Chapter 42
42
Josefine
In his bathroom, Cam cracks the tiny window to let out the steam, then wraps a towel around me for the second time today. Once I’ve secured it around my damp body, I dig my hairbrush out of my toiletry bag. My hair is so tangled I’m tempted to chop it all off.
He removes his contacts, then props himself up against the countertop, watching me, those damn glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. At least I have something pretty to look at while I undo these stubborn knots.
“Stay with me tonight.” His voice is hushed, barely audible over the sounds of traffic filtering in from the streets below.
Eyeing his reflection, I worry my lip, still working out a tangle.
“Just one night,” he urges.
Shifting closer, he gently pries my fingers off the handle of my brush and sweeps my hair back before dropping a kiss to my bare shoulder. Goose bumps skitter down my arms—whether from the kiss, the chill of my wet hair on my back, or Cam brushing it, I’m uncertain .
“Don’t look so shocked.” He grins in the mirror. “I have a little sister, remember?” His face falters, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “I brushed my mom’s hair when she was really sick too.”
“How’s your relationship with her now?” I watch his reflection, note the way some of the sadness in his expression dissipates. “You saw her before you left for Austin, yeah?”
“I did.” He balances the brush on the sink’s edge so he can work through a knot with deft fingers. “Our relationship is pretty good. Right now, though, she’s in a tough position between my dad and me.”
“What do you mean?”
Having worked out the biggest tangles, he picks up my brush again. “My parents don’t see eye to eye when it comes to my inheritance. My dad is withholding it because I don’t want to take over the family business. She doesn’t agree. But she’s also ready for him to retire.” He says all of this with his eyes cast down and his shoulders a bit slumped.
I turn and grasp his forearm gently, silently giving him support.
“I don’t see my dad very often, and only if my mom or Claire is around,” he supplies. “But my mom comes into the city to meet for coffee or lunch pretty regularly. I think she’d really like you.”
“Me?” I can’t imagine an upper-class woman from Long Island who owns a hotel chain and frequents the local country club liking me.
“Of course you.” He boops my nose and returns the brush to my bag, effectively ending the conversation.
I dance my fingers up his chest and link them behind his neck. With my face pressed against his heart, I find the answers I’m looking for between each beat. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
I raise my head. “Okay, I’ll stay.”
In the morning, I turn down Cam’s offers to make me breakfast. I’m anxious to get home and fill Millie in. Before we went to bed last night, I sent her a text and told her, in all caps, that we needed to talk.
Her response: Coffee or mimosas?
Both.
Cam, being the annoyingly handsome gentleman he is, walks me home.
“What are your plans for the weekend?” I ask, dodging dog poop on the sidewalk.
“To the Statue of Liberty, believe it or not,” he chuckles. “I’ve never been. Claire is off tomorrow, too, so we’re going to a whiskey distillery in Brooklyn with Ezra and his mom.”
“That sounds fun,” I say. “Claire and Ezra aren’t?—”
“No. No way.” He guffaws. “And it’s not even a stay away from my little sister thing. It’s more like a zero-chemistry thing.”
“Gotcha. Is she seeing anyone?”
“If she is, she hasn’t told me,” he replies. “She’s so damn busy at the hospital that I doubt she has much time for dating.”
When we approach the door to my building, he waits for me to fish my keys out of my purse before handing my duffel over.
“Thank you. And thank you for letting me stay at your apartment while you were away. And thank you for…” I trail off, shoving down all the affectionate words fluttering to break free from where I’ve got them caged behind my ribs.
“The best sex of your life?” he supplies, quirking a brow.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I scan my surroundings, hoping a random passerby hasn’t overheard our conversation. Grasping the fabric of my sundress at my hip, he tugs until my sneakered toes bump into his. He wraps one arm around my waist, and I bury my cheesy smile deep in his chest. When I pull back, he drops a kiss to my forehead, and we both linger, unspoken sentiments passing between us. Only when someone exits the building do we break apart.
I step to the side for them to pass, and Cam catches the door with his foot.
“When can I see you again?”
“I’ll text you.” With a smile over my shoulder, I step into the building.
“Hey.” He rests a foot on the doorstep. “I’m not trying to push you,” he says, rubbing a hand against his cheek. “If you feel like things are moving too fast, I can?—”
“I don’t,” I interrupt. “At least I don’t think so.”
That’s what I need to talk to Millie about. We’ve only just begun dating, and I’m already staying at his place for days on end. Even if we have technically known each other for more than a year.
“I just—” I exhale and search for a way to explain my confusion. But words escape me. “I’ll text you. I promise.”
