Chapter 9 #2
My chest tightens and stretches at the same time. He got a playpen. For. The. Kittens. Like they’re actual babies. It’s absurd. Also sweet in a way that sneaks up on me.
“I’ve gotta see them in this playpen.” I try my best to sound casual, but my stupid grin is betraying me.
“Follow me.” He grabs the platter and nudges the slider door open with his foot.
I trail behind with the drinks, flip-flops tapping lightly against sun-warmed planks, the breeze like a feather against my bare arms.
Basked in sunlight, the deck is dappled with warm bands of copper and gold.
Off in the corner, a small bistro table waits, already set with mismatched plates and cloth napkins that look like they’ve been swiped from a picnic basket.
Then I spot it: a pink-and-blue, soft-sided playpen near the railing, mesh sides stretched taut, a tiny blanket folded like a quilt inside. Both kittens are curled up, sound asleep, Stripe on his back like he owns the place, Shadow tucked beneath him like—a shadow.
I let out a small giggle at how adorable they look, but it catches halfway up my throat. It’s not only the playpen; it’s the subtle care behind it. I already knew Knox could be a hero in a crisis. I just didn’t expect he’d have a parental side.
“Evidently, raising hell is exhausting,” Knox says, setting the platter down. “They may be out for a good while.”
I glance back at him. “Because you gave them this cozy penthouse suite to crash in.”
He shrugs, not even trying to deny it. “I’ll admit, they’ve grown on me.”
His words land unassumingly, but his gaze lingers, which makes me wonder if he means more than the kittens.
We settle at the table, and for a moment, it’s just waves slapping below and silverware clinking as we fill our plates. Chicken skewers. Charred peppers. Grilled pineapple. My first bite is better than expected, and the look on Knox’s face tells me he knows it.
“You’re full of surprises.” I bite into a piece of charred pineapple.
“You have no idea.” Confidence drips from his gruff voice.
Something tightens between my thighs, shameless and sudden, as if this love-starved body of mine forgot that Knox and I have shared only one kiss. And God help me, I can’t help but wonder what other surprises he’s hiding.
A beat passes. Maybe two.
I reach for my glass, mostly to keep my hands busy while his gaze holds steady, far too patient for the thoughts spiraling through my head.
My heart knocks harder, thrown by how impossible it’s getting to pretend I don’t want more than a kiss from this man.
“So…” He leans back in his chair, arms folded with a too-casual air, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “About last night…”
I take a breath that barely makes it past my chest. “Yeah?”
“Kissing you wasn’t just amazing, Cami. It wrecked me, in a good way.” He reaches for his glass, takes a sip, then sets it back down with a quiet clink. “And I meant it about taking things slow. Only if that’s what you want, though. No pressure. Just…clarity.”
I trace the edge of my napkin, fingers restless. “What happened last night was mind-blowing. But I don’t want anything serious, Knox. Not right now. This summer, I just need something light. Fun. After the year I’ve had, I want to feel something again, without the pressure of forever.”
He nods slowly, judgment absent in his gaze. “Okay. What are you looking for?”
I pause. “Maybe a fling?”
One of his brows ticks up. “A fling?”
“You said we’ve got the whole summer. So…why not a summer fling?”
“Alright,” he says, easy but curious. “Define fling, Cami-style.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Well, I’ve never had one to be able to define it properly. How about just…you and me. Our little bubble. A safe, sunlit world where real life can’t reach us. No strings, but exclusive for the summer.”
“And when summer ends?” His fingers drum lightly on the table, thoughtful. “You planning on ghosting me come Labor Day?”
I snort. “Not exactly. I am, however, starting a post-grad grown-up life that includes a new job in the fall. So I’d rather not complicate things. Meanwhile, I need a cure for my dry spell, and you need to scratch that post-divorce itch with someone in their twenties. Win-win.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Okay. Maybe this helps us both heal. Or at least remember how to enjoy someone again. But if we’re doing this, what else besides no strings but summer exclusivity would this bubble of ours include?”
I hesitate. “No last names. No job titles. No cell phone numbers. In other words, no real-world baggage.”
He smirks. “You mean like, ‘Hi, I’m Knox. Just Knox. I enjoy grilling, sarcastic women, and long walks on the beach’?”
“Exactly.” I smile, but my stomach flips. “This version of us stays here. In Crystal Cove. Only for the summer.”
“And after?”
I glance down, fingers tracing the rim of my glass.
Because after is the part I can’t afford to imagine.
“Well, what do you suggest?” I keep my tone light, hoping my heart remembers a summer fling isn’t supposed to drift somewhere real.
He shrugs. “If it’s to be a true fling, we both ease back into our lives. No strings. Just…a memory.”
My fingers skim the edge of the table, pretending it’s simple. That this is the powdered-sugar happiness my therapist was talking about.
“Sounds perfect.”
Knox studies me like he’s also deciding whether to push or play along. Then the tension in his face melts, something fond creeping into his smile.
“Well,” he says, raising his glass, “to our summer bubble.”
I clink my glass against his, heart pounding louder than it should.
“To our bubble,” I echo.
We fall into silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the hush of waves crashing below the deck.
Once we’re done eating, Knox gathers the dishes while I lean against the railing, watching the tide sweep in and the kittens sleep like royalty.
He returns and joins me at the railing, thumbs hooked casually in his front pockets, one heartbeat of space between us. “Anything else we should agree to?”
I turn and face him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
My heart flutters, and I could blame the sun or that spark I feel whenever his gaze meets mine. But the truth is, I like him already. More than I should.
So I draw another boundary in the sand, like it’ll save me later.
“Yeah,” I say matter-of-factly. “No falling in love.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long, like he’s memorizing the rule so he won’t break it later.
A breeze snakes between us, bearing the smallest trace of his cologne, stirring something low in my belly, where logic never wins.
Knox steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers graze my skin, gentle, almost hesitant, and a shiver hums through me before I can will it away.
“Right.” The word comes out thick with something he’s not saying. Beats pass between us before he adds, “No falling in love.”
It’s hard for me not to melt when he’s looking at me like I’m already something he can’t let go of.
So, I tell myself this is temporary. That my heart’s safe.
But I know damn well—bubbles always burst on impact.