Chapter Nine
Considering how much havoc the media had brought into Cameron’s life, it had taken surprisingly little time for them to grow disenchanted. By the following week, with nothing new or interesting to chronicle in the ongoing saga of Asher’s life, reporters had moved on to their next story.
No one lingered at the front gate. No news vans lined the streets of Asher’s posh neighborhood.
Oz and his team had been sent home, as well as the personal security assigned to their friends and family.
Piece by piece, things were slowly finding their way back to normalcy, which meant it was time for Cameron to return to his regularly scheduled life.
Flopping down in the middle of his lumpy and aged leather sofa, Cameron yawned as he pulled on his favorite pair of sneakers. The soles had mostly worn away, the stitching was frayed, and he’d already replaced the laces twice, but he just couldn’t bring himself to toss them.
After everything Asher had done to ensure his safety and comfort, it seemed ungrateful to admit it, but it felt damn good to be back in his own space. Maybe his house didn’t have all the high-end luxuries that Asher’s did, but it was his home, and he’d missed it .
He’d missed the way the top step on his front porch creaked, and the way the paint was fading on his deck.
He had missed the one cabinet door in his kitchen that hung a little crookedly and never quite closed all the way.
He’d missed the way the sun sparkled off the water of the lake, and he’d especially missed the sounds of laughter and music that floated down the shoreline from the Boardwalk.
Asher’s house was big and beautiful and ridiculously perfect.
Nothing creaked or squeaked. Everything shined liked new, and it had every extravagance he could possibly want, but it wasn’t a home.
The only sounds of laughter came from the television, and nothing but classical music filled the rooms where Asher was working.
Not that Cameron had anything against pianos and violins.
He just didn’t find it inspiring the way Asher did.
Well, not unless being inspired to sleep counted.
Over the years, Asher had filled his house with art of every kind, expensive antiques, and techy gadgets, but none of it meant anything.
Cameron understood why Asher didn’t have pictures of his family on the mantle, but there wasn’t a single personal item anywhere in his massive mansion.
He didn’t even keep copies of his own books in the house.
Cameron knew, because he’d spent days during his self-imposed house arrest searching every room for one.
He’d also discovered it was indeed possible to live with someone, and barely ever see them.
During the past week, Asher had spent every evening working feverishly to complete the last Marshall Kane book.
Then, he’d pour himself into bed just as Cameron was waking up to start his own stressful day, and he’d sleep until the afternoon—restlessly, if the state of the bed was any indication.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
He was glad Asher had found a renewed passion for the mystery series, but Cameron didn’t like going to bed alone every night. He’d gotten used to Asher curled up against his back, and he missed it. He missed Asher.
God, they needed a break. Not from each other, but from deadlines and problems and people wanting things from them. They needed a break from their lives and time to actually be together , not just in the same vicinity.
Unfortunately, he didn’t see that happening any time soon.
He finished tying his shoelaces on autopilot, his mind cluttered with a to-do list as long as his arm. Lost in thought, he didn’t hear his cell phone chime with an incoming message. Hell, he might not have noticed it at all if the screen hadn’t illuminated just as he reached for it.
Asher: It’s Friday.
It was probably the shortest text he’d ever received from the guy. So short, in fact, he didn’t have enough information to form an intelligent response .
Cameron: Umm…yes?
Asher: You’re not here.
Ah, now they were getting somewhere. It was the first weekend they hadn’t spent together since they’d met, and frankly, Cameron had been feeling a little lost himself.
As much as he’d missed his home, he hadn’t slept well during the night, and waking up to an empty house had felt strange and lonely.
Cameron: You’re up early.
The clock in the upper right corner of his screen showed just past nine. Cameron pursed his lips and typed out another message.
Cameron: Have you slept yet?
Asher: A little.
He shook his head and sighed. He could easily picture Asher sitting in his favorite chair by the fire, drinking insane amounts of coffee, and glaring at his laptop as if it had personally offended him.
Cameron: You need to sleep.
Asher: I slept for like four hours. I’m good .
