7. Tabitha
Cam places two bags of groceries on his kitchen table. “So that was some book club meeting.”
“Singular.” An involuntary blush creeps across my cheeks as I recall coming to with Cam”s strong arms wrapped around me. ”I am never wearing a corset again.”
Cam grunts in acknowledgement, but he’s got this far-away look he always gets when he’s thinking about work. He gets like that a lot—mulling over whatever techie things require mulling—and we fall into a comfortable silence as we unload the groceries.
“I wish I’d been in costume, too,” Cam says, his voice so quiet, I barely hear him over the crinkling of the grocery bags.
I glance at him in surprise, wondering if I’d misheard him. “You’d dress up as the Duke?”
He nods, and I try to picture him in a white ruffled shirt, tucked into black breeches and shiny boots. Suddenly, the Duke takes Cam’s face, and my cheeks flush. “Maybe you can join us when we read The Duke’s Prize. It’ll be out in September. I’ve been meaning to ask,” I touch his arm—something I’ve done hundreds of times—but it somehow feels too intimate, and I quickly pull away. “Since when do you read historical romance?”
Cam rubs the back of his neck and grabs a colander from the shelf above the sink. “A while.”
“Ruthanne’s right. You do rub the back of your neck just like the Duke does when you’re uncomfortable.”
“A lot of people do,” Cam mutters defensively. He places carrots, mushrooms and broccoli in the colander in the sink. “Why don”t you sit? Stir-fry is a one cook job.”
That man is going to make some woman really happy one day.
Wait… Where did that thought come from?
I stare at Cam and wonder what our first date would be like if we weren’t us and we’d just met. Probably a lot like this, since we’d both rather have a quiet night in with books and a homemade meal than go to a noisy restaurant or bar. Cam is the ideal that I don’t think any other man will ever live up to.
I sigh, a bit too loud. Maybe a little too sad.
“Not in the mood for stir-fry? I can make something else.”
“No. You’re perfect. I mean, stir-fry is perfect.” I turn away before he can see the flush on my cheeks.
How has Cam not been snatched up by one of the single women in town? He’s sweet, he’s kind, he’s fun to be around, he cooks, he loves books and, it turns out, he reads historical romance novels, including my favorite author!
I could use a distraction, so I grab a cutting board from the cupboard. “Let me chop some of these for you.”
I reach for the knife but Cam covers my hand with his. “Maybe you should sit this one out?”
“Why?” I ask a little too loudly.
“I just don’t want you to overdo it,” Cam says softly, his hand still on mine.
My belly does a flip and I yank my hand away. “Is this because I fainted?” I flash back to the moment I regained consciousness in Cam’s arms. “Look, I’m fine. I told you it was just that stupid corset. The thing wouldn’t let me breathe. What kind of sadist invented those things, anyway?”
“They originated in Italy,” Cam says.
“Really? How do you even know that?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I think I read it somewhere?”
“Well, I bet it was invented by a man. No woman in her right mind would wear that torture device by choice.” I definitely shouldn’t have. “And why couldn’t Abigail Cameron have given Gabriella a more comfortable wardrobe?”
Cam grimaces, and his face falls. “I’m sorry, Tabs.”
I roll my eyes. “It”s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is.”
Which is just like Cam. “Don’t blame yourself for my silliness.”
“But I?—”
“Cam,” I interrupt. “I know what you’re thinking.”
His eyes widen. “You do?”
“Of course I do. You”re blaming yourself because you didn”t want to read the Duke’s part at Book Club, so I ended up doing it. But it’s not your fault. It was your first book club meeting, and nobody should have pressured you to read in the first place.”
“Actually, I?—”
“Cam, I’m fine. It”s my own damn fault for wearing a dress that was way too small.”
“And the wrong color.”
I shake my head. “Whatever. Anyway, let’s get these veggies chopped or we’re never going to eat.”
He nods and we get to work. Cooking with Cam is as natural as breathing. We’ve been having Friday night dinners since he got his own place at nineteen. Even when I went off to complete my Masters in Library Science, I was back most weekends, and we hung out all the time.
I do some quick math in my head and realize Cam and I have been having our Besties, Booze, and Books nights for seven years. Huh. So much for the so-called seven-year-itch… unless for people who aren’t married, it means the opposite, because I would love Cam to scratch my itch.
I look at his hands and, oh, dear—the things I picture in my mind’s eye while he washes the oversized carrot… There isn’t enough air in the room tonight. What is going on?
I stare at him and he gives me a warm smile, followed by a questioning look. Shit, I hope I don’t look like Chrissy did in high school when she used to moon over him.
I flash on a memory of her expression after she bared her soul to Cam and he ran from the gym, leaving me to explain that he was too busy with school to have a girlfriend.
Say something, Tabitha!
“So… heard from Chrissy lately?” Oh. My. God. I did not just say that. I pick up the knife and start chopping like a maniac.
“Tabs, you seem kind of, um, deranged. Can we talk?”
