Chapter 36 Cam
36 Cam
This isn’t how today was supposed to go. I was supposed to get home by six o’clock, which would give me plenty of time to make the curry that I had planned.
Unfortunately, when you run a small business, there are always new problems that you never imagined, and you’re the one who has to deal with them—especially since Justin is out of town this weekend, visiting his family.
By the time I get back to the apartment, it’s after seven. I won’t have time to cook. In fact, I only have three minutes to consider what kind of takeout we should order before Noelle’s in the lobby, waiting to be buzzed in.
Punctual, as always.
Last-minute changes to plans don’t usually bother me, but I’m a little annoyed that we won’t be doing exactly what I told her we’d do. I put on some music and open the door as soon as she knocks.
“Welcome,” I say with a bow.
I take her jacket. It’s not the parka I’ve seen her wear before; it’s an unseasonably warm day for February, so she’s gone with something lighter. Underneath, she’s wearing a sweater with little buttons down the front. I try not to think too much about those buttons as I hang up her jacket.
“There was a bit of an incident at Casa Cam,” I say.
Her eyebrows draw together in concern.
“Nothing to worry about,” I assure her. “A bear broke in and stole all my food, so we’ll have to order something for dinner. It’s on me, of course. My fault for not bear-proofing the apartment.”
“That sounds serious to me,” she says. “Bear invasions are no joke.”
I beckon her into the kitchen. “I had to work late and didn’t have time to cook. Would you like anything to drink while we figure out dinner?”
She declines alcohol, so I decide I won’t drink either. Instead, we pore over the menus of nearby restaurants, eventually settling on some souvlaki meals from a Greek place. Then I give her the grand tour of the apartment, which really isn’t all that grand; it was chosen mainly for its proximity to the brewery.
I try to see it through her eyes. Framed band posters on the walls, the same ones I’ve had for years—a record of who I used to be. A few nonfiction books on an end table—I forgot to put them back. The middle shelf of the bookcase, which is next to the TV, contains no books; instead, there’s a row of beer bottles with cool labels.
I suspect Noelle’s place is neater than mine, though it’s not like I’m a complete slob, and I did make some effort to clean before the Lunar New Year began.
I gesture toward my bedroom without stepping inside. I admit I do hope we’ll be making use of that later, but I have no expectations.
Once I’ve shown her around, I pour her some water, and she sips it daintily as we sit on the couch and wait for our dinner.
“Have you lived here for long?” she asks.
“A few years.”
This is followed by a conversation about the extortionate rents in the city. It’s an unsexy conversation, but when she leans over to put her glass on a coaster, her arm brushes mine, and I don’t think it was an accident.
That’s the thing about Noelle: she’s a deliberate person, certainly more than I am. Even when she flirted with me in the taproom, it felt that way. Every time I see her, I can’t help wanting to muss her up, just a little. I think it would be immensely satisfying.
When our food arrives—lamb for me, chicken for her—we eat at the small dining room table, and whenever some sauce clings to her lip, she immediately wipes it away with her paper napkin, not letting it linger.
I clean up, then ask if she wants dessert.
“The bear didn’t eat whatever you have planned?” she asks.
“No, it didn’t make it into the freezer, fortunately.” With a flourish, I gesture to the ice cream selection. I couldn’t cook the curry, but I can still do this. “I can make you a sundae. Which ice cream would you like?”
“Vanilla,” she says, which is what I expected.
I might not have known Noelle for long, but I figured she’d be a fan of the classics, rather than, say, chocolate hazelnut brownie. Well, perhaps she’d have a scoop by itself, but not in a sundae. I’m pleased to have predicted her ice cream choice correctly.
“Okay,” I say. “Now sit at the table and face the wall.”
“Face the wall?”
“So you can be surprised by my creation.”
She looks dubious, but she does as directed.
I set about making her sundae in a glass bowl. Two scoops of vanilla ice cream, fresh berries—very curious that the bear didn’t eat those—a drizzle of chocolate sauce, a chocolate wafer roll, and chocolate sprinkles.
Then I make mine.
“Can I look now?” Noelle asks, just as I’m about to bring our bowls over.
Rather than speaking, I set down our sundaes, then gently spin her around.
“If you don’t like it,” I say, “you can switch with me.” I point to my bowl, which is filled with chocolate hazelnut brownie ice cream and rainbow sprinkles and multiple broken wafer cookies.
“No, I think I prefer mine. Thank you.”
She digs into her ice cream, and as I watch her slide a spoonful of vanilla ice cream, topped with chocolate sauce and a raspberry, into her mouth, I feel like I’ve seen her eat ice cream before.
