Chapter Eight
Dot
Camden stands frozen in the door of the room I reserved. Mira had warned me that there was only one room available. The listing had forewarned me that there would be only one bed.
Nobody could have prepared me for the theme, however.
“Is this…” Camden closes his mouth. Clears his throat. Tries again. “Is this a love hotel?”
“It certainly looks like it,” I agree.
Camden inspects a bowl full of condoms. They’re available in a wide range of sizes, textures, and flavors. “Right. So why are there so many bears?”
The wildlife motif is a little over the top.
The heart-shaped bed, covered in red and black silk sheets, sports a faux bearskin throw.
Two of the throw pillows are covered in brown shag.
The chandelier above us is made from antlers, and both the flooring and wallpaper are textured to look like wood, while the ceiling is painted to look like a cloudy sky.
I’m not sure why. Are we supposed to pretend that we live in a cabin without a roof?
The wood-paneled walls are covered in paintings and prints of various animals, including a high volume of bears, as well as pheasants, bobcats, and bald eagles.
No less than five dishes of condoms are scattered throughout the room.
“I think it’s supposed to be rustic but sexy. Cabin glam.” I peek into the bathroom, where the outdoorsy theme continues. There are three hand pumps on the counter, labeled Soap, Sanitizers, and Lube. Yikes.
“At least it’s clean, so we’re not—oh, dear God!”
I pop back out of the bathroom. “What?”
Camden points up at the mounted deer head over the bed. “Do you think that’s real?”
I shudder. “Maybe we should ask for a refund?”
After a long moment, Camden shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I can sleep on the floor.”
I make an incredulous gesture to the ground. “Why?”
In answer, Camden makes a similar gesture toward the bed.
I huff. “I admit that it’s tacky, but we slept on the sofa the other night. This is no big deal.”
Camden shakes his head. “Maybe not for you.”
“What—?” I blink at him. “What would it mean to you?”
He won’t look at me. “The other night, you’d been crying, you’d had a terrible day, and you fell asleep on me by accident. That’s different from sleeping in a bed with silk sheets after taking all of our clothes off.”
“It’ll only be weird if we make it weird.” I point up to the deer head on the wall. “Technically, he’s already making it weird. But you know what I mean. I can sleep in a bed with you without throwing myself at you. You don’t have to sleep on the floor out of some misguided sense of modesty—”
“It’s not misguided.” Camden shifts from foot to foot. “If I get in that bed with you, I am definitely going to make it weird.” When I keep staring at him, he makes a vague gesture toward his groin.
“Oh.” I stare at his crotch for a moment. “Oh. You would?”
“I would.”
The admission punches a secret thrill straight through the awkwardness, followed by a pit of nerves. My mind cartwheels through every possibility—do I want him to touch me? What if I flinch, or worse, what if I melt? What if I ruin this because I don’t know how to be cool about wanting him back?
“Did you… the other night?” I raise my gaze to his face.
His cheeks flush an attractive shade of pink. “I did.”
“Oh,” I say again.
Okay, okay, so definitely not in a relationship with George.
That’s a relief. Not that there would have been anything wrong with being in a relationship with George. I just thought… never mind.
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Guys are notoriously horny, after all, and NHL players have quite the reputation.
Camden’s never been like that, though. When our male classmates made lewd comments about girls, Camden never joined in.
Even Viktor, who was not-so-secretly in love with Knova since forever, was never secret about being a bit of a man-ho.
Secretly? I’m flattered. I’ve always felt a bit frumpy and pudgy compared to my—nope, compared to other people with pinup model proportions. Like Knova.. Is Camden attracted to me, or is it simple biology?
I want to believe it’s me he wants. Not just a warm body in a tacky bed. Not just an accidental reaction.
But me.
The version of me that panics in diners and names dogs Skinbad. The version he’s been looking at like I’m worth choosing.
No, he couldn’t be attracted to me. It has to be a knee-jerk reaction, so to speak.
“Okay,” I say eventually.
My voice sounds steadier than I feel. I’m not a seductress in red silk. I’m simply me—nervous, plain old Dot, asking the hottest man I’ve ever known to take the empty side of the bed and not notice how fast my heart’s beating.
He nods brusquely. “I’ll see if they have a spare blanket at the front desk…”
“No, I mean, okay. We’ll sleep in the bed.” I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “Together.”
