Chapter Eight #2
It’s a short walk out of the hotel to the diner across the street.
It’s a little mom-and-pop-style restaurant, nothing like the upscale restaurants that can be found in Vegas, or the more adventurous fare that Camden typically prefers.
Thanks to his mother’s love of travel, he’s always trying new things.
This isn’t the kind of restaurant either of us would have chosen for a first date, but Camden grins when he brandishes the laminated menu at me.
“Breakfast for dinner?” he asks.
I laugh. “Is that still your dad’s specialty?”
Camden bobbles his head back and forth. “He’s getting better now that he’s retired.
” When we were little and his mom was traveling, his father fed Camden one of three things: food that could be cooked on the grill, takeout, or breakfast for dinner.
In Anders’s defense, he worked a lot, and he always made sure to throw plenty of veggies and fruit in there.
Whenever I visited, breakfast-for-dinner felt like a luxury, even if Camden was over it.
“Do they have French toast?” I scan the menu. “Oh, they have three kinds. What do you think, cinnamon raisin or the one with blueberry topping?”
“They both sound good.” Camden peers over the top of his menu. “I require bacon. Copious amounts of bacon.”
“Oh my gosh!” a voice squeals from across the diner. “You’re Camden Beck! Oh my God, it’s actually you!”
Heads swivel. Forks pause mid-air. Even the fry cook looks over.
A woman in a body-con dress and stilettos totters toward our table like she’s walking a catwalk that’s seen better days. Three friends trail behind her, whisper-squealing and filming.
Cam’s smile freezes somewhere between polite and terrified. “Uh—hi.”
She doesn’t wait for permission. She wedges herself between the table and his chair, perfume hitting me like a glitter bomb, and flings her phone at me. “Take our picture, would you?”
“Excuse me—” I start, but she’s already leaning down, practically in his lap, cheek pressed to his shoulder like they’re posing for a prom photo.
Her friends cheer. One shouts, “Get the angle, girl!”
Cam shifts back, trapped by the wall of the booth. “Miss, this really isn’t—”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” she purrs. “I’ve watched every game this season. You’re so much hotter in person.” Her hand lands on his arm, then slides toward his chest.
I feel my jaw tighten. This isn’t jealousy, I tell myself—it’s secondhand embarrassment. It’s feminist rage. It’s… okay, fine, it’s a slow, dark pulse of mine.
Cam’s voice sharpens. “Please don’t touch me in front of her.”
She blinks, finally noticing me for the first time. “Oh. Sorry, are you, like, his handler or something?”
I choke on air. “His date.”
I say it clearly and loudly. Not because I think she’ll believe me—but because I need to.
I might not look like the kind of girl who gets picked, but right now, I am. And I won’t apologize for it.
Her eyebrows shoot up, then she laughs as if I’ve told a joke. “Right. Sure, babe.” She turns back to him. “You should come sit with us instead. We’ve got tequila shots and zero curfews.”
For one savage second, I want to spit in her mimosa. Instead, I smile, brittle, wondering if she can see the way my pulse jumps in my throat. If I were half as bold, I’d already have my hand on his thigh. But no—I’m Dot. I hover at the edges, make myself small, and hope someone notices anyway.
Something in Cam’s posture changes. His shoulders square, and his jaw tightens. Without a word, he takes her phone from my hands, places it gently on the table between them, and says, clear enough for the whole diner to hear, “I’m on a date. Now’s not a good time.”
The woman’s smile cracks. She flips her hair and says, louder, “Whatever. Viktor Abbott’s a better player anyway.”
Her friends gasp, snort, and herd her back toward their booth, still filming.
The silence they leave behind is deafening.
Cam exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his mouth. “Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault,” I manage, but my voice sounds thin. My hands are shaking under the table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her friends holding their phones up again—sneaky little camera flashes aimed right at us.
Fifty bucks says this ends up on social media before dessert.
He runs a hand over his face, jaw tight. “I never know what to do in those moments. It’s not the fame—it’s people thinking they’re entitled to you, like you’re… there for their highlight reel. I hate that you had to see it.”
I want to tell him he handled it perfectly, but the words tangle up behind the rawness in his voice.
