Chapter Six
Camille
A fter my night class dragged on tonight and the conversation I just had with Quentin right before it, I find myself needing a late-night session with a bag.
He called me to inform me of an update with his private investigator. It seems my parents have begun their search for me again, but he didn’t get more details. I don’t know why being found scares me so much. It’s not like they could physically force me back home. It’s the hold they have on me that is worrisome. If they spiel some sob story, I don’t know that I won’t crack and give in, moving back home.
Avoiding who I was born to be for the past four years has been blissful and I’m not ready to give that up.
Once I get to the gym on campus, I quickly get dressed to blow off some stress. I slip my gloves on and go to town on the punching bag in the corner of the gym.
Boxing is therapeutic for me. It makes me feel strong, like nothing or no one could hurt me if I hit it hard enough. As a member of the royal family, I was trained in self-defense at a young age, along with other sorts of training for extreme situations. It was scary at first, but after the incident, I was grateful for it because it saved my life.
Sweat drips down my back, and I glance in the mirror behind the bag, noticing a reflection of Ryker walking into the gym. The sight makes my spine straighten and butterflies flutter in my stomach.
I woke up this morning with a huge smile on my face because it was my first day working with the baseball team. I’d been thinking about what I wanted to do with my column this year and how I could stand out, until I decided that I needed to do more.
That’s how I ended up suggesting to Coach Warren that I’d like to increase the team’s presence on social media and give fans a deeper insight into who they are. The more people like you, the more willing they are to buy whatever you’re selling. That’s marketing 101, and it sold him.
You can now say hello to the new social media manager for the men’s baseball team.
My duties have now doubled, but I was thrilled because I felt like this could be it. The thing that gets me noticed by a professional team if I put out good, quality content online that generates a buzz.
However, that excitement fizzled when I entered the locker room earlier today and found Ryker looking at me like I didn’t belong there. I blushed, that damn crush still not allowing me to feel anything else for him despite his attitude.
And now here he is once again, eyeing me with a scowl.
I smile at him as he passes me to go up the stairs, likely to change in the men’s room.
“Hey,” I breathe out, waving at him with a gloved hand. My nerves ricochet as he stops in his tracks, his hair pulled in a half up half down look that makes him look even sexier than usual .
His jaw muscle ticks under his trimmed beard as he faces me. “Hey,” he grunts.
This man and his grumpy responses need to go.
“Did I do something to you?” I ask, surprising myself with my bravery.
“What?” he balks, seeming shocked.
“You…I don’t know. Earlier, it looked like you didn’t want me there, and you always give me monosyllabic words followed by a grunt. I thought maybe I did something to upset you somehow.”
“Do I need to shoot happiness out of my pores like you do?” he questions. “And that was more than one syllable if you didn’t notice.”
“Ah, so you do have a sense of humor. That’s good.” I chuckle.
He shakes his head at me, taking a step toward me. His blue eyes pierce mine, making me even more breathless as I stare at him.
God, I’m pathetic.
In the past, I’ve always been confident in relationships. I like to be in control and dominant, yet with Ryker, I can’t even find it in me to be anything other than a girl with a silly crush, let alone take charge.
“My problem is that I do want you in my space, princess.”
“W-what?” I draw my eyebrows together, a disbelieving laughter slipping from between my lips.
“You heard me,” he says, his voice laced with tension as he takes another step closer, our chests now mere inches apart.
“How is that a problem?” I counter, my heart pounding in my ears and my eyes transfixed on his, in awe of how insanely attractive he is.
He’s honestly lucky there’s no drool leaking out of my mouth right now.
“Because it is,” he gruffs, not answering my question.
“I’m confused. Aren’t we friends? We’ll need to work together over the next few months and I don’t like when people don’t like me. I need this to go well.”
Those dark stormy eyes bore into mine, and I swear for a moment, I see a glimmer of desire in them, but it’s gone before I can be sure.
“We don’t know each other,” he scoffs, turning on his heel and heading toward the stairs, creating distance that does nothing to ease the growing tension between us.
I swallow as my heart beats wildly in my chest and decide to go the friendly route instead of flirty. “But we could! What’s your favorite color?” I ask, hoping it’ll get him to stop.
“Lavender,” he calls out, walking up the stairs and out of sight.
Okay, that is definitely not the answer I anticipated. I was expecting it to be black.
I take a sip of water and mull over our conversation, feeling remnants of whiplash. One second, he said he wanted me in his space, and then the next, he walked away, telling me he didn’t want to be friends. Which one is it?
As I turn my attention back to the bag I was using before he showed up, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and freeze when I realize my matching sports bra and biker shorts are lavender.
My romantic heart makes my brain run wild with ideas that he said lavender because it’s what I was wearing, and the color I often like to wear. But I try to bring myself back to earth and remind myself that he probably just likes the color. He’s a tattoo artist, and maybe it’s his mom’s favorite flower?
That must be it, because there’s no way a guy like Ryker would ever be into a girl like me. We’re just too different. I like gardening, boxing, singing a little too loudly in the shower, and doing the occasional latte art when I have time.
Ryker seems to be built with jagged edges and no softness in sight. He has a temper from what I’ve seen on the field and is known as the team’s asshole. Total opposite of me. Except for the night he stepped in for me at the club. He was different then.
Regardless, I need to not analyze his comment and let it go. I’ll be professional and do my job, and if I can get him to like me as a friend in the process, that’ll be a bonus point.