10. Cameron
Chapter 10
Cameron
W hen I wake, it's still dark, and I can't be certain I'm not dreaming because there is no way this is reality. I put down three glasses of bourbon before finally passing out in front of the TV. It's why I can't really be sure that I'm actually wrapped in Everett's arms, cradled like I'm something precious, but the warmth from his front pressed against my back, and his hand resting atop the one I have curled into my chest tells me it's very real. I am indeed awake. I just woke to a reality I've finally dreamed into existence, one I never want to leave, but I have to. The need to pee is killing me. Damn it. Maybe I can slip out unnoticed, return to this spot, and consciously relish this monumental moment.
I've only moved an inch when he says, "Don't," his hand gently tightening around mine.
My heart instantly starts galloping. Everett Callahan is holding me tighter and asking me not to move. Fucking bladder. "I need to use the restroom…" I wiggle ever so intentionally to press my ass further into his groin. "I'll come right back."
I hear him pull in a long, deep, steady breath, my move no doubt affecting him. "You don't understand. You can't come back to this moment."
"But I'm here now. Why not?"
His thumb gently glides over the back of my hand. "Because this can't happen. When you get up, that's it, Cameron. Do you understand?"
I want to scream. I want to cry and say no, I don't fucking understand, but I choke it down because, while I'm upset, this is more than we've ever shared. I said I wouldn't push him, but I've dreamt of this moment for too long, and I refuse to just let it slip away, especially when he's acknowledging its existence.
"It's only me and you here, Everett. Whatever we want to happen can happen." I press into him again and attempt to move my arms so that I can touch him back.
"Cameron…" his voice is strained as his arms tighten around me more, holding me still before his nose nuzzles into my hair. My entire body sizzles, and I'm certain I'm on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Then he releases me. "Go."
The weight of his rejection hurts, and the loss of his hold is felt immediately, but it was never going to be this moment anyway. I know that as I sit up. I don't look back; I can't. Chances are he wouldn't look me in the eye anyway, not now and not when I ask, "You said we can't happen. Does that mean you don't want it to?"
"Answering that question solves nothing because it changes nothing. Go to bed, Cameron."
That's where he's wrong. If you don't ask a question, the answer will always be no. I asked the question… he didn't say no.
" Y ou cook breakfast now?" Everett asks, startling me as I return the egg carton to the refrigerator. I turn around and find him drenched in sweat, wearing running shorts and a muscle tank. My mouth goes dry, and my head swims with the memories of how his hard chest felt pressed against my back in the middle of the night. He finishes his water and gives me a look that says he knows exactly where my head has gone. "Cam?—"
"I need to eat, and last I checked, you don't have a live-in chef." I cut him off before he can make excuses or apologize for what happened. I don't want him to downplay a memory I'll never forget. I pick up the spatula and return to the scrambled eggs I was whipping up. "Plus, it keeps my mind busy." It's no secret I bake when I'm upset, but I've been experimenting and teaching myself to cook. Scrambled eggs aren't complicated. You just have to cook them slowly and add a little salt and pepper to taste. "There's plenty if you'd like to join me."
"Do I have time to shower, or are they ready now?"
His comment catches me by surprise. I offered to be nice, not because I thought he'd join me. He rarely eats a meal in the kitchen. The main reason Sunday dinners became a thing was because Everett would make time to sit and eat a meal with the family. I think that's why they stuck even after Connor moved out. It was guaranteed time spent with his father.
"Yeah, you have time," I answer with my back to him for fear that eye contact might pop whatever bubble we're in. After what happened last night, I assumed he'd keep his distance. He does it when he steps over boundaries he's insisted on setting. The fact that he isn't now says something, the task now is figuring out what.
" T ell me about the shop."
"What exactly do you want to know?" I ask as I pour my orange juice.
"Everything. What you designed, your plans for more, all of it. I'm certain you've been writing down ideas in your journal to throw at Connor the next time you get him on the phone."
"I designed almost everything. I changed the shade of blue from sapphire to cobalt, updated the lines on the logo so that they are double stitched and thicker, making them stand out more on the apparel, and I designed all the fan gear. The hats, hoodies, tee shirts, that's all me," I say proudly. I never saw myself designing sportswear when I decided I wanted to pursue a career in fashion, but because I'm doing it for Connor's team, a small part of me feels like I'm doing it for Everett too.
"And this will help your resumè? I know it's experience, but is it the right kind?"
"Does it bother you that much that I'm working there?"
He shakes his head. "That's not where I was going. I'm just trying to understand. Fashion is not my wheelhouse, but I don't need a degree in it to understand the importance of internships. I could pull strings and get you internships with fashion houses on the East Coast."