I stop mid-chopping and turn to Cam. “Sure. I mean. No! Nope.” I resume pulverizing the carrot bits. “Just trying to make dinner. Like two normal friends on a normal Friday night.”
“Maybe you should put the knife down.”
I snort. But his gaze is still glued to the blade in my hand, so it’s clear he’s not joking. I set it down and frown.
“What’s wrong?” My voice comes out three pitches too high.
Cam hesitates, gently pries the handle from my fingers and says, “On second thought, let’s finish cooking and then talk.”
My heart is pounding so fast I’m sure my blood is being whipped into a thick cream. I sit and watch him rub the mushrooms clean, which drives that thickened blood to my own button mushroom that is screaming for him to rub it exactly the same way.
Cam looks over at me and smiles. Then he swallows in that weird way he does when he’s nervous, rubbing the front of his neck as if he has to coax his throat to work. Shit.
He can see my feelings. My very unfriend-like thoughts. Oh my god. He can’t run out since this is his house. And I’m the friend he always confides his girl troubles to, so he won’t have anyone to share his humiliation with when I’m the one causing it.
Cam turns back to the veggies. His voice is low, and I have to strain to hear what he’s saying. “If there hadn’t been an audience, I would have liked to have read that scene with you, me as the Duke and you as Gabriella.”
I stop breathing. Why would he say that?
He’s horny, that’s all. It was a very sexy scene. We’re both a little amped, my calm inner voice soothes.
Unless it’s more, my inner troublemaker sing-songs in my brain.
Do I want to be more than friends? Do I want this to happen? Do I really want to risk ruining the special relationship I have with Cam?
What if the sex is bad and we wish we’d left it as a delicious unknown? What if it’s good, but things don’t work out and this is the last Friday night dinner we ever have? What if it’s great, and he wants to settle down and have kids and… I can’t breathe.
“Screw it.” Cam drops the broccoli and faces me. “I need to tell you something now. Tabs, I?—”
I jump to my feet. “I’m so hungry. So very hungry. Vegetables are just as delicious raw.”
I grab an uncut carrot and shove the thing in Cam”s mouth, which is framed by his bright red cheeks. His forehead is covered in droplets of sweat.
Shit, he”s going to ruin everything. I can”t let him ruin everything.
“So,” I cry, “Ruthanne was weird tonight, eh?”
Cam’s eyebrows rise, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. He opens his carrot-filled mouth to speak.
“Chew a hundred times. Don’t want to choke,” I say, trying to smile. I keep talking to keep him from having the space to. “I”m sorry Sylvie wasn”t more welcoming. She usually?—”
“Tabby!” Cam yanks out the carrot clamps his hands on my shoulders. “Take a breath. Relax. And stop worrying about book club. You know Sylvie’s had an issue with me since eighth grade. I’d expect no other reaction from her.”
He’s too close. Half my brain wants to press my body right to his while the other half wants to knee him in the nuts and run. I opt for the middle ground and twist out from his grip.
I need to deflect the conversation to something normal. “Right. I forgot all about that. Hey, did you hear that Miss Barker got a principal job in the city and then stayed there?”
Cam nods and returns to the chopping block. “My mom talks to her sometimes. Did you know she actually got married? I remember her as being a seriously old woman when she was at our school. Apparently, she was only in her forties.” He chuckles. “Frightfully ancient!”
This is good. Being with Cam is supposed to feel like home, not awkward and uncomfortable. He’s the one I can relax and be myself with. The guy I can say whatever is on my mind to. He shouldn’t be a person I feel so nervous with I might throw up.
Cam ruins it all by saying, “So Tabby, the thing I was going to tell you?—”
“No, don’t!” I howl, a wave of fear pushing into my throat.
“Don’t what?” Cam asks. He seems genuinely perplexed.
“Don”t…” I look around desperately, anywhere but at Cam, “don’t forget to pour us some wine.” I grab the bottle from the fridge.
I reach for the glasses in the upper cupboard but Cam is one step ahead of me. He pulls two down and sets them on the counter.
Thank the goddess it’s a screw cap. A corked bottle would have killed me.
“Sorry it’s not your favorite. I had to get it at the grocery store and the selection was pretty meager. I owe you a cork,” he says with a wink.
“No. It’s fine. Totally okay. No problem. All good,” I blubber.
Our cork bowl is almost full, and years ago, when Cam first moved out and I brought him his first bottle of wine as a housewarming gift, he dropped the cork in the very bowl it’s still in and promised that when the first cork overflowed the bowl, we’d go on a vineyard tour in southern France.
I’m staring at the bowl of corks, mesmerized, as I pour the wine, which splashes over the side.
Cam grabs a paper towel and cleans up the mess, and I take a large gulp.
“Tabs, I was going to say?—”
I tip back the glass and down it. I can’t stop where this is headed, but maybe if I’m drunk I won’t remember and things can go back to normal tomorrow.
”—that is, Abigail Cameron… um… finished book five and I have an advance reader copy.”
I’m so shocked I spit a mouthful of wine all over Cam.