His eyes are filled with hope, despite his terse smile. “Have a good weekend, Joey.”
True to her word, Millie is waiting with fresh coffee and a bottle of chilled champagne. She’s wrapped in an emerald green robe, and her hair is loose.
“Hey, boo,” she sings, sweeping me up in her arms.
“I missed you too,” I laugh, kicking my sneakers off.
When the oven beeps, she scurries into the kitchen and pulls out a tray of cranberry-orange scones .
“Did you make these?” I gasp, inhaling the zesty scent of my favorite pastry.
“Fuck no,” she scoffs. “Peg and Fran dropped them off last night. I just tossed them into the oven so they’d be warm when you arrived.”
“Oh, good. For a second, I thought you turned into Martha Stewart while I was away.”
“Me? Domesticated? That’ll be the day.” She transfers the scones onto paper plates and drizzles vanilla frosting from a plastic package on top. “Sit.”
I follow instructions, and she joins me at the table. Though I could use a cup of coffee, we skip straight to the mimosas and dive in.
I tell her everything. “We clearly have chemistry,” I share, picking at my scone.
“Duh.” She rolls her eyes. “You two are wrapped in this aura.” She swipes a hand in a wax on, wax off kind of motion. “I can feel it a mile away.”
“And the sex is…” I drop my forehead to the table and mumble, “Fucking incredible.”
“What’s that?” she asks, kicking me under the table.
Lifting my head, I repeat, “Fucking incredible.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She raises her glass in the air.
“Do you think we’re moving too fast?” More than anything, that’s what I want to know.
“Do you ?”
I blow a raspberry at her. “C’mon,” I whine, fully embracing my inner brat. “I need my best friend to tell me what to do.”
She puts her hand on top of mine and squeezes. “You know that’s not how this works.”
After I drain my mimosa, she pours me a refill. This time it’s strictly champagne. “Now tell me what you’re really afraid of.”
I lick the sweet frosting from my lips and dust the scone crumbs off my dress while I collect my thoughts. “I’m scared, Mills. I’m scared of what might happen between us. When I think about a partner, Cam’s everything I’d want.” I lift my glass to my lips and savor the way the dry bubbles sting my throat on the way down.
“Love can be scary, babes. But it can also be beautiful and transformative.”
“Who said anything about love?” I bristle. The four-letter word makes my stomach sink.
My ex used to tell me he loved me, and we all know how that turned out. The word feels tainted now.
My cousin chews on the tip of her thumbnail. “Sounds like you’re afraid of getting your heart broken.”
“I’m fucking terrified.” The words tumble right out of my mouth. Relationships come with far too much risk of vulnerability and potential for heartbreak. Do I want to bare my soul to another? Share my fears and insecurities? My imperfections?
“I built up walls after my breakup. Even with my mom. I keep her at arm’s length for fear of disappointment.”
“And you think Cam will disappoint you too?”
I nod. “He’s too good to be true. What if I lose myself in him like I did with my ex? What if I become so wrapped up in his dreams that I forget about mine? What if he shatters my heart?” I’m spiraling and I know it.
“Worrying about things going wrong won’t make things go right.”
I scoff. “Did you get that from a fortune cookie?”
She responds with a one-fingered salute, and we both giggle.
“I don’t want to lose my independence.” My heart aches. Because no matter how I feel about Cam, that’s what it comes down to. I’ve worked so hard to be where I am, and I can’t risk backsliding.
“Does he make you feel like you would? ”
“I guess not, but what I’ve been doing—sleeping in his bed while he’s gone, even though we’ve only started dating—is a little too reminiscent of the way I moved in with Tyler when I didn’t have a place to live.”
“You know you always have a place with me,” she says, dipping her head and catching my eye. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll nail that audition next week. Then I’ll be traveling for months, and you can keep my bed warm.” Narrowing her green eyes, she teases, “Just be sure to change my sheets after all the fucking incredible sex you’re gonna have.”
I exhale a laugh, grateful for the bit of comedic relief.
Through a mouthful of scone, I admit, “It’s like I’m headed toward a tunnel. It’s pitch black, and I can’t see the other side.”
Her eyes light up and she straightens. “Remember when I visited a few years after your dad died, and you had that really amazing therapist?”
“Sora.” Out of habit, I glance at the kangaroo plush that sits on our kitchen windowsill. Sora gave it to me years ago, and I always keep it close.
“What was that thing she said about headlights? It was a metaphor.”
