Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Killion
When Killion Calls the Play
I step out of my penthouse, practically humming with energy. A day off. A real day off. No games, no press, no obligations—just me and Camille. And the best part? She actually said yes to my text. No excuses, no polite deflections, just a simple yes.
I walk down the hall toward her door, my excitement buzzing just beneath the surface. For once, I’m not trying to tamp it down. My hand hovers for a second before I knock, the sound echoing lightly through the hallway.
When the door swings open, she’s standing there, and for a second, the world tilts.
She’s breathtaking. Her jeans fit like they were made just for her, hugging every curve with a natural ease. The soft fabric of her white blouse skims her frame, the flouncy sleeves shifting slightly as she moves, delicate and effortless. Her red hair cascades over her shoulders in loose, glossy waves, the kind that make you want to reach out, just to see if they’re as silky as they look. My breath catches audibly, and I know she notices because her lips curve into a teasing smile.
“Hey,” I manage, grinning like a lovesick fool.
“Hey,” she replies, her tone warm but curious. “So what’s the plan for today?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to enjoy,” I say, my voice low as I lean in, closing the small distance between us.
The kiss isn’t rushed—it’s deliberate, a quiet confession of how much I’ve missed her. My lips meet hers softly, savoring the warmth of her skin and the way she tilts ever so slightly into me, as if drawn by a force neither of us can resist. Her breath catches, just barely, and her lips linger on mine, teasing me with the temptation to stay right here.
I pull back slowly, the urge to press her against the door threatening to undo me. If I let myself lean just a little closer, we’d never leave this spot. Her eyes meet mine, bright and searching, and I have to force myself to step away before I give in completely.
She blinks up at me, her cheeks a little pink, and that tiny flicker of satisfaction lights up my chest.
“Ready?” I ask, taking her hand.
“Depends,” she says, narrowing her eyes playfully. “You’re not dragging me to some boring sports thing, are you?”
I laugh as I guide her out of her apartment. “Do I look like the kind of guy who would ruin our first official day out together by talking stats and plays?”
She arches an eyebrow. “You do realize I’ve known you for a while, right?”
I press the elevator button, smirking as the doors slide open. “Trust me, Camille. I’ve got this. You’re in good hands today.”
She steps inside, her hand still in mine, and I can feel her relax just a little. The elevator doors close, and as we descend, I glance at her, unable to stop myself from stealing another look.
She catches me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, my grin widening. “Just happy you said yes.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she looks straight ahead, though I swear I catch the hint of a blush creeping up her neck.
Today is already off to a great start. And I’ll be damned if I don’t keep it that way.
Our first stop is Central Park. It’s buzzing with life, but that’s part of its charm. The paths are alive with runners, tourists, and kids zipping past on scooters like they’re training for the Olympics. Overhead, the trees filter sunlight into patches of gold, creating a scene so picturesque it could be a postcard.
We grab coffees from a small stand, the kind that probably hasn’t updated its menu since the ‘90s, and start strolling. The air smells like roasted nuts and faint whiffs of hot dogs from nearby carts. Somewhere in the distance, a street performer is belting out a slightly off-key rendition of New York, New York , but it just adds to the ambiance.
At another cart, I stop to buy us a pretzel, handing it to her with a grin. “You have to admit, this is one of the best parts of New York.”
She tears off a piece, giving me a skeptical look. “The pretzels or the park?”
“Both,” I say, nudging her shoulder lightly. “But I really enjoy the park. Sometimes, instead of hitting the gym in my building, I come here for my morning runs.”
She gives me a look like I’ve just suggested eating kale for dessert. “If I were into running, I’d join you. But since no one is chasing me, I fail to see the point. ”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t need someone chasing you to enjoy running. It’s peaceful, clears your mind?—”
“It sounds like punishment,” she cuts in. “Voluntarily making yourself tired? On purpose? For fun? No, thanks. I’d rather sleep.”
I smirk, popping a piece of pretzel into my mouth. “You’d change your mind if you tried it. The endorphins are amazing. Plus, it’s great for your heart.”
“Great for my heart?” She raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement. “You’re telling me that sweating, gasping for air, and risking shin splints is better for me than a leisurely stroll through the park with coffee and a pretzel?”
“Absolutely,” I say, grinning. “It’s scientifically proven.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now, that soft, teasing smile that gets me every time. “You keep running. I’ll stick to not running and being happy about it.”
“Fair enough,” I say, holding out another piece of pretzel. “But one day, you’ll be begging me to take you on a jog through this park.”
She snorts. “Yeah, that’ll happen right after I voluntarily sign up for a boot camp class.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” I counter, nudging her with my elbow again.
She takes the pretzel, shaking her head. “You’re relentless. ”
“And you’re adorable,” I reply without missing a beat.
