Chapter 25
By the time I pull into the driveway, my whole body feels like lead.
Today has been one of those endless days where every meeting runs late, every email feels urgent, and every smile I have to fake drains me more than the last. My heels pinch, my blouse is wrinkled, and all I can think about is peeling it all off and collapsing straight into bed.
I’m so grateful that I had driven a car to work today, I honestly do not know where I’d get the strength to wait for a cab.
I drag myself up the steps, already rehearsing the speech I’ll give Cameron if he tries to start one of his usual sarcastic remarks about me working too much. Something along the lines of not tonight, please.
But the second I open the door, I freeze.
The apartment doesn’t look the same. The lights are dimmed, the soft golden glow of candles scattered across the dining room casting the whole place in warmth I don’t recognize.
The table is set, actual plates and silverware perfectly arranged, with food that smells way too good to have been delivered from any takeout place I know.
And then there’s Cameron, leaning casually by the table in a crisp black shirt with his sleeves rolled, as if he’s been waiting for me.
I blink, stunned, my bag still hanging off my shoulder. “What… is this?” My voice comes out hoarse from shock and exhaustion.
His mouth quirks into a half-smile, that cocky-but-not-quite look that always manages to throw me off balance. “Dinner,” he says simply. Then he steps forward, pulling out a chair for me. “For you.”
I stand there like an idiot, bag still on my shoulder, coat half slipping off my arm. The whole thing feels unreal, like I’ve walked into the wrong apartment. Cameron doesn’t do this. He broods, he smirks, he pisses me off. He doesn’t set candles and cook whatever that is on the table.
“Dinner,” I repeat slowly, narrowing my eyes at him. “For me?”
He arches a brow. “Unless you think I light candles and eat alone.”
The corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest twitch, but I fold my arms over my chest. “What’s the catch?”
His smile deepens, and I hate that it makes my stomach flip. “Why does there have to be a catch?”
“Because this is you,” I shoot back, though my voice softens near the end. My eyes scan the room again, lingering on the candles, the steam rising from the plates. “You don’t do… this.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, though I catch the faintest glimmer in his eyes. “Well, you do not know me and that’s understandable, but even though, what if, maybe I’m trying something new.”
I don’t move. Not yet. Suspicion claws at me, but awe slips in too, curling warm and confusing in my chest. My legs want to give out, to sink into that chair he’s still holding out for me, but my brain is already whispering warnings. Don’t fall for this. Don’t fall for him.
Still, when he tilts his head, wordlessly beckoning, I find myself setting my bag down and walking forward. My heels click against the floor, too loud in the quiet, too loud against the pounding of my heart.
He waits until I’m close enough to touch before saying, softer this time, “Sit.”
I lower myself into the chair, my eyes never leaving his face. “I’m still waiting for the part where you tell me what you want from me.”
For once, Cameron doesn’t smirk. He just holds my gaze, steady and unreadable. Then, almost gently, he says, “For tonight? Nothing. Just eat.”
And that, somehow, is more terrifying than any scheme he could have cooked up.
I pick up the fork, twirl it against the plate, and take a cautious bite. My eyebrows shoot up before I can stop them. “Okay… wait. This is actually good.”
Cameron smirks, sliding into the chair across from me. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I am shocked,” I counter, pointing the fork at him. “I didn’t know you could cook. You give off more of a… order-steak-rare-and-make-the-waiter-uncomfortable vibe.”
He shrugs, taking his own bite, unbothered. “I can make the effort.” His gaze flickers up to catch mine, deliberate and sharp. “For the people who deserve it.”
The fork freezes halfway to my mouth. My stomach does this little flip I pretend not to notice, and I focus hard on the plate instead. “Smooth,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “You’ve been practicing that line, haven’t you?”
“No,” he says easily, leaning back in his chair. “Just telling you the truth.”
The worst part? It doesn’t sound rehearsed. It sounds… honest. And that unnerves me more than any sharp remark he’s ever thrown.
So I deflect. “Well, don’t get used to me singing your praises. This pasta could still kill me in an hour.”
He laughs a low, warm sound I’m not used to hearing from him and shakes his head. “If I wanted to poison you, Brie, I wouldn’t use basil and garlic. I’d be more creative.”