My chest tightens at the memory. It’s been so long since I’ve thought about that session. “She said that when we’re driving toward our destination in the dark, even with the headlights on, we can only see a few yards in front of us.”
Millie’s genuine smile encourages me to continue.
“Anything beyond the headlights is dark. We can’t see whether there’s a bridge ahead, and we can’t tell if the road will be closed. We don’t know yet. But despite the uncertainty, we keep driving.”
“That’s right,” she agrees. “We don’t know what’s at the end of the road, but we look out our window and embrace the journey. One step at a time, boo.”
Over the last couple of weeks, Cam and I have fallen into a sort of groove. He signed up for a photography course taught by a New York Film Academy legend, so he’s been busy. My writing workshop wrapped up, and Ari and I have decided to stay on for the two-week extension.
Cam and I continue to see each other regularly, though I’ve only spent the night once more. The fear that getting involved with him will pull me away from my writing career has yet to come to fruition. If anything, he’s intentional when making plans, and he’s always sure to check in about my availability and whether I have the mental capacity to hang out. He didn’t even seem upset when I canceled on him last-minute because I was deep in my metaphorical writing cave. Instead, he had Mark hand-deliver food from Bubbe’s Nosh Pit, with extra black-and-white cookies.
I’ve reread the letter he stuck in my suitcase the day I left Crete multiple times now. I keep it tucked between the pages of my tattered copy of Maestro .
He copied down a quote from The Alchemist . The line about fear of failure preventing us from achieving our dreams. I used to think the fear of failure was only reserved for one’s career. But Cam is showing me that there’s more to life than just what I do. Who I do life with is just as vital. I think about my dad and how he would hate seeing me hold back because I’m afraid.
“Embrace the journey,” Millie said. One step at a time.
Maybe this thing with him is worth the risk after all.
Millie nailed her audition like I knew she would. Yesterday, she hopped on a bus to Syracuse, where the touring company is rehearsing. She will be gone for several months, and I already miss her dearly, even though her absence means I’ve taken over her bedroom.
I’m between editing projects for the next couple of weeks and beyond thrilled to devote the hours I normally spend working for others to my own manuscript.
Cam texted before his photography class started to see if he could pick up dinner and bring it over to my apartment after. I couldn’t respond in the affirmative fast enough. The idea of christening the space already has my blood pumping. I may have to buy my cousin an entirely new mattress, but it’ll be worth it.
I’m jotting down notes in my notebook for a writing exercise Talulah assigned yesterday when I grab my phone to check the time. I thought he would be here by now.
Cam
Hey baby. I’m downstairs. I don’t think the buzzer is working. Can you let me in?
The time stamp shows the message arrived three minutes ago. I hop off the couch and slide my feet into a pair of Birks. With my keys in hand, I throw open the door, ready to hustle downstairs. Instead, I rear back when I come face to face with Cam, his fist in a knocking position.
“Hi,” I gasp. “How did you?—”
He tilts his head to one side, so I lean over the threshold and peer down the hall.
When I catch sight of my neighbors, Peg lifts the back of her hand to her forehead and mock-swoons. Fran waves a hand in front of her face and whistles. “Whew, that one’s a looker.”
“You staying the night, sugar?” Peg asks .
Eyes wide, Cam looks to me for an answer.
I shrug and shoot her a smirk. “If he’s on his best behavior, maybe. Why?”
“Give us a warning so we can turn down our music,” Peg says.
“I think you mean up ,” I laugh.
“I meant exactly what I said,” she deadpans.
“Ignore the old bird.” Fran shoves her wife into their apartment, but not before Peg calls out, “Be sure to annunciate, kids! The batteries in my hearing aids are on their way out.”
With that, their door slams closed.
Once we’re alone, we fall into a fit of laughter. I can’t live here forever, but when I finally have enough saved for an apartment of my own, I’ll miss those two.
“I’d say I’m sorry about them,” I tease while ushering him into the kitchen, “but that was them being mellow.”
He sets the bags of food on the counter and kisses the side of my head in greeting. “They seem delightful.”
Unsatisfied with the peck, I tug him by his shirt and pull him into me. I tease at the waistband of his chino shorts, then drag my hands up and down his back and slide them into the back of his shorts.
With a groan, he brings his lips to mine and hovers there. I drink in the air he exhales and continue my tactile examination of his body by moving on to his biceps, relishing in the way they bulge. I’ve never seen Cam at the gym, but the selfie he texted from the locker room the other day may or may not be the wallpaper on my phone.
My knees weaken during a series of slow, quivering kisses. When his lips leave mine, I groan in protest, but he placates me by dropping a line of kisses along my jaw.
