Page 40 of My Sweetest Agony

I shift awkwardly on the leather seat, the sound of the movement suddenly very loud despite the noise surrounding us. “Well, you just left a meeting, so coming to a bar seems a little…inappropriate.”

Cam watches me for a second, sandwich held in one hand, the other resting on the table, so still that my breath catches.

Crap.

I definitely shouldn’t have said anything.

It isn’t my place.

All I’ve done tonight is step all over things that are none of my fucking business when it comes to Camden Usher.

My cheeks heat under his continued assessment, then the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“You worried about me, Ivy?”

Shit.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have?—”

Cam chuckles low, shaking his head gently. “I appreciate the concern. Really. I do. But I’m fine eating a cheesesteak in a bar.”

Maybe that’s true.

And I might believe it.

If it weren’t for the other thing.

My eyes drift to the draft beer sitting in front of him that had me practically biting off my tongue as he ordered it. “And what about that?”

His gaze follows mine, dipping to the table, to the untouched frosty glass with condensation dripping down the side of it. “I don’t plan on drinking it, Ivy.”

The conviction in his statement should settle me, but it doesn’t make any sense why he would leave a meeting and order a beer half an hour later…

“So…you ordered a beer to what?” I raise a brow. “Test yourself?”

He drums his fingers on the table, staring at the light-amber liquid for a few moments before he looks back up at me. That haunted look that always seems to overtake his gaze returns, making my chest tighten. “Something like that.”

Well, that sounds like a truly horrible idea…

I’ve never been to a meeting for any sort of addiction, but something tells me ordering a beer and eating dinner in a bar, surrounded by alcohol and people drinking, is a recipe for disaster when it comes to sobriety.

But it’s none of your business.

That’s what I have to keep telling myself.

I force my lips to stay plastered together rather than try to push the subject, which he clearly seems to think is closed, given the way he dives right back into his cheesesteak.

My eyes dip to mine, but the sloshing in my stomach—a mix of embarrassment for what a fool I acted like tonight, concern over the man across from me, and fear of why I care so much—prevents me from picking it up.

Cam watches me intently. “You need to eat, Ivy.”

All the meals he’s left for me over the past week flicker through my head. I’ve only managed to eat small portions of them each night, but I did eat. Far more than I had been. So, if that was his plan, he succeeded—at least, partially.

I nod. “I know…”

And it shouldn’t have taken Cam ordering me dinner every night to make me do it.

I’m perfectly capable of getting my own food—either delivered or cooking it myself. I made dinner almost every night in that house after we moved in since Drew never particularly liked eating out and said it was healthier to prepare our own meals.