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Chapter Twenty-Three

Austen

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, feeling more nervous than I’ve felt in a long time.

I know it’s just dinner. It’s just two old friends catching up, or more accurately, one old friend begging for forgiveness. My phone sits beside me on the grand sink in the master bath, its presence like a living, breathing entity.

All day, since I ran into Cam, all I could think about was texting him.

He hadn’t said he needed a ride, and I would have asked if he hadn’t just stormed away from me in such a hurry.

I get the feeling that asking Cam if he needs something is a one-way ticket to being iced out rather quickly. Which is why instead of asking for permission, he can just add my picking him up without a heads up to the list of grievances he’s got stacked against me.

I know it’s probably a long list at this point.

But I don’t care how long his list is. As long as I can get him in my car, I’ll have his full attention.

I run a hand through my hair, which has gotten a lot longer and thicker in the last few years.

Long enough to get a good grip between your fingers. I grew it out the first year of my marriage, after I’d gotten a massage—-something I do regularly now, to also help alleviate my stress—where the tech literally grabbed my hair in her fist and pulled it. It hurt, but when she released it, it felt so damn good. I thought maybe my wife would be into it, that maybe she’d do it if she was pissed off enough and it would be a win-win situation, but she just told me that was “weird” and no guy wants to have his hair pulled.

Why the hell not? Doesn’t everyone want a little tension relief?

Sucking in a deep breath, I stare at my reflection and give myself one last look over. I’d made sure to trim my facial hair as neatly as possible and even stole one of Savannah’s brow pens to fill in the little spots to make it look better, a trick I learned after she got her job with Sechea, the clothing design company she’s been working with for the last four years. The model they’d hired had come down with the flu, and Savannah was worried she’d come under fire if she couldn’t find a replacement.

I stepped in, not wanting her to be any more stressed than what she was. I thought the experience would bring us closer together. It was the only time she really thanked me for helping her, but the next day, it was back to the norm.

The norm being Savannah ignoring me unless she wanted something.

Still, I guess one of the perks of having a beauty-obsessed spouse who works in fashion means there’s no shortage of makeup or skincare in our house, which I’m thankful for.

Especially today, of all days.

I nod in approval, figuring this is the best I’m going to get, give myself a spray of cologne, and head for the front door.

The house is quiet, but that’s how it always is. Even when Savannah is here, she’s usually in her room or lounging on the couch, doom-scrolling her phone.

I make dinner every night, always set her a place, but she rarely joins me anymore.

That’s the way it’s been the last few years.

Starting up the car, I glance at the clock. I did set our reservation for seven, since it is a Saturday night and all, but it’s not like we have to go far.

The restaurant is nearly ten minutes from my house, technically, but Cam’s mom lives on the edge of the town, across the railroad tracks, which is about a twenty minute drive to Luigis from there.

So I know he hasn’t left yet, even if he was planning on catching a ride. Which means I have just enough time to get my ass over there and surprise him.

Is it a risk? Sure. He could very well tell me to fuck off and take my reservations and shove them and leave once again.

But something tells me he won’t. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, maybe it’s just my optimism, but either way, I don’t waste time as I pull out of the driveway and head over to Ms. Scott’s.

In all the years Cam and I were friends, I’d never been in his house. The in-law suite he stayed in was somewhat separate, and I’d only been in his room a handful of times.

Anytime I asked, he would get super defensive and whatnot, and I learned quickly it was a sore spot.

I know he felt embarrassed or worried I’d judge him, like if he could just separate us from his life, it was easier for him to pretend it wasn’t his life.

So I stopped asking because I didn’t want him to be uncomfortable, and as such any time we hung out, it was at my place, which was fine.

I wanted him to feel at-home in my home, even then.

I never got to show him my house—the one my parents gifted me and Savannah. But a part of me hopes maybe he’ll accept my apology, hear me out, and want to rebuild all the years we lost and maybe I’ll get to show him my house. That I’ll get to see him in my kitchen, or lounging on my couch, watching a movie or something.

I’m sure Savannah would be less than pleased to have Cam disrupting her strategically arranged throw pillows.

My vicious brain latches on to the latter, the image of Cam lounging on my couch, one arm behind his head, the motion elongating his toned biceps.

I can almost see those steely grey eyes gazing back at me from underneath a head of messy, dark hair, pillowy lips parted just the slightest.

My cock twitches, and I groan, absentmindedly adjusting myself with one hand while the other palms the steering wheel.

No. That is not happening. That is not why we are here! That kind of thinking is what got us in this predicament in the first place.

I wish I could say what happened between us really was a drunken mistake. That I had no idea what was going on, but the truth is… I did know. I knew when I kissed him what I was doing, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I’d been staring at his fucking mouth wondering how many men he’d kissed, days before I did it.

I knew when he was grinding his fucking dick against me, when he touched me, that I liked it. I liked it a lot more than I should have.

I swear, my cock has a fucking mind of its own. Especially when Cameron Scott is in the picture, which is why I can’t let my little head do all the thinking this time around.

