Chapter 32
32
Josefine
The air is warm, and the world around me is vibrant and alive. From the cheerful geraniums in neighborhood planters and window boxes, to the climbing roses and lush peonies, June in New York City is my new favorite.
“I can’t thank you enough for letting me crash with you the past week,” I tell Ezra over Chinese takeout. We’re sitting at the dining table while the sounds of the city seep in from the open windows.
“Don’t mention it.” He slurps his lo mein and smiles.
“This week has flown by,” I say, more to myself than to him.
The writing workshop is incredible. Ari is a riot and has filled the writing-partner void that opened inside me when I left Santa Monica. While Brooks and I still share our latest works-in-progress through email and text, the distance and time difference make it difficult to give the immediate feedback we both need. Plus, there’s nothing like in-person accountability. After only two classes with Talulah, the literary fire inside me is blazing, invigorating me to focus on my writing.
Between clients and my book, I haven’t climbed out of my metaphorical cave much. I’ve barely talked to Millie. She’s been busy with work, too, and with whatever is happening between her and Sam, whom I’ve yet to meet. I’m looking forward to cracking open a bottle of Sauvy B and pinning her down until she catches me up on all the details of her week.
“Are you excited to have Cam back?”
Ezra tilts his head to the side and assesses me for a moment. “Do you know he only lets his family and me call him that?”
“Call him what?”
“Cam.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I duck to hide my embarrassment. “Oh shit, am I not supposed to call him that?”
The night we met, he introduced himself as Cameron, I suppose. But when I shortened his name, he didn’t correct me. He’s never corrected me.
Ezra shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“So,” I hedge when he doesn’t elaborate, “when does Cameron get back?”
“Tomorrow. Around one, I think.”
Great. I’ll have more than enough time to change the sheets and restock the fridge after Ezra leaves for work. I’ll drop my bags at my apartment before heading to the Black Hole, then to West Harlem for Talulah’s writing workshop. No Sunday Scaries here!
From the kitchen, he hollers, “Do you mind finishing cleaning up? I’m heading out for the night.”
“Sure thing,” I reply, standing to collect the remaining take-out cartons. “Will you be back later or—” I snap my mouth shut. Maybe my question is a little too intrusive.
Ezra wanders out of the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. It’s not unwelcome, but it surprises me. We just met, though we’ve quickly become friends. “I’m going to Brooklyn to see my mom. I won’t be home.” He presses a chaste kiss into my hair. “It’s been nice having you around, kid. Don’t be a stranger now that Cam’s coming back. We’re neighbors, after all.”
I return the hug and force a polite smile, because, truth be told, I don’t know what’s going to happen when Cam—uh, Cameron —returns. I don’t plan to actively avoid him, but I also don’t see myself going out of my way to have a friendship with him. Or do I? There’s no reason we can’t be friends moving forward, right? I’m a mature adult. Okay, I’m an adult. I can be friends with a guy I’ve had sex with once or ten times and not be weird about it. Yes. Yup. Totally.
I triple-check the lock behind Ezra before emptying the remaining contents of the bottle of wine we shared with dinner into my glass. With my laptop in tow, I settle in one of the twin leather captain’s chairs in the living area and turn on The Office for background noise. I get lost in the clicks of the keys on my keyboard as my fingers struggle to keep up with the sheer number of ideas erupting from me.
When my neck and hips ache, signaling that I’ve been sitting for too long, I check the time. It’s after midnight. How long has Are you still watching? been frozen on the television screen? Standing, I drain the pale liquid from my glass and take it to the kitchen. I’ll finish the dishes in the morning.
I turn off the lights as I move from the kitchen, through the living area, and into the bedroom.
In the bathroom, I open his medicine cabinet one last time, even though I’ve memorized its contents: Motrin, eye contact solution, Benadryl, a travel-size Crest toothpaste, floss (good boy), a disposable razor I may or may not have used because I forgot mine, deodorant, and expired cold and flu medicine that I’m tempted to throw out. I decide against it. I don’t want him to know I snooped, after all. But doesn’t everyone snoop inside people’s medicine cabinets?
I climb into the queen-size bed for the last time. Either the mountain-fresh scent of the dark gray sheets has faded, or I’m immune after a week. Turning off the main light with the remote control, I exchange my phone for my Kindle, and before I know it, I find myself downloading The Alchemist .
By the time I get to the part about the boy finding the courage to tell his father he’d rather travel than become a priest, I understand why Cameron likes this book so much. I read a little more—about Santiago and his dreams and the secret to happiness, before my mind wanders to the man whose bed I’m sleeping in. Besides his comments on my posts and briefly texting about our favorite books and the secret menu, we haven’t chatted.
What did he do after I left Greece? Did he go on any more hikes? Hang out at the nude beach again?
I clamp my eyes shut, but images of him on that beach are permanently painted against my lids: thick thighs and a toned abdomen. Ass cheeks flexing and contracting with every step on the shore. The sand peppered across his hard chest. How I licked the saltiness off his nipples in jest.
