Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Camille
Playing Defense with the Ashbys
The soft glow of the pendant light over the dining table gives the room a cozy warmth. Killion finishes his plate with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t eaten in a week. He uses the last piece of salmon to swipe up the remaining lemon-dill sauce, and I can’t help but laugh when he moans while he’s chewing it.
“You’re an amazing cook,” he says, once he’s done with his meal. He leans back, clearly satisfied.
“That’s the third time you’ve said that,” I reply, sipping my kombucha. But I’m smiling. I can’t help it. Watching him enjoy a meal I made? It’s embarrassingly satisfying.
“That sauce, though,” he says, pointing to his plate like it’s evidence in a court case. “You could bottle it and sell it.”
I laugh again. “You really liked it, huh?”
“Liked doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. “Do you cook like this for all your dinner guests, or am I just ridiculously lucky?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s usually just me, so I keep it simple most of the time. But if we’re alternating meals . . .” I shrug, feeling a little self-conscious because I honestly don’t know if this is just a temporary thing or if we’ll be able to continue having meals together every evening. “I can find more recipes.”
He grins, the kind of grin that makes you forget why you ever tried resisting him in the first place. “If this is your version of low effort, I’m officially intimidated.”
“Oh, please.” I shake my head. “You’re just trying to butter me so I cook more often. ”
He rolls his eyes and asks, “How’s the hunt for a place going?”
“Honestly? I haven’t done much,” I admit, taking another sip of kombucha. “Scottie suggested I look in Boston too.”
“Fuck no,” he says, so immediately and so emphatically that I almost spit out my drink. “You’re staying in New York, with me.”
“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” I tease, laughing.
He scowls, but it’s the kind of scowl that’s more adorable than intimidating. “Why would she even say that? She hates me.”
“She actually suggested I tease you with it,” I say, grinning now. “And judging by your reaction, it worked.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Scottie’s a menace. She plays all of us like she’s some evil genius. Love her to death, but she’s a nightmare of a little sister.”
“She knows how to push your buttons, that’s for sure,” I say, still grinning.
Instead of deciding to retort, he steers the conversation back. “So, what’s the plan with the house hunt?”
“This guy—Jacob, I think his name is—gave me some contacts,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
“Jacob McCallister?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah,” I reply, setting my glass down. “Scottie suggested I talk to him in case I feel like I need representation. You know, since I’m apparently becoming a public figure now.”
“He’s my agent,” he says, eyebrows shooting up. “The asshole’s good, I’ll give him that. But you know my offer still stands—you could just move in with me. I’ve got more rooms than I know what to do with.”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can say anything, my phone buzzes from the counter. I glance at the screen and see Jerry—the doorman.
“Hold that thought,” I say, standing to answer the call.
“Dr. Ashby,” Jerry says, his tone careful. “Your parents are here. Should I send them up?”
The words hit me like a bucket of cold water. My parents. Here. Now.
“What?” I blurt, gripping the edge of the counter like it might keep me from floating away. “Like . . . downstairs?” Okay, not my most intelligent response, but seriously—what the fuck are they doing here?
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry replies patiently. “They’re asking to come up.”
“I mean . . . I guess?” My voice shakes a little. “It’s not like I can keep them in the lobby.”
I hang up and turn back to Killion, who’s watching me with a raised eyebrow, his fork frozen mid-air.
“What’s going on?” he asks, setting it down and leaning forward.
I take a breath, my thoughts spinning. How do I explain this? I haven’t talked to them since I told them I was going low contact. And now, out of nowhere, they’re here? Uninvited? Unannounced?
“My parents,” I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “They’re downstairs.”
“Your parents?” he repeats, glancing toward the door. “Didn’t you say everything’s okay now? Water under the bridge?”
Is that what I told him? I don’t even remember what I’ve said about them. Damn it.
“Um . . . it’s complicated,” I say, rubbing my temples. How do I even begin to explain the mess of our relationship?
Before I can elaborate, there’s a knock on the door, loud and insistent. I jump, my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape.
Killion stands and heads toward the door, throwing me a quick glance over his shoulder. “You want me to get that?”
“No—yes—” I stammer, panicking. “I mean, sure, go ahead.”
He opens the door, revealing my parents standing there, dressed to intimidate. My mom’s wearing one of her impeccably tailored suits, her hair styled with such precision it looks like it she’s heading to one of her charity events. Her gaze sweeps over the room like she’s cataloging every imperfection. My dad’s expression is unreadable, but his posture radiates disapproval.
“Oh, good,” my mom says, her voice as smooth as silk and about as comforting as a blanket made out of barbed wire. “You’re home.”
“Camille,” my father says, his tone clipped, each word like it costs him something. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” I reply, crossing my arms. “I was very clear over the phone when I said, ‘I need time to digest your past behavior and current beliefs in my love life.’ Why are you here?”
Before he can answer, his gaze shifts to Killion, who’s standing by the dining table, calm as ever. That, of course, only makes my dad’s expression darken further.
“Why is this man in your house?” he asks, though the disdain dripping from his tone makes it clear he already knows.
Stepping closer to Killion, I reply evenly, “We were having dinner.”
My mother’s lips press into a tight line, her expression so disapproving it could probably curdle milk. “Killion Crawford,” she says, her tone icy enough to freeze the room. “The football player is already in your house. I thought I made myself clear.”
Killion looks between them and then at me, his expression polite but unbothered. “Mr. and Mrs. Ashby, it’s nice to see you again,” he says smoothly, as if this is just a casual meeting and not my parents attempting a hostile takeover of my life.