If I want to repair my friendship with Cam, I have to focus on my friendship.

Not the memory of the most fulfilling orgasm of my fucking life.

I’m not making the same mistake twice.

Shoving the image out of my mind, I focus on the road until I pull up to his mother’s house. A sleek, black BMW sits in front of the house. It’s the same one he got into at the post office, so I know for certain he hasn’t left yet. The porch lights are on even though it isn’t terribly dark yet, and I park the car on the side of the street before getting out.

My heart pounds in my chest as I walk up the sidewalk, strewn with overgrown weeds and grass.

The only time I’ve been here was right after my honeymoon. I’d returned, thinking maybe Cam would have cooled off, but when I got here, I realized he was gone.

I came to his mom, asking if she knew where he went, but she told me she didn’t. Seems Cam had left without a word or a trace. He didn’t want to be found.

That’s what hurt the most, I think. I could handle it if he hated me… as long as he was here.

But knowing he was out there, somewhere I didn’t know, and might never see him again…

I didn’t eat or shower for three days after I found out he left, because I knew he left because of me.

And I hated that I hurt him so much that he couldn’t stand to be in the same fucking state.

Just as I reach the top landing, I hear the sounds of crashing. And yelling. Lots of yelling.

Panic surges through me as I ready to knock on the door, but it flies open instead, nearly knocking me over.

Cam freezes, eyes going wide when they settle on me. “What the hell are you doing here?” Cam seethes, his face flushed, eyes glassy.

The air whooshes around me as I reach out to steady him, my arm on his bicep.

“I came to pick you up. For dinner,” I say, but really it feels like I’m saying something else. Something I can’t say out loud.

I came for you.

“I don’t need you to—” he starts with a huff, yanking his arm out of my grasp. I hate the empty feeling, but I drop my hand nonetheless.

“Get in the car,” I say, my voice carrying a hint of command I haven’t heard since I used to call plays in college.

Cam grits his teeth, glancing at the door, more shouting coming from inside, then at my car. His jaw tenses as he scoffs out, ”Fine.”

He stomps away, not bothering for me to walk him to the car or wait for me to catch up. The curtain in the window shifts, and I see his scowling mother, glancing at him as he walks away, then she looks at me. She shakes her head before snapping shut the curtains.

I jog up the car, trying to make it before Cam does so I can open his door, even though I know he’s more than capable of doing it himself.

He beats me to it, though, and instead I climb into the driver’s seat.

He curls up in the passenger seat, leaning on the window frame. It’s a nice night out, warm enough neither of us need a jacket, though he’s wearing a plum velvet blazer, something not many people could pull off. Each time I’ve seen him this weekend, he’s been dressed well. Not that he used to dress terribly, but his clothes are more expensive now. Name brand. Fancy. He’s always presentable. And I recall his comment about having money now… not that I didn’t already know that. I’ve been following his career a little too closely.

I can’t deny the deep purple tone looks good on him, making his natural tan stand out.

Combined with his dark hair and his steely grey eyes…

I grip the steering wheel, forcing myself to look away.

No. No. No. No. Not this time, Austen. Eyes on the fucking road.

I pull out of my parking spot, turning the radio on.

“Feel free to put whatever you want on,” I say.

Cam doesn’t say anything, just stares out the window, his shoulders tense.

I want to press him, but I know I shouldn’t. If he wants to talk, he will. When he doesn’t move to change the station, I take the initiative and fiddle with the settings until I come across something that sounds oddly familiar, though I can’t recall where I know it from, but it’s enough to fill the car with a bit of energy.

I try my best to be upbeat, but the rest of the ride to Luigis is spent with Cam’s proverbial silence, which only makes me more nervous.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea…

Just as we pull up to the entrance where the valet is standing, Cam lets out a heavy breath, but I’m already putting the car in park. The valet meets me at my door and I hand him the keys with a polite thank you, and once Cam is out of the car, he eases up just a fraction, sliding his hands in his pockets while he waits for me at the doors.

Under the light, I get a clear look at him. The years have been good to him, no doubt, as he looks every bit far too polished to be standing here. With me.

I swallow harshly as I try not to stare. But fuck, it’s hard—a lot harder than I thought it would be.

I push aside my nerves and unease as I walk up to him, opening the door with a practiced smile.

“After you,” I say, watching as his eyes rove over me, silently judging me. My cheeks threaten to heat because there’s something about his judgmental glare that feels more like an appraisal than a judgment.

Like when you find an old piece of jewelry you wore all the time, and suddenly wonder if its value is actually worth anything substantial outside of the sentimental.

But I suppose judgment is what I deserve, at the very least, after what an ass I was.

He says nothing, but walks in the door as I hold it open for him. Joining him, I match his casual, affluent stride, feeling a fraction better because he’s just… here.

And for the briefest moment, it’s like he never left.

Careful, Austen. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

I meet the host at the podium and give them my name for the reservation.

“Two for Brewer, seven p.m.”

