she asks.

“Exactly. He gets agitated. The doctor said it’s fine to just go along with most things, unless it comes down to a safety issue. Most of the time, he thinks I’m back in high school, living with his family.”

“Ah. This is the complication you had at home,” she says, and I appreciate her putting the pieces together from our conversation at the Summit.

“Yes.”

“He’s not just visiting, is he?” she asks.

I shake my head slowly. “He moved in with me a little over a month ago.”

“He doesn’t have any family?”

“Mike had an affair a few years after I left,” I say bluntly. “Debbie divorced him and remarried. I’m not sure his daughter, Lisa, ever forgave him. She was in college while I was living with them, so we weren’t close, but once she found out about Mike’s condition, she called to let me know. I don’t think she expected me to want him to come live with me. But when she said she was planning to put him in a home, I just couldn’t live with that.”

“The woman you were interviewing was another caretaker?”

I grimace. “So she said. I’ve switched services and think I have a few good options lined up. Jordan handles the day-to-day, but I need a few other people for away games.”

Naomi is quiet, and I can’t tell if she’s quiet because she disapproves of my choice or because she pities Mike. I just have no idea. Lisa made it clear she doesn’t think this is a good idea long-term. And maybe she’s right.

The waiter returns then with our cappuccinos and Naomi’s cheesecake. As soon as he’s gone, Naomi reaches across the table, clutching my hand. I go still.

Her touch makes me realize how tense I’ve become. As she brushes her thumb over the back of my hand, tension lifts from my body, a fog burned off by her brightness.

“Mike was right about you, Cam. You are a very decent guy.”

My throat works, but I can’t swallow or manage words to answer, so I just nod.

Naomi drops my hand and pops a bite of cheesecake into her mouth with a smile. I’m distracted by the tiny smudge of chocolate in the corner of her mouth as she says, “Too bad about the dancing and singing or you might just be the total package.”

* * *

After I answer more of Naomi’s questions about Mike and we finally leave the bistro, I manage to redeem the date that really wasn’t a date.

Or, rather, the weather redeems it for me.

“It’s snowing,” Naomi says, halting on the sidewalk. She tips her face up to the soft gray sky, closing her eyes as fat snowflakes drift around her, caching in her hair and lashes.

She smiles, eyes still closed, then just the tip of her tongue peeks out, catching a few flakes.

“Guess you don’t see too much of this,” I say, shamelessly watching her mouth until she opens her eyes and I meet her gaze.

“No, we don’t. This is …” She shakes her head. “I was going to say magical, but I’m not that cheesy.”

But it is kind of magical. Especially seeing the way the flakes land in her hair and on her shoulders, tiny white flecks that almost immediately melt and disappear.

“Maybe the occasion warrants it,” I tell her.

When she smiles up at me, her eyes are soft. “Maybe it does.”

I reach into my coat pocket, hesitating for a moment when my fingers brush soft fabric. I’m as nervous as I’ve ever been around a woman to pull out the scarf I’ve kept hidden through this whole lunch, unsure when the right time would be.

“I got you something,” I say, sounding every bit as awkward as I feel. Pushing through, or perhaps pushing aside, the feeling, I step closer to Naomi and drape it around her shoulders, lifting her hair as I secure it around her neck. My fingertips brush the soft skin of her throat, and I hear a catch in Naomi’s breath. Not quite, but almost a gasp.

I’m aware of her eyes on me as I knot the scarf under her chin, methodic and slow. Wanting a reason to be this close, knowing I probably don’t need a reason at all.

“I don’t know your favorite color,” I say, still avoiding her gaze. I am typically a quiet guy. Quiet—but not shy like I feel now. “This one had a lot of colors. Bright, happy, fun. They made me think of you.”

“Camden,” she whispers.

Finally, my hands still grasping the fringed edges of the scarf like they’re all that’s keeping me on my feet, I meet her gaze.

“Thank you,” she says. “This is really, really nice.”

“It wasn’t expensive.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to point this out. I immediately backpedal. “I could have gotten a nicer one. I just liked these colors.”

“I don’t need an expensive scarf, Camden. You thinking of me, saying colors remind you of me, it’s?—”

She presses her lips together, and for a moment, I have the sickening suspicion I’m about to make her cry. But resolve takes over her features and she reaches up, grabbing my hands with hers.

“I love it. Thank you.” She pauses. “And my favorite color is turquoise. More on the blue side than green.”

I nod, like I know what the hell that means. I intend to learn it. Later.

Because right now, I need to kiss her.

So, I do, leaning forward and brushing my lips over hers, even though I told myself before this date I wouldn’t.