“As much as I don’t want to stop doing this,” he whispers in my ear, “I’m starving.” With one final peck, he releases me and rounds the small kitchen island. “And if we’re to give Peg and Fran a show later,” he waggles his brows as he digs through the takeaway bag, “I need fuel.”
He sets the to-go containers on the counter, next to my pen and notebook. I bought it at the Athens airport and almost refused to use it; it’s so pretty, with its thick golden spiral and a hard cover hand painted by a Greek artist.
“Were you working on something?” he asks with a nod at it.
My eyes widen and my heartbeat quickens. Horrified, I snatch it up and clutch it to my chest. The contents are for my eyes only.
“What?” He gapes. “Is that for your rated-R writing class?”
“It’s not rated R.” I snigger. “It’s a course on writing mature material.”
The extension Talulah offers is for writers who want to explore and experiment in writing more “explicit content.” (Okay, it’s smut. We’re writing smut.) Talulah did not hold back in the first exercise whatsoever.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “What are you writing about?”
I suck in my cheeks, stifling a sheepish grin. “You don’t want to know.”
“Now I’m intrigued.” He abandons his dinner and crowds my space, leaning his hip against the counter.
I slap my notebook to my face to hide my blushing cheeks, like a kid discovering her father’s stash of Playboy magazines.
“Joey,” he croons. “What was the assignment?” He crooks a finger over the top of the pages and pulls back the corner of the front cover.
Exhaling a long breath, I clutch the subject of this little discussion to my chest. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh or get all weird about it. ”
“Scout’s honor.” He holds three fingers high in the air.
“That’s the volunteer sign from The Hunger Games , not the Boy Scouts’ sign, you nerd,” I laugh. Dropping my work-in-progress on the counter a little harder than intended, I gather my courage and dive in. “You remember how quirky my instructor is, right?”
“Yeah, Ari’s grandmother.”
“Yes.” I shake my head at the memory of her excitement over this exercise. “She created an assignment where penis-owners have to write about what sex would be like if they had a vulva. And those of us with a vulva have to write about what sex would be like if we had a penis. It’s a personal exercise only, thank god. Standing up and sharing this with the group might be a little too far out of my comfort zone.”
He raises a brow.
“I think the point is to get outside ourselves, see things from a different perspective.”
Cam steps in closer. “And how do you expect to do that?”
I roll my lips between my teeth. “I was trying to imagine being you … fucking me .”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he dips so close the heat of him warms me. “Did it work?”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Did what work?”
“Imagining you’re me… fucking you?” The way he emphasizes the - ck in “fuck” causes pinpricks of painful pleasure along my skin.
“Yes and no.” I lower my chin and consider how detailed I want to be.
Beside me, Cam’s breathing picks up.
“I don’t have a dick, so I can’t really know.” I press a hand to the notebook, guarding the embarrassing words I wrote only moments ago .
“I have an idea.” He pushes off the counter and towers over me.
“Hmm?” My heart lodges in my throat at his proximity and the suggestion framing his words.
With his lips against my ear, he rasps, “What if we gave you a dick?”
“Come again?” I choke, my lungs seizing.
“You know, like a strap-on.”
I search his face, expecting him to break into a grin, but all I find are twin flames of desire blazing in his eyes.
“You would—” I swallow, desperate to knock my heart loose before it cuts off my breathing completely. “You’d let me do that to you?”
It’s a fantasy I’ve never spoken aloud. One I never thought would be possible.
Cam pulls himself up to his full height, like maybe he’s about to shout, “Just kidding! No way!” But he doesn’t. Instead, he tugs me to him, locking my hips against his so I can feel how hard he is.
He slips a hand under my shirt and swirls patterns on my bare skin with the tips of his fingers. “Why not?” Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he regards me with blatant yearning. “It could be really hot.”
I gaze into his bronze eyes. Would he really let me stick a dildo up his ass? My thighs instinctively squeeze, and my core aches at the erotic image my mind conjures.
“You think it’s hot, too, don’t you? I bet your cunt is already fucking weeping for it.”
Damn, he knows me well.
I bite my lip and offer a pathetic silent nod.
“Tell me, Josefine.” He runs his thumb across my lips, then settles his hand at the base of my throat. “Tell me how fucking hot you think it would be to ride my ass. ”
Taboo and desire ignite a flame in my core that blazes so hot I’m shaking with its intoxicating energy. Me riding him ?
“Hot. As. Hell,” I gasp.
He gives my throat a squeeze, then steps back and holds three fingers in the air again. “I volunteer as tribute.”