Chapter 34
GRAYSON
Agrin tugs at one side of my lips when I race through an intersection before the amber light switches to red.
The pie Macy is holding becomes airborne, and since I got the largest one available—mindful Macy loves leftovers—there’s hardly any room for it to land when it free-falls back into Macy’s lap.
Her stomach has grown exponentially this week, and she has a glow I now understand.
Despite her unease when I told her about Cameron’s invitation, she dressed up for the occasion.
Her pale-blue dress complements her baby bump, and its hem is fun and flirty.
Thankfully, her light makeup keeps her freckles unhidden, and she slathered her lips in the lip gloss I can still taste even days after our kiss.
She looks beautiful, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t apprehensive.
Why did Cameron invite Macy to dinner?
When the text came through, I was happy at first—relieved, even. It felt like a step toward normal, and I loved that Macy would be a part of that. But the more I thought about it, the more it gnawed at me.
This isn’t like Cameron at all. She had a mile-long jealousy streak when we dated. She accused me of cheating if I so much as looked in another woman’s direction, so for her to invite Macy out of all the people she could pick feels off.
It’s too late to back out now, though. We’ve reached Cameron’s building.
After parking as close to the entrance as possible, not wanting Macy to walk too far, I kill the engine before collecting the pie from Macy. We walk in together, and even with the elevator attendant striving to spark a conversation, our ride to the fifth floor is awkwardly quiet.
At her door, Cameron greets us with an almost too-wide smile.
“Hi. Come in, come in.” She steps to the side before adding a requirement that wasn’t a part of our day yesterday. “Shoes off, please. I had the rugs recently cleaned.”
I glance at Macy, who grimaces while attempting to toe off her heels. It’s impossible since they have three buckles each, and there’s nowhere for her to sit that wouldn’t require her to trample across recently cleaned rugs.
“Let me.”
Before one of the many denials I see in Macy’s eyes can be articulated, I dump the pie onto the entryway table, then bob down to assist Macy in removing her shoes.
Goose bumps dot her skin when I caress the back of her knee so I can carefully pry her shoe off her swollen ankle without causing her any pain.
They come away without too much effort, but the unsightly marks they leave behind annoy me.
Once I have her stilettos stored next to my boots, I guide her inside Cameron’s apartment with my hand on the small of her back and the pie balancing on my other hand.
The air is thick with the scent of baked goods—perhaps garlic bread or something similar.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is when Macy’s recently cleaned hair streams through my nostrils.
The first thing I notice when Cameron guides us into the living room is clutter.
The mess covers almost every inch of the room.
Clothes are draped over chairs, shopping bags from pricy boutiques hog the floor space, and unopened mail stacks cover nearly every solid surface.
Compared to last night, the room looks like a bomb went off in it.
“Sorry about the mess.” Cameron brushes a pile of scarves off an armchair so Macy can sit. “I’ve been so nervous about tonight that I tried on half my closet, and I still couldn’t find anything to fit over this.” She thrust her hand at her bump, grunting through a snarl.
Macy holds up a dress she fished off the back of the armchair, its width barely the circumference of her arm. “I doubt this would fit anyone with a pulse, let alone a baby bump.”
Cameron’s laugh returns, but it’s not genuine. “Yeah, well, a girl can dream.” After snatching the lacy dress out of Macy’s hand, she tosses it onto a pile of many. “Make yourself at home, Macy.” She cranks her neck toward me. “I need your help in the kitchen.”
After telling Macy I’ll be back, I follow Cameron into the aromatic space.
Even with the floor plan of Cameron’s apartment being double the size of Macy’s, I’m able to keep Macy in my line of sight.
As I place the pie on the only section of the counter not taken up with utensils and pantry items, Macy perches her backside on the edge of the armchair Cameron somewhat cleaned.
Her fingers intertwine as her eyes bounce around the room.
I can tell she wants to snoop. It is as apparent as my wish for her to do precisely that.
The many missing elements of Cameron’s reappearance could be right in front of us, hidden in plain sight. I just need to get over my belief that trust goes both ways. I can’t pray for Cameron to trust me and then invade her privacy. That would make me a hypocrite.
Cameron blocks my view of Macy when she hands me a cutting board and knife. “Can you slice the tomatoes?”