“What is he doing here?” my father demands again, his gaze snapping back to me like I’ve personally betrayed him.
I lift my chin, refusing to shrink under his stare. “I told you, we were having dinner. And we’re seeing each other.”
My mother’s eyes narrow, her lips twitching like she’s trying to hold back some cutting remark and failing miserably. “Camille, this isn’t the kind of man you should be associating with.”
“He’s not right for you,” my father says bluntly. “And you’re not eighteen anymore and naive enough to believe this could work.” He continues, his voice cold and clipped, “He’s an athlete. A transient career with no stability. You need someone who can offer you more. Someone who can support your future, not jeopardize it.”
Killion lets out a scoff, stepping forward. “My transient career includes a $275 million contract over four years that’ll increase next year if I re-sign,” he says, his tone measured but with enough bite to make my dad blink. “But sure, call me unstable if it makes you feel better. For the record, I do have a future, and I could absolutely take care of your daughter if she let me. Not that she needs me to—Camille’s a successful, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to?—”
“Exactly,” I cut in, glaring at my parents. “Which is why I don’t understand why you’re here. We had an agreement. You respected the space I needed, and I would consider forgiving you for interfering with my life. Remember that? Because this—” I gesture between them and Killion “—this is not space.”
“You’re making a mistake,” my mother says, her tone cold enough to frost the windows. “We’re just looking after you.”
“No, you’re trying to control me,” I snap, my voice rising despite my best efforts.
Before I can say more, Killion steps forward, calm and collected. “With all due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Ashby, Camille doesn’t need anyone deciding her life for her. She’s strong, smart, and capable of making her own choices. And as for me,” he pauses, his voice softening as he glances at me, “I might not have your approval, but I love her. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”
My father’s jaw tightens, his hands clenching at his sides. “I’ll ruin you, Killion Crawford.”
Killion doesn’t flinch. Not even a little. He steps closer, meeting my dad’s glare head-on. “You can try,” he says evenly. “But I’ve faced tougher opponents on the field and off. What I won’t do is back down when it comes to Camille. Not this time. So, if you want to talk about ruining someone, you’re better off focusing on rebuilding whatever relationship you have with her, because I’m not the one standing in your way. You are.”
My father’s face darkens further, but my mother steps in, her voice cutting through the tension. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” she says, her eyes narrowing on Killion .
“No, ma’am,” Killion replies smoothly. “Just honest. Camille deserves to be happy. And if that’s with me, great. If not, I’ll respect her choice. But that choice? It’s hers to make. Not yours. And maybe you should think about the future, because if she agrees to marry me and have a family . . . well, that family won’t be near you if you are not supporting her.”
I can’t help the way my breath catches at his words. He glances at me then, his eyes warm, grounding me in a way I didn’t even realize I needed.
My mom opens her mouth to respond, but my dad cuts her off, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t over.”
“It should be, Dad,” I respond. “You need to back down, accept that I can make my own decisions and support me. I’m in a relationship with Kill, and if things go further I hope you change your attitude.”
“We’ll see,” Dad says. And just like that, my parents turn and walk out without even saying goodbye.
Killion exhales, turning to me with a small, self-deprecating grin. “So, dinner went great, huh?”
Despite everything, I laugh. “You really know how to win over a room.”
“Hey, I tried,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not exactly Meet the Parents material, but I’m working on it. Maybe next time, they’ll be less . . . asshole-y and more, I don’t know, welcoming?”
A laugh bubbles out of me despite everything. “They’re good and loving—until you don’t do what they say. Then it’s like they’re auditioning for some mobster movie or series. Typical controlling parents.”
His lips twitch into a grin. “Ah, so I’m dating someone in the mob. That explains the intimidation tactics. I hope I passed this test.”
I shake my head, but the smile lingers. “You’re doing fine,” I say softly. “They are more bark than bite.”
He takes a small step closer, his expression softening as he brushes a strand of hair away from my face. His fingertips barely graze my skin, but the sensation sends a quiet thrill through me.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and steady, like he’s trying to ground me in this moment.
I nod, leaning into his touch. “I will be.”
His eyes search mine. It feels like time stretches out between us, everything else falling away.
“Good,” he murmurs, his voice like a promise. “Because what I said is true. I’m not going anywhere, Camille.”
Then he dips his head, slow enough that I see it coming but fast enough that I don’t have time to prepare. His lips brush against mine, soft and deliberate, like he’s asking a question instead of making a statement.
The kiss deepens gradually, his hand sliding to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles. It’s not hurried or rushed—it’s intentional, like he’s pouring every word he can’t say directly into the kiss. And damn it, it’s working.
I grip his shirt instinctively, grounding myself because my legs suddenly feel unreliable. There’s this slow-burning heat to the way his lips move against mine, igniting something in me I hadn’t realized I’d kept so carefully under wraps. My toes curl against the hardwood floor, and a soft sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against mine, his breath mingling with mine in the quiet space between us.
“Better?” he asks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though his voice carries a softness that twists something deep inside me.
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod, my fingers still clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“Good,” he says again, his thumb brushing over my cheek one last time before he lets his hand drop. “Because I meant every word, Camille. I’m here for the long haul. Even if your parents hire hitmen, even if it takes me forever to make you fall back in love with me.”
I laugh, the sound shaky but genuine, and let my head fall against his chest for just a moment. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You like me that way,” he murmurs, pressing a quick, playful kiss to the top of my head.
And damn it, I do.