Naomi makes a tiny sound, a hum that sounds like pure contentment, and then she wraps her arms around me, tugging me closer, like the inches between us were just too far. My heartbeat riots in my chest as her mouth moves against mine with an intensity clearly assuring me that I wasn’t the only one who replayed last night’s kiss in my head.

Or maybe all of our past kisses for all the months we’ve been apart.

This wasn’t how I intended to do things. Not kissing her last night in the hallway or right here on the sidewalk when we still haven’t talked about how we feel or what we want. I planned to do things right this time with her. No pretending like I think we both did last summer—saying it was casual while something much deeper was growing underneath.

Now that the door has been opened, though, I can’t go back to not kissing her. Not feeling the way her lips move under mine, somehow both pliant and firm, an agreeable fighter. As if to illustrate this very thing, she pulls back just slightly and nips at my bottom lip.

I chuckle, the sound low and sandpaper rough. “I wasn’t going to kiss you again. Not when we haven’t talked about this, about us.”

Naomi’s lips graze the corner of my mouth. “Well, that just seems cruel and unusual. I vote we keep kissing on the table.” A pause. A kiss. “Kissing on the table sounds fun.”

I groan, remembering late nights of leaving Naomi at the doorstep of the little cottage on Oakley, returning to my hotel feeling kiss-drugged and effervescent.

She’s been teasing me with her light kisses, and I turn the tables now, letting go of her scarf to cup her cheeks, tilting her mouth up to mine. I don’t get very far though because the door to the bistro suddenly opens behind us, reminding me there is a bistro at all—and we’re making out right in front of the door.

Curling an arm around Naomi’s shoulders, I move us away from the door, putting our backs to the people who just came outside. Honestly, the interruption is for the best.

Being a hockey player isn’t like being an A-list celebrity or even a famous football or basketball player. There won’t be paparazzi hiding in bushes or using telephoto lenses to see into our windows or yards. But the Appies are all over social media, and we’re an institution here in Harvest Hollow. It wouldn’t be unheard of for some random person to snap a photo or a video and post it online somewhere.

I really haven’t had to worry about this, but I’ve had a very boring life off the ice. Somehow, I have a feeling kissing a woman on a sidewalk in the middle of the day might invite more attention than I want.

“I have to get back to work,” Naomi says with a sigh that brushes across my cheek, warmth mixing with the cold of the snowflakes that are falling harder now.

“I want to take things slow,” I say, tracing the line of her jaw with a fingertip, “but this isn’t quite what I had in mind. We spent half of our time with Mike telling terrible stories about me, and the rest talking about him.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad he came, and I’m glad you told me. It’s really amazing what you’re doing for him.”

I want to argue that anyone would, but I also know that’s not true. In some ways, being abandoned by my family made me the exact kind of person who couldn’t leave Mike in a home somewhere. I won’t leave him.

“You have a Mike, and I have a Liam.” She shrugs. “If we’re going to have an actual relationship, we have to figure out what that means.”

She’s right, but I still regret not taking her on a proper date alone. Or is that just the part of me that’s still drawn to her mouth like it’s a task I’ve started and now need to finish.

“I have to tell you something maybe I should have told you before.”

“That sounds … dire. Okay. Tell me.”

“Liam came to see me on Oakley. After you broke up with me.”

She stiffens. “He did?”

“He wanted me to stay. He was crying and—” I have to pause and clear my throat. “I think I realized why you broke up with me. For him. It didn’t make sense until I saw his face.”

“So, when I called you and apologized, it was because of Liam you left.”

Her voice is flat, and I can’t tell if she’s angry or maybe just processing the information.

“Yes. I probably should have told you but?—”

“Not probably, Cam. You should have.” Her voice is firm, but not angry. “Like you should have texted me to say you were working with him during hockey classes. When it comes to Liam, there can’t be secrets or things you don’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry.” I cup her cheek. “You’re right; I shouldn’t have kept this from you. I … didn’t think of it like that.”

When she smiles, relief is a balm washing over me. “I appreciate you looking out for Liam. And for me.”

“So, this isn’t a dealbreaker?”

“No. I’m not going anywhere, Camden,” she promises.

But as I gaze into her stormy blue eyes, the tiniest flicker of something flashes there and then is gone. It looked an awful lot like hesitation, almost like she’s trying to convince herself but isn’t quite certain yet.

This tiny, possibly imagined emotion I see plants a tiny seed of concern.

I may not have known her favorite color until moments ago, but what I do know and what I can see in her is a woman who still runs when she’s scared. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, I only recognize it because running away is my tendency as well.