I nod before clearing a section of the counter so I can get to work. The kitchen is just as cluttered as the living room. Spices and utensils are everywhere, and the sink is brimming with dirty dishes.
Cameron is oblivious to the mess. She floats around the junk with a frenetic energy that even an untrained profiler would pay careful attention to. “I hope you still like pasta. It’s the only thing I can cook these days.”
Still? We ate nothing but chicken and rice when we dined together because Cameron said it was the better choice, and what she said was final.
When she stares at me with a cocked brow, awaiting an answer, I bow out of what was always a guaranteed fight like a disobedient dog about to get smacked over the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. “It smells great.”
After flicking her eyes to the living room, she steals a slice of tomato I cut and slowly eats it. She’s looking at me, but not in awe. I feel more judged than admired.
I’ve almost finished slicing the tomatoes when she finally breaks the awkward silence with three short words. “Macy seems nice.”
“She is,” I reply, and I mean it. Macy is the nicest and most genuine person I’ve ever met.
While placing the tomato slices into a garden salad, Cameron adds words to her previously silent interrogation. “Have you worked together long?”
I slice through a tomato, and my knife pauses on the board. “We don’t work together.”
“You don’t?” Cameron tilts her head and hits me with a mocking glare. “I could have sworn you said yesterday that she was your work friend.”
“No.” I slant my head to hide the suspicion brewing in my eyes. “I said she was my friend.”
“Yeah… but we both know what that really means. You don’t have female friends, Grayson. You have girls you fuck and girls you’re not allowed to fuck since you work with them.”
There’s the jealous, accusatory Cameron I remember. Except back then, she used to say the only female friends I had were the girls I fucked or wanted to fuck. There was no in between.
“With Macy’s child not being yours, I assumed that meant she was your work friend. Unless you still see anything with a pulse as fair game like you did when we dated?”
“I was seventeen then, Cam, and I didn’t fuck anything with a pulse. You just accused me of doing that. An accusation isn’t an automatic conviction.”
“Because I had no proof.”
“Because there was no proof,” I correct. “I didn’t cheat. Ever.”
The only release I’ve had in the past three and a half years was achieved by my own hand, because any time I was propositioned, Macy’s sultry features would pop into my head.
We weren’t even a couple, for fuck’s sake.
We were merely playing the role of one. Yet I couldn’t get over the feeling of betrayal enough to end the drought.
So the fact Cameron thinks I’d cheat on her when we were the real deal shows she doesn’t know me at all.
“So you’re saying you’ve changed? You matured out of the game?”
Game? Being accused of cheating every second day isn’t a game. It fractured the foundation of our relationship every time she accused me, and at one stage, I almost called it quits.
“Yeah… I’ve matured.” I almost ask, Have you? But I stay silent when the alarm on my Apple Watch goes off. I set an hourly timer to make sure Macy remains hydrated as she approaches the last weeks of her pregnancy.
Desperate for a breather, I tell Cameron I’ll be back in a minute before I remove a dirty glass from a stack of many, clean it, fill it with water, and then enter the living room.
“Here.” I hand Macy the glass of water with too much aggression for her not to notice.
Her brows furrow with concern that blazes through her impressive eyes.
After a quick apology, hating that I’m taking my frustration out on the wrong person—again—I say, “All the forums say dehydration could lead to complications during birth, so you should remain hydrated.”
She takes the glass with a doubtful look, and although she doesn’t interrogate me, I know a million questions are swirling in her head. Not only does she want to know why she has nowhere to put down the glass, she is also curious how things are going between Cameron and me.
“It’s good,” I lie. “We’re good. You?”
She joins me on the long and lonely ride to Lie-ville. “I’m great.”
I’m tempted to remind her of the promise she made only days ago, but since that will open a can of worms I can’t consider wrapping my head around just yet, I shift the course of our conversation. “Dinner shouldn’t be too far away. It smells almost burned. Charcoal is Cameron’s specialty.”
Macy laughs before she shoots up her hand to cover her mouth, horrified at her snarkiness.
I wink at her to assure that it is warranted before I return to the kitchen.
Cameron is stirring the sauce on the stovetop. The sloshing of her overzealous stirs cannot conceal her angry mumble. “I guess I assumed wrong. Picking up another man’s unpaid tab a regular thing for you now, Gray?”