The host looks at me with that same dreamy expression most women in this town do, but I ignore it.

Despite the fact I’m married, I’ve been flirted with, hit on, and propositioned on more than one occasion by the women of this town. Though I’ve never felt any attraction, any inkling whatsoever to flirt back or take anyone up on such propositions, and I’ve never been anything less than polite.

She takes a glance at Cam, her doe-eyed expression turning to one of interest. I don’t miss the way her eyes dip to his hand, probably looking for a ring. She smirks when she doesn’t see one. I wonder if she recognizes him or just thinks he’s hot.Cam shakes his head and scoffs as she leads us to a quiet corner, the table set with wine glasses and candles amid a large window overlooking the scenic river.

It’s quite intimate and warm, and I can only imagine all the dates that take place here. Which should bother me, being as I didn’t specify this was a date, but it’s too late to change such things now.

The hostess angles herself just so, so that her breasts are practically spilling out of her tight top as she hands a menu to Cam, and I can’t help but smirk.

He grabs it with precision, thanking her with a grin that emits more sarcasm than actual politeness.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, twirling her finger in her hair. “Some sparkling water, some wine, some—”

“We’ll take two glasses of Chardonnay, thank you,” I say as Cam rolls his eyes. “Unless, of course, you prefer something else?” I raise an eyebrow at him. He can be as salty as he wants. I live with Savannah. Salt is ninety-nine percent of my diet. A little attitude is not going to deter me from my mission.

Cam relents, sitting up straighter in his seat. He flashes the waitress a gaze I can only describe as smoldering. I’m sure it’s an occupational hazard, but fuck.

“Macallan neat, please. He can have the grape juice.” Cam raises an eyebrow at me as if to challenge me, and I can’t help but smile.

I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him.

The waitress giggles, telling us she’ll be back with our drinks, and when she’s gone, I’m thankful.

“Didn’t peg you for a fan of Macallan,” I say, testing the waters.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says, his tone tinged with bitterness.

My heart sinks, my smile turning to a frown.

“You’re right.” I lick my lips. “I’m sure there are plenty of things I don’t know about you. But I’d like the chance to learn them,” I say softly.

Cam crosses his arms as he looks at his menu. He doesn’t answer me, but that’s fine.

He’s still here. Sitting across from me. Even if I do all the talking tonight, it’s a victory because he’s here.

A moment of silence passes as our waitress comes with our drinks, dropping them off and taking our orders. When she leaves, I reach for my wine, swirling it around the glass. I watch its legs—the viscosity of the liquid—as it clings to the inside, dripping down slowly until it returns from whence it came.

“Austen,” he says, letting out a heavy breath as he clutches his glass. I can see the slightest tremble in his shoulders.

“Yes?” I ask, waiting for him to continue. Waiting for him to get what he needs off his chest.

I’ve thought about this moment for seven years.

I’ve gone over every scenario I could think of, and I still can’t believe we’re here.

“What are we doing here?” he asks solidly, sipping his drink.

“We are having dinner. Talking,” I say as I set my arm on the table. The black rim of my watch catches the light, and I notice Cam’s gaze as it falls to my wrist.

My fingers play with the base of the wine glass, and suddenly the overwhelming weight pressing on my heart is too much.

I catch his gaze, my insides twisting like a hurricane. There are a million things I want to say.

A hundred things I’d practiced saying, even before we came out here tonight.

But none of those things actually come out of my mouth.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” I say, my voice barely a whisper as the memories resurface.

I pull my hand back from the base of my wine glass, curling my fingers into a fist.

Cameron sighs, taking a long drink.

“You think that fixes everything?” he asks, but his voice is tired.

“No,” I say honestly. “But it’s the truth. I didn’t want to hurt you, but—”

Tears threaten my eyes, but I hold them back. I need to do this without falling apart.

“But you did,” Cameron says solidly.

It’s no use. The tears swell in my eyes. “I did.”

Cam relaxes in his chair as he sets his glass down, his arm settling on the table. His palm remains open, his fingers just inches away from mine.

My gaze settles on it, remembering the warmth of his palm on my skin, the firmness of his grasp on my neck.

My cock twitches with its own admissions, and my jaw tenses. I cross my legs under the table, trying to kill the sudden hardness forming from the memory I try to bury constantly, but that which never truly rests.

I unfurl my fist, flexing my fingers so they trace the edges of my wine glass. I stare at that open palm, wanting to know if it’s still as warm as I remember.

But I don’t touch him.

I can’t.

Because the minute I do, it’s all over.

So I pull my hand back and that is the moment our giggly waitress decides to return with drink refills and our food. I order a water instead, since I’m the driver, but also because I want to make it through this dinner and the car ride in one piece.

Because Cam is too important to me to fuck this up. Again.

And I know, somewhere deep down in the pit of my soul, exactly what I’d do with a few drinks and Cameron Scott.

The thought lands, and I do my best to cut my steak au poivre and not come apart at the seams.

And then he speaks.