Camden’s head whips toward me. “What?”
I fight back a smile. “But only if you take me to dinner first. That’s how it goes, right?”
“I. Uh.” He rubs a hand across his mouth. “I won’t do anything you don’t want, I just… might get…” he makes a sweeping gesture toward the godawful paneling, “wood.”
I lift my chin. “I’ll let you know if your wood becomes as offensive as the decor.”
Camden sucks in a breath. “We can talk about it after dinner. Although if you don’t mind, I’m going to shower before we leave. Spent too much time in the sun earlier.”
I give him two thumbs-up like a total dork. “Go for it. I’ll be out here.”
There’s nowhere to sit except the ridiculous heart-shaped bed. I perch on the edge, knees squeezed together, but the stupid mattress tilts and I end up sliding a few inches toward the center—closer to the dent where Cam will probably land.
“Of course it’s lopsided,” I mutter. “Even the bed ships us.”
I’m careful not to touch the questionable fur throw. The pipes groan to life, and a rush of water fills the silence. I cross and uncross my legs. Camden Beck, NHL power forward, is naked in the next room. Naked. And wet. With maybe a small amount of knee-jerk wood. Fantastic.
I try to focus on literally anything else—the deer head above the bed, the chandelier made of antlers, the sheer number of condom bowls—but every sound from the bathroom freaks me out.
The door opens with a creak. Steam spills out first, followed by Camden, towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping into his eyes. He freezes when he sees me staring. “Forgot my bag,” he mutters, ducking for it near the dresser.
The towel knot slips.
There’s a blur of pale skin, a startled yelp, and the soft thud of cotton hitting carpet.
My brain blue-screens. All I can see is clean skin, muscle, a flash of hipbone—proof that the universe has a sense of humor and zero chill.
Heat blooms at the back of my neck, tingling all the way to my toes.
I squeak, spin around, and clap both hands over my face. “Oh my God!”
Every inch of skin is burned into my brain in high definition. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, one stupid perfect V-line. I clap my hands over my face, but it’s already too late—my brain is printing postcards.
He fumbles behind me, swearing under his breath, rustling fabric. “Jesus, sorry—ADHD moment—should’ve grabbed boxers first—don’t look—”
“Too late!” I shout into my palms. My cheeks burn hotter than the shower he just left.
When I risk a glance, he’s mostly dressed—mostly. His T-shirt is half-tucked, his hair a mess, one sock missing. He looks human and flustered and absurdly good.
He exhales a shaky laugh. “Okay. Crisis over.”
“Debatable,” I mutter.
Cam’s lips form an easy curve, neither of us moving, air buzzing around us. His shirt’s damp against his chest, one sleeve twisted, his pulse visible in his throat. Mine’s everywhere.
He clears his throat, trying for casual. “Give me five minutes to finish adulting. Then I’ll… pick you up?”
“Pick me up?” I echo, dazed.
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You said dinner first. Seems rude not to do it right.”
And then he’s gone outside, the room door clicking shut before I can think of anything clever to say. I stare at the deer head like it might offer instructions on how to breathe again.
A knock comes almost immediately—one, then another.
When I open it, Camden’s there, freshly composed but pink around the ears. His hair’s been finger-combed into something that looks accidental and perfect. The damp collar of his T-shirt darkens the gray fabric, and he smells faintly of pine and nerves.
“Miss Shaw,” he says, voice pitched low and teasing. “You free for dinner?”
My laugh comes out shaky. “I could be convinced.”
He grins, that sideways thing he does that feels like a secret. “Then allow me.”
He offers his hand—not a joke this time, but something careful and deliberate. I slip mine into his, and the contact sends a flutter through me that’s half adrenaline, half pure disbelief.
He looks down at our joined hands, thumb brushing once over my knuckles, then meets my eyes. “First official date,” he says softly, testing the words. “Thought it deserved a proper start.”
I can’t find words, only nod.
For a long, quiet second, we stay there in the doorway, fingers laced, the ridiculous heart-shaped bed visible over my shoulder, the hallway light spilling between us. It’s awkward and tender and perfect.
Finally, I manage, “Well. Don’t keep a girl waiting.”
He squeezes my hand. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he leads me out, every step feeling like the beginning of something that’s been a long time coming.