Her steps falter just slightly, a hint of color rising to her cheeks. But she recovers quickly, taking another sip of her coffee like my words didn’t just completely derail her thoughts.
The banter flows as easily as the sunlight streaming through the trees, and as we weave through the park, I can’t help but feel like I’ve already won today. She’s here—laughing, her guard down just enough to let me in.
And yeah, this day? Pretty perfect.
Camille rolls her eyes at something I’ve said, but the laugh that escapes her is genuine. Her face softens in a way that makes me wish I could freeze this moment forever.
We wander through the park, letting the energy of the city buzz around us. At Bethesda Terrace, a crowd has gathered to watch street dancers. One of them leaps into the air, flipping clean over his partner in a move so smooth it earns gasps and cheers. Camille claps along with the crowd, her excitement contagious.
She sneaks a glance at me out of the corner of her eye, her lips twitching with a smile she’s trying to hide. I lean in and steal a quick peck, grinning when her cheeks turn pink.
“Let’s go to our next stop,” I say, taking her hand.
“What’s the next stop?”
“You’ll see.” I wink at her .
She narrows her eyes. “That’s suspicious.”
“It’s not. It’s thoughtful,” I counter.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll play along. For now.”
We make our way back to the entrance, where my black SUV is waiting. Ted greets us with a polite nod as I open the door for Camille.
“You love art,” I say simply as she slides in.
“You remember?” she asks, looking at me with a mix of surprise and something softer.
“Of course I remember,” I reply, my voice low. “You lit up talking about that art class you took in college—against your parents’ wishes. It had nothing to do with biochemistry. Doing something different made you happy.”
She doesn’t respond, but the slight smile on her lips says enough.
The ride is quick, the familiar rhythm of the city blurring past the windows. When we pull up in front of the Whitney Museum of American Art, her eyes widen.
“The Whitney,” she says, turning to me with a grin. “I’ve never been here. Good choice.”
We spend the next hour wandering through the galleries, her hand in mine. Camille moves with a quiet curiosity, stopping to study each piece like she’s unraveling a story hidden in the brushstrokes or the shape of the sculptures.
I observe her more than the art, captivated by the way her brow furrows slightly when she’s reading a plaque or how her head tilts just enough when something catches her eye. She has this unfiltered enthusiasm for art, and it’s impossible not to be drawn in.
When she catches me staring, she pauses mid-step. “What?”
“You’re better than anything in here,” I say without hesitation.
She shakes her head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I say, kissing the tip of her nose. “But I’m also right.”
Her cheeks flush, and she pretends to ignore me as she tugs me toward the next gallery.
From the Whitney, we head to our next stop, a cozy bistro tucked into a quiet side street. Lunch is simple but perfect—paninis with gooey cheese, fresh salads, and a bottle of wine we share between bites. She tries to swipe one of my fries, but I catch her hand mid-reach, grinning.
“You could’ve just asked,” I say.
“I prefer sharing,” she replies, popping the fry into her mouth triumphantly.
Afterward, we walk hand-in-hand through Washington Square Park, stopping near the arch where a jazz band plays a lively tune. Camille sways gently to the rhythm, her fingers snugly laced with mine. The warmth of her touch, the music, the way she loses herself in the melody—it all feels timeless, like something I’d never want to let go of .
Next, I surprise her with a visit to The Strand. The moment she spots the iconic green awning, she freezes mid-step before turning to me with wide eyes.
“Are you serious?” she asks, her voice a mix of disbelief and glee.
“Dead serious,” I reply, grinning.
She doesn’t wait for further confirmation. She’s practically halfway through the door before I can say another word. By the time I catch up, she’s already staring at the endless rows of books like she’s walked into heaven’s library.
“This place is incredible,” she says, her fingers skimming the spines of the nearest shelf. “It smells like paper and dreams.”
I chuckle, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I follow her. “So you like it?”
“Like it?” She spins around, her face lit up with excitement. “If you tell me there’s a coffee bar in here, I might actually cry.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I tease. “You’re already at risk of moving in.”
We start weaving through the shelves, her pace quick and purposeful, like she has a plan—or at least a very long mental list of books she needs. Every few seconds, she stops, tilts her head, and pulls a book off the shelf with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts.
“Pick something,” she says, holding up a copy of The Great Gatsby .
I raise an eyebrow. “Trying to impress me with the classics?”
“Maybe,” she replies with a wink. “But if you’re really offering to buy me books, I might just pick one. Or ten.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Pick as many as you want. But if you can’t carry them, don’t look at me to play pack mule.”
Her eyes narrow mischievously. “I see your challenge, and I accept it.” She grabs a basket from the corner like a gladiator arming herself for battle.
For the next half hour, she darts between shelves like a woman on a mission. Every few minutes, she holds up a book for me to inspect. A thriller, a romance, a cookbook titled Death by Chocolate.
