Page 20 of Fun Together (Make Romance #1)

Faye

When the Uber lets me out on a deserted street next to a warehouse on the outskirts of downtown, I’m convinced that instead of going on a date with a man who might be a little too into himself, I’m about to be murdered.

The only movement I catch is some type of small-to-medium-sized animal rummaging around a tipped-over city trash can.

This is what happens when you start dating again. You end up so desperate to get laid that you find yourself standing alone, with nothing but you and the sickening realization that this is where your actions have led you.

I check my phone to see if Cameron has texted me and I see a message from Rett.

Rett: Where the fuck are you?

At least I had the good sense to share my location with her before leaving my apartment tonight.

Faye: Cameron said he knew some kind of exclusive chef’s table they do here.

I’m now wondering if exclusive is a code for some type of weird cannibalism thing. Fresh, frightened flesh of a young, dumb woman coming right up.

Rett: You need to leave.

I see headlights in my periphery and decide to move so that I’m pressed against the building just in case it isn’t Cameron. The car stops a few feet from where I’m standing, and he gets out of the car.

Faye: Cameron just got here.

“Faye? Is that you?” he asks, approaching where I’m standing.

I step out of the shadows. “Yes, it’s me.” I wave awkwardly. “Hi.”

He gives me a hug, enveloping me in a waft of cologne. It smells good, maybe a little overpowering.

“Sorry I’m late. Had to cover someone’s shift.”

And he didn’t think to let me know so I wouldn’t be standing alone out here? “No worries.” I gesture to the building. “Is this the right place?”

“Yep, it’s just this way.” He takes my hand and leads me to a door on the side of the building. He knocks and shortly after a man appears.

“Name?” he asks.

“Brooks,” Cameron says.

“This way, please,” the man responds.

Cameron gestures for me to step in ahead of him. We’re led through a damp hallway and then down a pair of rickety metal stairs to another closed door.

The man unclips a ring of keys from his belt and flips to the key that unlocks the door. I hear chattering coming from inside and I feel relief that more people are on the other side.

“Right this way, Mr. Brooks.”

Cameron places a hand against the small of my back as we follow him into a low-lit room with small tables scattered around, where other couples are eating dinner. He stops by a table and Cameron and I take our seats.

“Someone will be right with you,” he says before disappearing through the door we entered through.

From what I can see of the space, it sort of looks like if you placed some tables inside an empty hardware store and shut off all the lights.

Cameron smiles at me from across the table, his perfect set of white teeth glowing in the dimness.

He’s good-looking in a very on-purpose kind of way.

He’s dressed in all black tonight. Black slacks, black button-down open halfway down his chest. He’s wearing a necklace that has a delicate gold chain with a small pendant resting just between his pecs.

He must catch me looking because he holds the pendant up for me to view. “My family’s crest,” he says. “From our hometown in Ireland.”

“Oh, are you Irish?” I’ve never caught the hint of an accent, but maybe he’s been in the United States for a while.

“Two percent,” he says proudly.

“Wow,” I say, taking a sip of water. “That’s cool.”

“I’m glad I was able to snag us a spot here. Very hard to get in, but they had a cancellation.”

“Luck of the Irish, I guess.”

He leans forward. “What was that?”

“Luck of the Irish? Because you’re . . . Irish?”

“Oh,” he pauses for a second before smiling. “Good one.”

How am I going to make it through this date if I have to explain every—admittedly stupid—joke all night?

A waiter saves us from the awkward silence when she approaches to tell us the menu this evening and moves to set a wine list down on the table for us to review. Cameron halts her before she can set the list down. “We’ll just have whatever the chef recommends tonight.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Brooks.”

I get the sense that he’s trying to show off for me and I wonder if this is his go-to first date spot. Everyone here seems to know him. Or maybe I’m just not used to eating at places where you’re referred to by your surname.

Turns out, I don’t really have anything to worry about on the awkward silence front because Cameron ends up talking enough for the both of us. I’m not a chatty person by any means, but I have said maybe ten words in the hour we’ve been here, and most of them were just “thank you” to the server.

I know all about Cameron, though. He’s originally from just outside of Boston but moved to Raleigh for school, and decided to stay because he liked the “North Carolina vibes.” I don’t ask for details on that because I’m not sure I want to know what that might mean.