Cam keeps his focus on me, steady and kind. “Hey, you okay?”
I nod too quickly. “Totally fine.”
But I’m not. I’m angry and humiliated and, God help me, jealous. Because for the first time I can remember, someone else looked at him like I always have. And it made me want to claw the smile right off her face.
Camden sets his menu down. “Why don’t we order this to go? We can eat in the room.”
Since there are no chairs in the room, that would mean eating in bed while the creepy deer watches us, but at this point, I’ll take it. “Sure. I’ll have the blueberry French toast. Do you mind if I wait outside?” I’m trembling, even though nothing actually happened.
“Whatever you need.”
Camden stands and holds out a hand. I take it, expecting a quick pull up and release, but he doesn’t let go. The contact sends a small, sharp tremor through me—static after the storm.
For a second, we just look at each other. The laughter and clatter of the diner blurs into a single hum, like the sound in your ears after a hit to the head. His jaw flexes; I can tell he’s replaying the same scene I am—the woman in his lap, the way my breath caught when it happened.
He leans in slightly, voice low. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, but it’s a lie.
His thumb brushes my knuckles, a slow back-and-forth that feels like a confession. “Because if I—” he stops, searching for words. “If I touch you any more right now, it’s not going to be for show.”
The space between us contracts until it’s just air and the faint scent of pine from his shampoo. He looks at my mouth. I take a staggered inhale.
For a single, perfect heartbeat, the world stalls.
Then he blinks, steps back, the spell shattering. “I’ll grab the food,” he says, voice rougher than before.
I nod and force my fingers to unclench. “I’ll wait outside.”
The cool night air hits like a slap when I push through the door. My chest aches with everything that didn’t happen. I tell myself I’m angry about the fan, about the invasion, but the truth sits lower and meaner—I’m angry because I wanted him to prove she was wrong about me.
Behind me, the bell over the door jingles. He’s coming. I don’t turn. I can’t yet.
“I’m sorry again,” he blurts. “I hate when that happens. I just… freeze. I never know the right thing to do. I don’t want to be rude, but fans don’t want to talk to me or learn about me. They want me to play a part, and I don’t know the rules. Who climbs into a stranger’s lap? That’s weird, right?”
I should’ve said something. Should’ve told the woman to back off. But I sat there, stunned, and let him handle it.
Instead of saying that, I give his hand a squeeze. “They think they do know you, though. They’ve seen you on TV, they probably follow you on socials, they talk to their friends about you.”
“True.” Camden sighs. “I’m not great at navigating the social side of things, though.”
“It’ll get easier. Anyway, I don’t blame you for how rude your fan was. And I’m sure a lot of your fans are wonderful. She was just… extra.”
Camden squeezes my hand in response.
We take the elevator up to our room, and I’m struck by how comfortable this feels.
The car hums, and our reflections hover side by side in the mirrored door—his taller, steadier; mine pretending calm.
His hand brushes mine once, enough to create a riot of raw emotion inside me.
I don’t have the first-date jitters I used to get in college.
I’m nervous about later, but I’m not nervous about him.
We kick off our shoes, and I climb onto the bed, settling in for a bed picnic. Camden opens all three of the boxes he got and lays them out in a row to display the two kinds of French toast I was trying to decide between, and a mountain of bacon.
“I figured we could share.” Camden sits on the right side of the heart-shaped bed, crosses his legs, and reaches for a piece of bacon. “Bon Appétit.”
I let my fork hover between the two boxes of French toast. These both look delicious, but it’s hard not to think about what might happen in this bed later. The knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the gorgeous, thoughtful man sitting across from me.
Our meals smell amazing, but my appetite’s shot. He looks too good sitting there, sleeves pushed up, fork balanced between his fingers. It feels like we’ve skipped to the part where couples share lazy Sunday breakfasts—except I’m still learning how to breathe around him.
I take a bite of French toast I can’t taste. He grins, crumbs on his lip, and for one dizzy second, I can see every version of us that might exist if we stop pretending this is temporary.
I take another bite. Not because I’m hungry, but because I want to remember this moment—the way he looks at me like I’m more than a backup plan.
Like I’m someone worth choosing.