Chapter 6 #2
“You act like it’s scandalous. It’s not,” Jackson insists, pointing at me with his fork. “You just think anything involving sex is scandalous.”
“Okay, ew.” I put my hands over my ears. “And not true. But we’re eating. And okay, maybe a little bit true when it comes to your sex life.”
Mom’s laughing so hard she’s blotting her eyes with a napkin. “Can we please get through one holiday without turning dinner into a tabloid headline?”
“No,” I say at the same time Jackson says, “Absolutely not.”
The next morning is present time. Wrapping paper is everywhere, and we have hot cocoa and the cinnamon rolls I made last night for breakfast.
It’s perfect—until Mom says, “Don’t forget, dinner with the Whitmans at Elm & Echo tonight!”
Cue my stomach doing that twisty thing.
Goldie will be there, which is great. I love Goldie. But Camden will also be there, and I’ve been very successfully avoiding him ever since my blowup at his restaurant a couple of weeks ago. My record is flawless. I’d like to keep it that way.
Except…apparently Camden’s in rare form tonight.
From the second I walk in, it’s like he’s made it his mission to be in my space. Leaning too close when he asks if I want water. Sliding a plate in front of me like he’s my personal waiter. Catching my eye from across the room like he knows I hate it.
I focus on Goldie. I laugh at her jokes, braid her hair, and make a big show of not even looking at Camden.
It works…until later in the night.
The mulled wine is strong. Warm. Delicious. And way too easy to keep refilling when everyone’s laughing and talking and passing around more cookies than any human should eat in one sitting.
At some point, I excuse myself to the bathroom, splash a little cold water on my face, and tell myself I’m perfectly fine.
When I come back out, I hear clattering from the kitchen, so I figure I’ll help clean up. It’s the least I can do after inhaling approximately six pounds of food.
I push through the swinging door, already rolling up my sleeves. “All right, what can I—”
I stop.
The room is quiet. Everyone’s gone. No laughing, no music, just the low hum of the fridge and the faint smell of roasted vegetables. And, standing at the sink, sleeves shoved up, rinsing plates, is Camden.
Of course.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, and that slow grin spreads across his face like he’s been waiting for me to wander in. “Juliana. I was beginning to think you were hiding.”
My brain says, Turn around, abort mission. My feet…do not listen.
“I didn’t realize everyone had cleared out,” I say, grabbing a dish towel just so I have something to hold on to.
“Mm-hmm.” He stacks another plate, like I’m not fooling him for a second. “Guess it’s just you and me.”
And suddenly the kitchen feels too small. My head is still pleasantly fuzzy from the wine, but my pulse is sharp and fast. He’s just standing there, sleeves damp, hair falling into his eyes, looking like he owns the place. Actually, he does own the place.
I should walk out. I should definitely walk out.
I don’t.
Camden smirks, rinsing another plate. “And now you’re stuck with me. Tragic.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.”
He sets the plate down, turns the water off, and wipes his hands on a towel. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
I scoff, instantly on the defensive. “I have not.”
His eyebrows lift. “Juju, you practically dove behind the dessert table when I walked in earlier.”
“That was…strategic snacking.”
“Hmm.” He steps a little closer, just enough that I have to tip my chin up to look at him. “You smell like mulled wine and oranges.”
I make a face. “Wow, thanks. That’s…charming.”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
His voice drops just slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s enjoying this way too much.
I roll my eyes, but the warmth pooling low in my stomach has nothing to do with the wine. “But I can tell you always mean something negative, even if you don’t say it.”
The smirk drops. “Is that what you really think?”
“It’s been your pattern for a long time, yes.”
His jaw clenches. “I could say the same about you.”
“Why don’t we just go back to avoiding each other? This town is too small and our families too involved with one another for us to do anything but pretend the other doesn’t exist.”
He leans one hand on the counter beside me, close enough that I catch the faint smell of his soap and something sharper, woodsy and spicy. “You don’t mean it.”
I should make a joke. Walk out. Something. But my brain has apparently clocked out for the night.
“I do mean it,” I say finally, aiming for flippant but hearing the waver in my voice. “But I’m too nice to make you do all these dishes alone. I can’t believe everyone left. And left me!”
“I told them it was one of my gifts to them, and I think everyone was exhausted and intoxicated enough to take me up on it.” He chuckles. “So you’re off the hook. I also told them I’d bring you home.”
The kitchen feels smaller by the second, like the walls are caving in on us. He’s still got one hand braced on the counter, his body angled toward mine, and I can’t tell if he’s going to shove a plate into my hands or tell me to get out.
His eyes narrow, but there’s something else there too—like the air between us has just shifted. “Why do you do this?” he asks.
I blink. “Do what?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely between us, his voice rougher now. “Why do you make me feel this way?”
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. “Feel what way?”
“You know what I think?” His jaw tightens. “I think it’s because you want me.”
It’s like the floor drops out from under me. My face goes hot—not from embarrassment, but from pure, white-hot fury. “You’ve got it backwards.”
His mouth quirks, but it’s not a smile—it’s more like a challenge. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” I snap, gripping the dish towel so tight it twists in my hands. “You’re the one who can’t stay out of my space, Camden. Not the other way around.”
“And yet, here you are, in my kitchen.”
The silence that follows crackles, thick and heavy.
We’re staring each other down, and neither of us moves. His jaw’s set, mine probably is too, and the air between us feels like it could shatter if one of us breathes too hard.
He takes a slow step closer. I don’t back up.
Another step.
The heat rolling off him is impossible to ignore now. I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the tiny muscle flexing in his cheek. His gaze drops—just for a second—to my mouth, and my heart stutters so loud I’m sure he hears it.
My voice is gone, stolen by the way he’s looking at me.
“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My back finds the edge of the counter, and he’s right there, so close I can feel the whisper of his breath against my cheek.
The moment stretches, electric. If either of us leans forward even an inch, it will be over—no going back.
My hands twitch at my sides, and I hate that part of me wants to reach for him.
And then—
I blink, my eyes snapping open.
It’s dark. I’m tangled in my sheets, the faint taste of mulled wine still in my mouth and my heart hammering like I ran the whole way here.
For a long minute, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece it together. The kitchen. Camden. That almost…
I press my hands over my face.
Did that actually happen? Or did I just dream it?
Wait a minute. This isn’t my bed.