As much as he wanted to argue, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Not while Asher was in “writer mode” as he liked to call it.
Asher: What are you doing today?
Cameron: Meeting Linda.
Asher: About the book signing?
Cameron: Yep.
Asher: I think I should be there. It is my signing after all.
Cameron bit down on the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh, even though there was no one around to see him. If he laughed, he just knew Asher would sense his amusement, and it would only encourage his behavior.
Cameron: Go write.
Asher: Come over.
Cameron: Go. Write.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed.
Between both of their jobs, the upcoming book signing, and Thanksgiving just around the corner, their schedules were overloaded as it was.
Which was why they had mutually agreed to spend the weekend apart.
Not that they’d been seeing much of each other lately anyway.
Only, now, they didn’t have to feel guilty about it.
Asher: I miss you.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since he’d left Asher’s house. The guy was completely incorrigible and a total procrastinator, but still… aww . Asher didn’t talk about feelings, not if he could help it. Meaning, any expression of emotion, no matter how flippant, was a pretty damn big deal.
Cameron: Miss you too. It’s just a couple of days.
Asher: Four days.
Cameron: Three.
Asher: Three…and like a third.
Cameron chuckled again as he rolled his eyes, then repeated his order for Asher to either write or get some sleep.
Asher: I see how it is. Abandon me in my hour of need.
Cameron: I think you’ll survive.
Asher: Fine. Call me later?
Cameron: Maybe .
Cameron: Did you eat?
Asher: Yes, mom.
They bantered back and forth for a few more minutes with Asher refusing to let it drop until Cameron promised to call him later that night. Of course, he would have agreed without persuasion, but it felt good to flirt, easy, and there definitely hadn’t been enough easy in their lives lately.
Feeling better than he had when he’d first woken up, Cameron hummed under his breath as he slipped his cell phone into the front pocket of his dark jeans. He pulled on a hooded sweater jacket, checked his back pocket for his wallet, then grabbed his keys from the end table.
Outside on the porch, he paused and stared at the closed door. There hadn’t been reporters in Mission Grove for more than a week, but he still didn’t feel comfortable leaving his house unlocked. Honestly, he didn’t know if he ever would again.
Deadbolt engaged, he pocketed his keys and jogged down the front steps to his driveway. Instead of sliding behind the wheel of his platinum Infinity Q50, he kept going until he reached the sidewalk, then turned north toward the Boardwalk.
The strings of Cameron’s heather-gray sweater jacket had long since been sacrificed to the dryer gods, making the hood practically useless against the chilled winds that gusted over the lake.
Temperatures had continued to trend downward since the beginning of November, making Cameron long for warm summer days again.
While he conceded there were a lot of good things about fall, he could have done without the bleak, gray days and constantly cold feet that came with it.
Despite the unseasonably cool temperatures, the hum of conversation and the scent of freshly brewed coffee reached him as he rounded the corner at the end of the street.
Clearly, not even the maudlin cloud-cover could dissuade the residents of Mission Grove from their morning caffeine infusion from the Witch’s Brew.
Pulling the zipper of his jacket up to his chin, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rounded his shoulders as he crossed the concrete bridge that led onto the Boardwalk.
The wooden planks and waist-high railing had been re-varnished since the last time he’d visited.
The craft stalls and produce carts had been stored away for the winter.
Bright flowers and colorful posters had been replaced with chalkboard signs, small bales of hay, and dozens of pumpkins in varying sizes.
Only a few businesses remained open year-round on the Boardwalk, all cloistered together in the center of what amounted to an oversized deck that stretched out over the lake.
Fit to be Dyed was one of just two hair salons in Mission Grove, favored mostly by the younger crowd.
Every woman over thirty he knew preferred Daisy’s on Main Street.
Southern Charms, a home décor boutique, did a fair amount of business, especially in the months leading up to Christmas.
Currently, a display of cute, grinning scarecrows crowded the front of the shop, sticking up out of barrel planters on thick, hallow pikes.
A sign in front of them indicated they were fifty percent off the regular price.