He loves working in the coffee shop but hopes he can get some brand deals from his latte art videos so he can be a full-time content creator. He has a “sick” vinyl collection that he’s sure I’d love. How he’d know this, I have no clue since he hasn’t asked me anything about myself.

This could be an ideal scenario, though.

Maybe Rett is right, and I should lean into being mysterious.

If I’m just looking for something casual, why would I want him to know anything personal about me?

He doesn’t need to know that I grew up about thirty minutes away in a town with no grocery stores, but three Dollar Generals.

Or that I’m allergic to penicillin. I’ll keep the focus on him.

“What’s your favorite album you own on vinyl?”

He takes a thoughtful sip of his red wine. “They’re kind of out there and little experimental, but they’re really fun live. You’ve probably never heard of them.”

“Try me.”

“Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

I think he’s joking so I laugh, wondering if maybe I’ve just been misreading his personality and he’s been doing some kind of bit this whole time. But then he looks at me expectantly and I see that he legitimately thinks I may not have heard of one of the most popular bands of the last forty years.

I decide to do a bit of my own. “No, never heard of them,” I say, feigning ignorance.

“They’re awesome. Super retro but not in a lame way, you know?”

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

“Seriously. This new stuff? Painful. There’s no emotion behind it, you know?”

“Totally. I love music that you can just really feel in your soul.”

“Exactly. I saw them last year at . . .” his voice fades into the background as I discreetly check my phone.

Rett: I’m assuming you’re not strung up on a meat hook in that place.

Faye: Stop watching Peaky Blinders.

Rett: How’s it going?

Faye: Fine?

Rett: Want me to come get you?

Faye: No, I think I’ll stick it out.

I take a bite of my duck in some sort of red wine something or other. It’s sad, but I’ve been more engrossed in the food than my date.

Faye: The food is amazing at least.

“. . . a real spiritual experience.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing. Are you just a music fan or do you play, too?”

“My band is actually playing a show this weekend. You should come.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your band called?”

I’m guessing a string of nonsensical words or a reference to a random historical figure.

“Lobotomy Beach.”

Close enough. “Maybe I’ll swing by if I’m not busy.” It feels like the right thing to say, even if I have zero interest in finding out what his band sounds like.

We finish up our meal and he leads me back outside. It’s a muggy night, but you almost feel the first whispers of fall in the air.

“Thank you again for coming tonight,” he says, stepping so close to me that we’re practically toe to toe. Is he going to try to kiss me?

Do I want him to kiss me?

“It was . . . interesting. Can’t say I’ve ever eaten French food next to an auto body shop before.”

“You’re funny,” he says, leaning down to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I resist the urge to shy away from his touch. “What are your plans for the rest of the night?”

“I should probably get home to my . . .” I scramble trying to think of an excuse to leave. I think I have an idea of where Cameron wants the night to go, but I’ve decided I don’t want to go there with him. “Squirrels.”

He, rightfully so, looks confused. “Your squirrels?”

I pull out my phone to request the Uber. My driver is five minutes away. “Yeah, they can’t be left alone for too long.” It’s technically true. What if they finally manage to work their way through my ceiling? Someone should be there to monitor the situation.

“Okay . . .” He still seems uncertain, but accepts the answer. “Can I see you again?”

“Sure? I’d like that?” Am I asking him or me?

He pulls me in for a hug but doesn’t let go as he looks down at me. Here it comes, the first kiss I’ve had since Andrew. I find myself bracing for impact as he brings his mouth down to mine. The kiss is fine, but I had hoped for something sweeter, the two of us in perfect sync.

Instead, it’s clunky and I’m distracted trying not to think about how we’re standing precariously next to a puddle of unknown substance.

My thoughts wander to places anywhere but this kiss.

Like, is Eli having a good date, and did he wear his new shirt?

I didn’t end up wearing my new dress. I put it on, and it felt wrong to wear it for this date, like it deserved something more special.

Cameron seems pleased when he pulls away. The Uber pulls up shortly after and I have never been so happy to see a silver Honda CR-V in my life.

“Have a good night,” he says, licking his lips as he shuts my door for me.

I give him a small wave through the window, relieved that I can go home now. Even if I only have a family of potentially rabid squirrels for company.