Except I know I haven’t. We’ve only had two dates before this, and I remember them well. There also wasn’t any consumption of ice cream the times she came into the taproom.
How bizarre.
Setting that thought aside, I begin eating my own ice cream. It’s better than plain vanilla, though I don’t tell her that, even if it would be cute to see her scrunch up her nose.
Once we’ve finished dessert, I ask if she wants blueberry tea, and she says regular, nonalcoholic tea is fine with her, so I make a mug for each of us and we retire to the couch. As the tea cools, I pull her legs onto my lap. She releases the softest of gasps, and I’m acutely aware of the fact that we’re inside. And we’re not in public.
An Olivia Rodrigo song begins playing, and I ask if she wants to dance.
She shakes her head. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“All right, you can stay seated.” I cup her ass and move her so she’s straddling me. I sway to the music, and then I pull her closer and press my lips to hers.
She makes another of those delightful little gasps.
Kissing her, as always, feels strangely familiar, but no less exciting for it. The romantic part of my brain believes it’s a good sign, a sign this is meant to be.
I set my hand on the top button of her sweater. As soon as she nods, I start fumbling with the button—and “fumbling” is the right word, but I do manage to undo it eventually. The next button goes slightly faster, and there’s a fascinating hitch in her breathing when I reach the third one. Once it’s been unfastened, I give up on the buttons for the time being and slide my hand under her sweater and bra; her nipple tightens beneath my hand. When her hips jerk against mine, I hiss out a breath as my erection settles between her thighs.
I really did mean to undo every single one of those buttons, but I decide that’s too much effort. I pull the sweater over her head, followed by her bra.
The great thing about my roommate being away for the weekend? I can do this in the living room, though I do intend to move to the bedroom soon.
Before I can set my hands on her breasts, my shirt is tugged off, and I love that she’s eager to remove my clothes. I grin dopily at her before I pull her naked chest against mine and plant my mouth on hers again.
“You feel so good,” I murmur, and she responds by pressing herself more firmly against my cock.
Okay, that’s it.
In one smooth motion—sort of—I stand up with her in my arms and walk us toward my bedroom. She laughs. As I set her on my bed and crawl up her body, I can’t stop myself from smiling.
I fumble, once again, with the button on her jeans and slide down the zipper. I watch her expression as I slip my middle finger inside her. She goes taut, then relaxes into my touch with a groan.
Yeah, getting this woman undone is a gift.
She reaches into my pants and circles her hand around my erection, and now I’m the one groaning. In part because she’s humping my hand; she’s always put together in public, but now, she’s half-naked and desperate for me, and I feel powerful.
“I need…” she begins.
I slide down her body, pulling her jeans and panties with me, and set my mouth between her legs as she squirms. Somehow, I already know what she likes—and this is confirmed when she grips my hair and comes against my lips in no time at all.
“Good?” I say smugly as I crawl up her body.
“Condom?”
I’m perfectly happy with that response.
I shed the rest of my clothes before reaching into my bedside table. It takes a lot longer than it should to find the box of condoms because she starts stroking my cock. Once I tear open the packet, she slides down and takes me in her mouth. I close my eyes and growl… and then I open them so I can see her suck on me.
“You have to stop that,” I say.
“Why?” she asks saucily—a tone she’d never, ever deploy in public, but here, in my bed, it’s different.
“Because…” It’s too hard to find the words to finish that sentence, so I shuffle down the bed, away from her mouth, and roll on the condom.
She turns onto her back and spreads her legs wide.
I thought she’d be a little shyer in bed; I thought I’d have to coax her with compliments. Not, of course, that I would have tried to make her do anything she didn’t want to, and not that I won’t compliment her now anyway.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” I say, punctuating my words with a kiss.
Then I notch my cock at her entrance and slide inside.
Once I’m seated within her, I still, giving her a moment to get used to me, but when she presses her hips toward mine, I start moving.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”
Being inside her is pure joy and achingly familiar all at once.
I slow my pace so this isn’t over too quickly and kiss her lips, swallowing her need for me, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.
Why did she walk into my brewery?
I don’t know, and I don’t care.
I slip a hand under her ass and roll us over so she’s on top. Her surprised laughter turns to a cry as I tug one of her nipples into my mouth, using the barest hint of teeth before soothing it with my tongue. I can tell she likes that, so I do it again, but with the other nipple.
She adjusts her position—to get friction on her clit, I think—and then her arms go limp. She collapses on top of me, and it only takes a few more strokes to find my own release.