My stomach twists as my mind hears something else. He wants to get me internships on the East Coast because he wants me gone.
"You said the end of the school year, right?" He furrows his brow. "I get to live here through the end of the year?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Cameron, stop trying to twist my words."
"But—"
"Don't try to tell me otherwise. I'm not trying to make you leave. I'm simply trying to understand your goals. I have yet to truly ask you what they are. This is me asking. This is me trying to help."
He's not wrong. I'm choosing to hear the negative, to hear him pushing me away instead of pulling me close because that's all he's ever done. I've never been anything more to him, and the idea that maybe that's changing doesn't feel real.
"Does designing baseball uniforms and team gear get me anywhere with fashion houses? Doubtful. But we all have to start somewhere, and what I'm doing for the Bulldogs... designing a brand is a lot more than most of my peers who are fetching coffees and pushing pencils."
His eyes are on me when I look up, and I can tell he's thinking. "Why do you have to work for a fashion house?"
"I'm not sure I'm following," I say before I take a bite of my eggs.
"Why can't you start your own business? Take Mackenzie, for example. She didn't finish school. She started her interior design business by becoming an influencer and posting before and after pictures of gigs she was getting. Now, almost two years later, she's landed one of the biggest jobs of her career. The private villas she's designing for Montage Resorts will put her on the map. It's going to open every door she could ever want."
I stare out the back window as I think about his words. I never considered doing it on my own. I always assumed I was going into a career where I needed to put in my time and earn my stripes like everyone else trying to become a designer. Plus, Mackenzie didn't just post a couple before and after pictures.
"What are you thinking?"
"That Connor built Mackenzie a house and let her design it from top to bottom, and she vlogged about it daily." While they live in Everett's old house, Connor built her mother and brother a home on their property so she could have her family close.
"Okay, so start vlogging your experience at the field. Uniforms arrive this week. Do some live unboxings or?—"
I can't help but chuckle, and he raises a brow at my burst of emotion. "I'm surprised you know what a live unboxing is, that's all."
"I'm a lawyer. I'm very familiar with social media. Almost every case that comes across my desk deals with it in some form. Every post and comment someone shares online can be used as court evidence. I've done my fair share of scrolling."
"That makes sense. I'll have to think about it. I haven't considered doing something on my own. I'm not sure if showing the baseball stuff would be on brand, and if I go boutique, I need to find models?—"
"You don't need models. If you do this, you are the brand. You're the model, your designs. Trust me, people will buy them."
His eyes drop to his plate the second he feels his words cross a line, but I don't want to lose the momentum I feel is being gained. So I change the subject. "You don't like the eggs?"
His eyes float back to mine. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. You're pushing them around the plate."
He rolls his lips and taps his fork. "They were ready before I got in the shower, weren't they?"
"No… they were almost ready." It's the truth, they weren't completely done. I take another bite and slide him the ketchup bottle. "If you dip them in ketchup, you don't know they're a little dry." He looks slightly mortified by my suggestion. I point my fork at him. "Don't tell me you've never dipped your eggs in ketchup."
He gets up from his seat and crosses the room. Opening the fridge, he pulls out a jar of picante. "I'm not eight. I prefer my tomato sauce spicy."
I scoff, "Adults eat ketchup on eggs all the time. It's practically un-American not to."
He pours the picante over his eggs, ignoring my comment. Right before I'm about to defend my stance and get up and shove a ketchup-covered egg in his mouth, he says, "I could teach you how to cook."
I nearly choke on my dry eggs and reach for my glass of orange juice as he takes a bite of his eggs, now doused in salsa.
"Sorry," I hit my chest. "Went down the wrong pipe."
"No it didn't. Don't patronize me. If you don't want me to teach you, all you have to say is no thank you."
"It's not that. Everett, I've lived in this house for almost five years. I've never seen you cook."
His brow slightly furrows, and I can tell I struck a nerve, though I'm unsure why.
"You've seen me grill plenty of times. In fact, you witnessed that before Connor left for Florida."
"Grilling and cooking are not the same."
"I would disagree. Grilling and stovetop cooking both accomplish the same thing. They heat the food. One is just done over an open flame."
He has a point. I'm not against him teaching me how to cook. Cooking with him equals spending more time with him, and that's something I crave. So I stop teasing him and move on to my next undisputable point. "Okay, fine. Let's say you do cook. When exactly do you expect to have time to teach me?" Cooking abilities aside, we both know time is something he has never had.
Wiping his mouth, he lays his napkin down on the plate, and his deep ebony eyes, framed with thick dark lashes that women would kill for, find mine. "I'll make time."