8. Cam
CAM
By the time Saturday morning rolled around, I’d spent twelve hours trying to make sense of what had happened at The Port Hole.
Jordan had kissed me.
He’d kissed me.
And I’d kissed him back.
I couldn’t figure out what it meant, or if it meant anything. If it had just been a joke to him, or—or—what? It had to be a joke. There was no other explanation.
The question was, did Jordan realize it wasn’t a joke to me?
I hadn’t heard from him since I’d left the bar, and the way I saw it, there were two options for what his silence meant.
Either Jordan didn’t realize just how much I’d liked that kiss—he hadn’t felt how hard I’d been, as his hand dipped lower and lower—or he did realize, and he was trying to be polite.
If he didn’t realize how into it I’d been, then he’d have no reason to reach out to me. And if he did realize—well, then he’d probably rather die than have to talk to me again.
He’d been teasing me, nothing more. Having a little fun at my expense, saying our evening was like a date. He hadn’t meant anything by it.
And if he’d realized his mistake? Realized that our evening meant way, way too much to me? He was probably praying he could get through the rest of his stay on Summersea without seeing me.
Now I just needed to pray he didn’t tell Levi what had happened.
The safest course of action in either scenario was to just let it go. To do my best to forget about it. And to avoid Jordan, just in case. Bringing it up again would only risk exposing my true feelings, if he hadn’t figured them out yet.
The person I had heard from, finally, was Miller. At six a.m., I’d gotten a string of messages in the app, apologetic and rushed.
MILLER: Quincy, I am SO sorry
MILLER: I got caught up with family stuff, and by the time I got down to The Port Hole, you were already gone, but I’d forgotten my phone, so I couldn’t message you
MILLER: And then when I got home, I was pretty sure you hated me and wouldn’t want to hear from me again
MILLER: Which I totally wouldn’t blame you for, by the way
MILLER: But I’ve felt guilty all night and I finally decided I should at least reach out and explain what happened. If you want to get together tonight—at The Port Hole or anywhere else—I’d love to. But I understand if you don’t
MILLER: Your call
I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that. I’d been certain Miller had stood me up. If he really had come late, he might have even seen me talking to Jordan last night. Not that he had any idea what I looked like.
If he was looking for a guy sitting by himself, though, my evening with Jordan had ruined that. But I didn’t regret it. Not up until the end, anyway. Still, I wasn’t sure how to respond to Miller, so I just ignored it.
Thankfully, after a morning spent revising my last chapter, I had lunch with my grandparents, which took my mind off both the guys who were throwing it for a loop. Ever since my grandfather’s stroke, we’d gotten together each Saturday at noon.
They’d moved into a retirement community in Palmetto, a sprawling complex with individual bungalows, twin homes, and larger buildings set amidst rolling hills filled with bougainvillea, hibiscus, and a network of paved trails.
No one responded when I rang the bell, which was odd. Usually, Nana was pretty quick to come to the door. I waited a moment and rang again. Still, no one came.
I thought I could hear voices coming from the back patio, though. I was just about to push through the fronds of salvia and fuchsia and go see for myself when the front door opened, revealing my rosy-cheeked, paint-spattered grandmother.
“Cameron!” she exclaimed. “Oh, drat, I knew I was forgetting something. I should have called you.”
She pulled me into a hug, then gasped when she released me, her eyes going to my chest. I looked down. My shirt was now decorated in splotches of paint.
“My goodness.” She clucked her tongue. “I don’t know where my brain is these days. Well, come on in. We’ll throw that into the wash and get you clean in a jiffy.”
She ushered me into the bungalow’s cheerful living room. Tasseled textiles and collages of sculptural metal jostled for space on the walls, and banana trees soaked up the sun streaming through the broad front windows. Their teak wood furniture was covered in garish throw pillows.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, gesturing to my shirt. “I can just wash it when I get home. But what are you doing covered in paint? And why should you have called?”
“Because of the painting lesson!” Nana said, bustling down the main hall, past the guest room, bathroom, and master bedroom, before emerging into the green-and-blue tiled kitchen at the back of the house.
She snorted. “Here I am, worried about your grandfather’s health, and yet it’s my mind that’s going.
I need to do more crosswords, is what I need.