“Do you bake?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“I could learn,” she replies, tossing it into the basket. “For science.”
By the time we get to the checkout, her basket is packed so full I’m worried the handle might snap. She hesitates, glancing at me like she’s bracing for me to call off the deal.
“You sure about this?” she asks, biting her lip.
“Of course,” I say, smirking. “But if you’re expecting me to build you another bookshelf, that’s going to cost extra.”
She snorts, handing her books to the cashier. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Crawford.”
When the total flashes on the screen, I swipe my card without hesitation, though I make a show of pretending to wipe sweat from my forehead.
“This might be the most expensive date I’ve ever been on,” I say as we walk out, the bag of books weighing heavily in my hand. “Worth it, though.”
“Thank you.” She kisses my cheek.
“For you, anything, baby.”
We head down the street, her bag of books swinging in her hand like it’s filled with treasure. She glances up at me, her smile contagious.
“This was perfect,” she says softly, her eyes sparkling.
And as I watch her, happier than I’ve ever seen her, I know I’ll be taking her to every bookstore in New York if it means I get to see that smile again.
The last stop is the one I’ve been saving, knowing full well how much she loves churros and ice cream. It’s practically her kryptonite.
The place is called Churro Bliss, and it’s everything the name promises and then some. The air is thick with the smell of cinnamon and sugar, and the display case near the counter shows off a rainbow of ice cream flavors alongside golden churros twisted into intricate shapes. The tables are packed with couples sharing desserts, kids smearing melted ice cream across their faces, and groups of friends snapping pictures of over-the-top sundaes. It’s buzzing with energy, and the vibe is nothing short of joyful.
The hostess leads us to a small table by the window, where fairy lights strung across the ceiling cast a warm glow. Camille slides into her seat, her eyes already darting toward the menu in the center of the table.
“Have you been here before?” she asks, her voice curious as she picks up the menu.
“No, but Darnell brings his wife and kids here all the time. He swears by it,” I say, leaning back in my chair.
Her lips twitch into a grin. “He’s your running back, right?”
“One of them,” I reply, smirking. “But yeah. According to him, this place is a game-changer. He even claims their churro ice cream sandwiches fix bad moods.”
Her eyebrow arches, playful suspicion lighting her features. “Oh, so this is your strategy? Bribe me with churros and ice cream so I forget how annoying you can be?”
“Exactly,” I deadpan. “You caught me. My entire plan hinges on the power of fried dough and frozen dairy.”
She laughs, shaking her head as her eyes scan the menu. “Okay, but if this doesn’t live up to the hype, I’m holding it against you forever.”
“No pressure,” I say, picking up my own menu. “But you’ll love it. Trust me.”
We spend a few minutes debating options, and by debating, I mean her listing every single dessert she wants while I nod and agree to all of it. Finally, we decide on The Churro Overload Special—a massive platter with churro ice cream sandwiches, churro bites drizzled in caramel, and churro bowls filled with different ice cream flavors. It’s excessive and ridiculous, and I already know she’s going to love every second of it.
When the dessert arrives, Camille gasps, her eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. “This is insane.”
“Insanely good,” I say, grabbing a churro bite and popping it into my mouth.
She picks up one of the churro ice cream sandwiches, the warm churro spirals dusted with cinnamon sugar practically melting into the vanilla ice cream. Her first bite is almost comical—her eyes close, and she lets out a small, muffled moan that makes the table of teenagers behind us burst into giggles.
“Oh my God,” she says after swallowing. “This is life-changing.”
“Told you,” I say, reaching for a caramel-drizzled churro bite.
She narrows her eyes at me, holding her ice cream sandwich protectively. “If you try to take a bite of this, I will stab you with a churro stick.”
I burst out laughing. “Noted. But there’s an entire platter here, Camille. You don’t have to go full Lord of the Rings over dessert.”
“Are you calling me Gollum?” she asks, mock-offended .
“If the churro fits,” I tease, earning myself a playful kick under the table.
For a while, we dive into the platter, swapping bites and banter. I manage to sneak a bite of her churro sandwich when she’s distracted by a group of kids singing happy birthday at the next table, and she retaliates by smearing a dollop of ice cream on my nose.
“Not cool,” I say, wiping it off with a napkin.
“Revenge,” she replies sweetly, batting her lashes.
By the time we finish, the platter is nearly empty, and we’re both leaning back in our chairs, completely stuffed. Tomorrow I’m going to pay for this indulging, but it’s worth every second. She looks at me, her cheeks still pink from laughing, and I can’t help but think that this might be my favorite version of her—unfiltered, happy, and full of churros.
“This was perfect,” she says softly, her hand resting on the edge of the table.
I reach across, lacing my fingers through hers. “You’re perfect.”