And somehow, it feels like much more than the culmination of three dates.
Noelle has a dreamy, languid look on her face. She mumbles something about “before” that I don’t quite catch.
“You want to stay the night?” I ask. Casually, trying not to betray just how much I want her to do so.
“I do,” she says.
We’re both lying on our sides, still naked. Distantly, I register that the music I put on before she arrived is still playing. I’ll have to turn it off later.
But right now, I don’t want to go anywhere.
As I trail my hand over her skin, I’m hit with the strangest sense of déjà vu, stronger than any I’ve ever felt in the past.
“Sometimes, when I’m with you,” I say, “I have the feeling that I’ve done this before, in a previous life or something.”
She stiffens. If I weren’t touching her, I might not have noticed, but I can feel it.
I manage a self-deprecating chuckle. “That’s not a line. I’ve never said it to anyone else. And yes, maybe that sounds like another line, but I’m serious.”
“I know,” she whispers. “What do you think it means?”
I shrug, as well as I can when I’m lying in bed. “Just that we work well together. We… fit.” I open my mouth to say more, but I haven’t known her all that long, and I think it’s best to stop there, for now.
I mean, I really shouldn’t feel anything more, yet a part of me feels like… I just know.
And yes, I might have felt that way a time or two before, but I was young and foolish then. Not that I’m a fount of wisdom now, but I’m not twenty-two anymore.
“Yeah,” she says. “I think you’re right.”
There’s an odd melancholy to her words, but then she rolls on top of me and kisses me, and I think I must have imagined it.
When I wake up in the middle of the night, Noelle isn’t in my bed.
I pad out of the bedroom in my boxers. She’s standing by the window in the living room, my bathrobe pulled around her.
“Hey,” I say, wrapping her in my arms. “You couldn’t sleep? Is something wrong?”
She steps away from me, and my heart drops. I probably screwed up, did something without thinking—
“It’s my sister,” she says, and that’s not what I was expecting.
A little drowsy, it takes me a moment to form a response. “Is she unwell?”
“She won’t speak to me, and I’m not entirely sure why. I don’t know what I said, though I can guess.”
It’s strange that Noelle wouldn’t remember, unless she was drunk or similar. But she doesn’t seem like the sort to get that drunk.
“What do you think you said?” I ask.
“My sister has always had trouble sticking with something. She switched her major a bunch of times, and it took her an extra year to finish undergrad. She started a PhD in history but quit after a year. She waited tables as she tried to figure out what to do with her life… then quit. I forget what she did next. At some point, she’d planned to go into social work, but she got disillusioned with that. She tried doing some freelance stuff, but that didn’t work out either. It feels like she can’t quite figure out her life, and that stresses me out. I never switched my major. I’ve had the same job since I graduated.”
“I haven’t.”
“I know, and that’s fine. Not everyone needs to be like me, and she genuinely seems to struggle more with working full-time than I do. And it’s not like she expects me to financially support her. I mean, I had to give her money once, four years ago, but stuff happens. I was happy to help. In fact, that’s part of the reason I’ve always been careful about saving money: so I can help my family if they need it. I’m not very good at knowing how to help in other ways, but at least I can do that.” She sighs. “But even though Madison doesn’t try to make it my problem, I’ve always been bothered by how she jumps around. I must have snapped at her. It’s unfair of me. After some things that have happened recently…”
She trails off and looks out the window. There’s a look of anguish on her face, and I wish I could take it all away.
“I understand her much better than I did before,” Noelle says at last. “I know she’s doing the best she can. I want to make things right. I have to apologize to her.”
I’m not sure what to say, but I appreciate that she wants to apologize. Not everyone will admit when they’re wrong. My parents, for example, are rather terrible at it.
I nod and wrap my arms around her again. It’s the middle of the night, and words aren’t coming to me as quickly as usual.
She leans back against me. “I’m sorry. It’s our first night together, and here I am, talking about my family problems.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, and I mean it. But I think there’s something she’s not telling me. “Are you ready to come back to bed?”
“Yes.”
I pick her up in my arms and carry her to my bedroom, just like I did earlier, in rather different circumstances. She giggles, and it’s music to my ears. There’s a rush of longing in my chest. I want to spend all the time that I can with her.
“Good night,” I say, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck.
I can tell by her breathing that she falls asleep right away, but I don’t.
On the night of Darrell’s wedding, I wondered if I’d missed her, the woman for me. Now, I know I didn’t—I just had to wait a little longer—but I still have to keep her.