Would you like some lemonade, sweetheart? ”
“I…sure?” A painting lesson explained her current appearance, but why she’d arranged for one was still a mystery.
“In my defense,” she said as she pulled the pitcher from the fridge, “I only set it up yesterday, and I wasn’t entirely sure the young man would come.
I think I might have scared him a little.
Poor dear. He was practically shell-shocked that anyone liked his work.
Tried to claim he didn’t usually offer lessons either.
I wonder if I should buy some of his paintings.
Give him a confidence boost. Maybe three, or four? Do you think that would be enough?”
“I think you should think about wall space first,” I said with a laugh. “I’m not sure you have any room.”
I was still a little confused, but I had enough experience with Nana to know that the last thing she needed was more artwork.
She was a magpie for anything brightly colored or homemade, and she adored ‘adopting’ local artists.
It baffled me how someone as warm and generous as she was could produce a person as cold as my father.
“Oh, piffle.” She waved her hand dismissively as she grabbed a glass from the cupboard. “I can always find more room.”
“Aren’t you going to need some room for your own paintings?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m not making anything worth keeping.” She handed me the glass. “Though that’s a good point—Arthur might like to see some of his own work hanging up.”
“Grandpa’s painting?”
My grandfather was more the type to fish or fix cars in stoic silence. Of course, he hadn’t been able to do either since his stroke, but still. I couldn’t imagine him with a paintbrush in his hands.
“Of course, dear! That’s why I arranged the lesson in the first place.
I read something about art therapy a while back, and when I saw those paintings the other day, it hit me.
This is just what your grandfather needs.
It’s supposed to help with fine motor skills, and art heals a deeper part of us as well, don’t you think? ”
“I guess so?” My brow furrowed. “I haven’t really read much about that, but I can do some research if you’d like.”
“Oh, you sweet thing.” She patted my cheek. “You and that big brain of yours. Someday, you’ll learn that not everything can be researched in books. Some things, you need to follow your heart to understand. Now, off with it!”
She waved her hands upward peremptorily, and I frowned.
“Off with—”
“Your shirt, dear!”
“Oh. You really don’t have to wash it.”
“If you don’t want those stains to set, yes, I do. It won’t take but a minute, I promise.”
I stifled a sigh and peeled my T-shirt off. It was easier to do what Nana said most of the time. She might seem like she was made of sugar and sunshine, but there was an iron will lurking just beneath the surface.
She eyed my chest when I handed her my shirt, and I had to fight the urge to hunch my shoulders. I was closer to my grandparents than I’d ever been to my actual parents. I knew she wasn’t judging me. But still, I wasn’t that comfortable being shirtless in any context.
“I’ll take a look in Arthur’s closet,” she said, “but I don’t think he has anything that’ll fit you. It’s nice and warm outside, though, so you should be comfortable. Just go on back and say hi. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, my eyes going wide. Whoever this painting instructor was, I definitely didn’t need him seeing me half-naked. “Why don’t I just come back later? We could reschedule for tomorrow, or I could—”
“Or you could march your behind out there right now and be friendly,” Nana said, wagging her finger. “No lurking in here looking for books to get lost in. I can’t imagine you being interested in my magazines, or those thrillers Arthur reads, but knowing you, you’d find a way.”
With a final smile, she headed down the hall to the laundry closet, and I suppressed another sigh. I knew not everything could be looked up in books. I did lots of first-hand research, thank you very much. Like growing my melons.
Or like sucking a guy off at a glory hole? whispered the little voice in the back of my mind. Because that went just great.
Growling, I turned and headed for the back door.
That little voice was an asshole. It wasn’t my fault Miller was late.
It wasn’t my fault I’d been somewhere else when he finally showed up.
It wasn’t my fault that I’d had the most incredible night of my life, culminating in a kiss that left my head spinning.
Or, well, maybe some of that was my fault. The way I’d kissed Jordan back definitely was. The way I’d slipped my hands around his waist, kneading the muscles in his lower back. The way I’d bit his lip, slid my tongue against his, and fucking moaned in public when I got hard.
Dammit. I had to stop thinking about that. Had to put it out of my mind. Had to convince myself, somehow, that it had never happened.
I yanked the back door open and froze.
Jordan was on the patio.