Dammit. I squeeze my thighs together, but it’s too late. My panties are already soaked. I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow, releasing a frustrated groan. It doesn’t appease the ache at my core, though. If anything, the friction caused by the movement intensifies it. With a deep breath in and out, I drag my hand down my body. I stop when I reach my clit and rub light circles over my underwear. It’s instantly obvious that my own touch won’t be sufficient tonight, so I reach for my vibrator, temporarily perched on the bedside table. I absolutely cannot forget to pack it tomorrow morning .
The silicone device whirs to life when I flick the switch, and a low buzz joins the white noise of the city outside.
Let’s try this again.
I slip my underwear down my legs and kick them off, then I let the vibrations take control. My body relaxes, and I sink into the mattress. With the apartment to myself, I let out a moan. I drag the vibe through my slit, collecting my arousal, then slide it inside me an inch or two. It’s a tight fit, so I repeat the action once, then again. Deep pulses arise, signaling ecstasy is just around the corner. I snake a hand up my shirt so I can twist and pull at my nipple.
A clatter sounds on the other side of the apartment.
My heart leaps into my throat, and all signs of climax dissipate like smoke.
Footsteps sound on the floor, drawing closer. I jackknife up in bed and mentally flip through all likely scenarios.
Could it be Ezra?
Did he change his plans?
If it’s him, though, he’s being kind of loud for after midnight.
Oh my god!
Someone is breaking in! That has to be it. All sense of logic and reasoning flies out the window, and I’m one hundred percent sure there’s a criminal in the apartment. With my vibrator gripped tightly in one hand, I fumble around for the remote on the nightstand with the other. If I flip on the light, maybe make noise and signal to the intruder that someone is home, they’ll get spooked and take off, right?
Shadows move in the sliver of light between the door and floor, and the sound of feet on the hardwood grows louder. Just as I locate the proper button on the remote, the door flies open. Afraid for my life, I throw the items clutched in both hands at the intruder.
“What the fuck? ”
This is it. This is how I die . I couldn’t have gotten one more orgasm before my demise?!
“What in the?—”
A smacking sound echoes through the room, and a moment later, the overhead lights blaze, illuminating the figure in the doorframe.
“ Cameron ?”
“ Joey ?” he shouts, his face pinched in surprise.
On the verge of hyperventilating, I clutch at my chest and will the drumline pounding against my ribcage to ease up. “What the hell?” I pant. “I thought you were an intruder.”
He throws his head back and guffaws.
“It’s not funny!” My damn heart is still lodged in my throat, and my hands are trembling. “I thought I was going to die!”
“And you thought this ,” Cameron crouches and swipes my weapon from the floor, “would save you?”
Wearing a shit-eating grin, he dangles my vibrator next to his face. He couldn’t have picked up the remote instead?
Suddenly, my heart is racing for another reason.
Cameron, in those damn gray sweatpants I love to hate, a black tee that hugs his biceps, and a backward cap, is holding my most intimate toy, fresh off the press.
When did I slip into literal hell?
Mortified, I sink into the mattress and pull the covers over my head, praying to the Egyptian cotton gods to swallow me whole. Forget that last orgasm— take me now .
Pulling back the covers and looking like a damn midnight snack, Cameron looms over me. “You thought this would protect you?”
Sitting up, my back smashed against the pillows, I cock a brow and inspect the way his large fingers are clutching my vibrator. “I mean, it is pretty big.”
With a lopsided smirk, he says, “It’s not as big as?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence!” I shout, covering my face with my hands.
He tugs at one of my hands until I’m forced to look at him. “Why not?”
“I don’t need your head any bigger than it is.”
A devilish glint flashes in his eyes. “Which head are we talking about?”
“Oh, dear god, make it stop!” I toss a pillow at his smug, pretty face.
Uninvited, he sits at the edge of the bed. His hip bumps my knee, so I shimmy over, making room for him. It is his bed, after all.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my cheeks still warm from embarrassment.
“What am I doing here?” he asks. “This is my apartment. My room. What are you doing here? In my bed.”
“Uh.” The warmth in my cheeks turns to a full-on flame. Is he teasing me? “Didn’t Ezra tell you?” I’m hella confused.
He scans the room. I can practically see his brain collecting the clues—my large weekender bag leaning against his closet, a small collection of shoes on the floor. “Tell me what?”
Sitting a little straighter, I lift my chin. “That I’m staying here.”
“What do you mean, you’re staying here?” His jaw is practically unhinged.
I take in a deep breath, then let it out, willing my body and my mind to calm. “Before we boarded our flight back home, Millie was notified that our apartment complex was being evacuated to fix some structural issues.”
He blinks rapidly and remains quiet.
“Ezra said he cleared it with you,” I add. “But by the look on your face right now, I’m going to assume he did not.”
“You would be correct.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved since I last saw him, and I’m kind of digging it.
“He told me you wouldn’t be home until one.”
“Yeah, one in the morning .”
“That bastard.” I curse his best friend under my breath. “Well, this is awkward.”
And what’s even more awkward? The way he’s still holding tight to my vibrator.