“Comforting,” I deadpan, though my lips twitch. “Really putting me at ease here.”
“Good,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “That’s the point.”
I want to tell him he’s full of it. That I see through this performance.
But as I take another bite and another after that, and I can’t help noticing how he watches me, like this matters to him more than it should.
And that unsettles me in ways I don’t have the strength to untangle after the day I’ve had.
I swirl the pasta on my fork again, trying not to look impressed. “So what else are you hiding, Cameron? Should I expect crème br?lée for dessert? A surprise soufflé?”
He lifts a brow, that sly smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t get greedy. I said I can cook, not that I’m auditioning for Master Chef.”
“Oh, so pasta is your magnum opus.”
“Exactly.” He lifts his glass of water like it’s a toast. “Appreciate the art while it lasts.”
I shake my head, pretending to sigh. “And here I thought you were secretly a domestic god. Turns out you’re just a one-trick pony.”
“Careful, Brie.” His voice dips lower, playful but with that edge he always carries. “Keep insulting my cooking and I’ll stop making the effort for you.”
Something about the way he says, ‘for you’ lingers in the air. I take another sip of my wine to keep from reacting too much.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s charged. He watches me like he’s cataloguing every flicker of my expression, every time I try to mask how caught off guard I am. I stab at the pasta again just to do something with my hands.
“This is weird,” I finally mutter.
“What is?”
“You. Being…” I gesture vaguely toward the table, the candles, the perfectly plated food. “…this.”
His eyes glint with amusement. “A perfect gentleman?”
I huff a laugh. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He leans in slightly, elbows on the table. “Maybe it’s not weird. Maybe you just haven’t given me the chance before.”
That makes me pause. I don’t answer. Partly because I don’t know how, partly because the food suddenly feels like a very convenient distraction.
So I keep eating, even though I’m not all that hungry anymore. Because the way he’s looking at me… it’s making me feel self-conscious.
I pick up the fork, twirl it against the plate, and take a cautious bite. My eyebrows shoot up before I can stop them. “Okay… wait. This is actually good.”
He pours me another glass, the red catching the light from the candles as if it’s glowing. I wrap my fingers around the stem, mostly for something to do. The food’s been cleared away, but the silence between us hasn’t gone anywhere. It lingers, pressing, like it’s waiting for one of us to break it.
Cameron leans back in his chair, swirling his wine lazily. “You know,” he says, his voice casual but his eyes fixed on me, “for someone I live with and have a lot of sex with, I don’t actually know a damn thing about you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, really? You know plenty.”
“Mm.” He tips his head, pretending to think. “Let’s see. I know you’re annoying.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“And that you hate your boss.” He grins, clearly fishing for a reaction.
I can’t help laughing, even though I try to hold it in. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“That’s literally the full list,” he says, raising his glass like he’s delivering a punchline. “Annoying. Hates her boss. End of dossier.”
I laugh again, softer this time, but it fades as his gaze lingers on me. There’s no smirk now, just quiet curiosity. “Seriously, though. I don’t know anything else. Not really.”
For a moment, I just stare at him, debating. Normally, I’d deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But something about the wine, the candles, the fact that he’s asking, actually asking, makes my chest ache in a way I can’t ignore.
I take a sip, slow, buying time. But when I put the glass down, the words are already pushing at me. “There’s not much to know,” I say quietly.
“That’s never true.” His voice is low, steady. “There’s always more.”
I glance down at my hands, fingers twisting against the stem of the glass. “Fine. You want my story?”
He nods once.
The tug in my chest grows stronger. And before I can stop myself, I start.
“I grew up in foster care. Bounced around a lot, never really stuck anywhere. No family to go back to, no… real anchor. Just me, trying to figure things out one placement at a time.”
The words spill easier than I thought they would, maybe because I’ve never really said them out loud before. Maybe because his eyes don’t flinch or pity, they just stay on me, listening.
The words sit in the air between us, heavier than I meant them to be. I brace for him to crack a joke, or worse, look at me with that kind of pity I can’t stand. But Cameron doesn’t do either. He just sits there, the candlelight throwing shadows across his face, his glass forgotten in his hand.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, his eyes locked on mine. “That sounds… rough,” he says at last, his voice quiet but firm. Not pity. Not disbelief. Just acknowledgment.