Chapter 21 Sunday Roast
Sunday roast
Her staying here? It’s going to be a harder than I thought. I’m so damn attracted to this woman and now she’s completely off-limits.
She set a boundary, and I want to respect it. But fuck, I want her again. So badly.
I try to shove the thoughts out of my head—the way she looked in that red bikini, the way she kissed me like she needed it just as much as I did that night, the way she laughs without realizing how beautiful it is.
No. Camille needs a friend right now. Someone safe. Someone she doesn’t have to worry about disappointing or pleasing. And that’s something I can be. As much as I’d love to be more.
So I spent the afternoon keeping it light.
No pressure. No loaded glances. Just the kind of presence I wish someone had been for me when my world was falling apart.
And when she laid back on a sun chair—wet hair dripping, skin glowing, eyes closed as if she could finally breathe again—I decided that being her friend right now might be the most important thing I’ve ever done.
Even if it means pretending I don’t want her every single second.
I roast the lamb, make some crispy potatoes and asparagus with garlic and butter. I feel like some kind of domestic god.
The food gets devoured, and Camille actually moans when she tries the gravy. Not the kind of sound I need from her right now.
She looks relaxed. Peaceful even. And I can’t help but admire her.
She really fits in here, with us. I expected it to feel a little awkward or stiff.
Our first day of all living together, Camille carrying the weight of everything she’s been through, trying to settle into this house that isn’t really hers.
But she laughs along with us like we’ve all known each other for years.
She keeps thanking us, over and over, and Tyler just grins and shrugs it off, while I smile and tell her she doesn’t owe us anything.
Except maybe more moaning over gravy. That I’ll accept.
“Okay, who gave you permission to cook like this? This lamb is ridiculous.” Tyler says between chewing.
“I think I just blacked out from that gravy. Did I moan out loud? I’m not even sorry.” Camille laughs.
I smirk, my eyes on her, “you did. It was… noted.”
Camille laughs, mock-gasp, “guess I’ll keep the moaning to a minimum from now on.”
“Please don’t,” I say—too quickly, and with way too much heat. I clear my throat, trying to cover. “I mean… it’s the only validation I get. I’m just cooking for the applause here.”
Tyler teases. “Are you trying to impress your new roommate?”
I lean back, tilting my head and smirk at her. “Is it working?”
Camille pretends to think. “Hmm. The potatoes could’ve used more salt. But the effort’s cute.”
Tyler starts laughing loudly. “Savage.”
Camille is being so playful right now and I love it. “I’m just trying to keep him humble.”
“Don’t worry. Living with Tyler is humbling enough.” I tell them.
“You’re welcome.” Tyler chimes.
After dinner, she helps clean up even though we tell her she doesn’t have to. Then she says goodnight with a soft little smile, disappearing into her room with a tired wave.
Tyler yawns, mumbles something about crashing early, and heads off too, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.
I make myself a tea that I don’t really want—just to wind down. Standing there, leaning against the counter in the low kitchen light, I feel it—that weird mix of peace and danger that comes with her being here.
I meant what I said earlier. I want to be her friend. She needs safety, not complications. And I can do that. I will do that. I take a slow sip of tea.
And then I hear the soft creak of a door opening down the hall. I glance over my shoulder, and immediately forget how to breathe.
Camille steps out of the hallway, her bare feet silent on the floor.
Her hair’s down now, slightly damp from her shower, curling softly over her shoulders.
But it’s the nightgown that does me in—black, short, silky, thin straps.
The kind of thing you’d see on a lingerie ad you’re not supposed to stare at for too long. And I do stare.
My jaw actually drops. I’m not proud of it. She’s doing this to me more often than I’d like.
“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she whispers, walking over to the fridge with a drink bottle. “Just needed a refill.”
“It’s alright, you didn’t scare me,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds like I’m a teenager hitting puberty again.
She glances back at me and smiles sleepily. Innocently. As if she has no idea the kind of war going on inside my head right now. And maybe she doesn’t. But God, I do.
She fills her bottle. Then wraps her lips around the straw, taking a long sip.
She’s completely unaware I’m using every ounce of self-control not to drop everything and fall at her feet.
She looks angelic. She looks sinful. She looks like a thousand bad ideas wrapped up in silk and soft curves.
“You made a killer roast.”
I blink, dragging my eyes up to her face. “Thanks. It’s a specialty.”
She leans on the counter beside me for a second, yawns into her shoulder, and then says, “Goodnight again, Lucas.”
“Night, Angel.”
She blushes, and then she’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long time, then sigh and mutter to myself.
She may look like an angel, but… yeah… this is gonna be hell.
I stare at my tea like it betrayed me, finish it anyway, and head to bed. Praying for strength I definitely don’t have.