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I know she’s worn Ash’s and Z’s stuff before, and while it’s big on her, it still manages to look reasonably presentable. I’m not sure the same can be said of my stuff. Cam’s tall for a girl—nearly five-ten—but I’m six foot four. And my shoulders are way broader than Z’s and Ash’s. It’ll be a m
iracle if my clothes don’t actually fall off her.
“I can run to the store and pick you something up,” I tell her as she blindly gropes along the shower for my shampoo.
“There’s no time. I have to go.”
“What’s in Salt Lake that’s so important any way?”
She closes her eyes, ducks her head back under the shower and starts washing away the shampoo. She doesn’t answer my question.
Suddenly, it strikes me that this could all be an act. Could all be her way of trying to get away from me without hurting my feelings.
Just the idea pisses me the fuck off, so I force the issue, refusing to let her get away with dodging me. Opening the door, I grab the conditioner just as she’s reaching for it, then wait for her eyes to meet mine.
“Come on, Luc,” she says, trying to get it away from me. “I should be leaving right now.”
“What’s in Salt Lake?” I repeat, even as I squirt some of the conditioner in my hand. I toss the bottle over my shoulder, ignoring the way it bounces off the sink behind me and hits the tile with a loud thud.
She blushes, worries her lower lip between her teeth, looks away. My stomach tightens and for a second I’m so jealous I can barely breathe. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, tell myself there’s no way Cam would go straight from my bed to a date with another guy. But the truth is, when it comes to Cam, I have no idea what she’ll do at any given moment. Especially lately, and it drives me fucking nuts.
Despite the jealousy—and the craz—taking root, I manage to unclench my jaw enough to ask—as casually as I possibly can—“hot date today?”
She glances back at me, the look on her face a little shocked and a lot uncomfortable. “No, nothing like that!”
The random, too high pitch of her voice does nothing to alleviate my suspicions. “So, what is it then?” I demand. “A doctor’s appointment? A meeting with Mitch? A—”
“It’s a photo shoot, okay? I’ve got a photo shoot.” She holds her hand out. “Now that you’ve gotten it out of me, can I please have the conditioner back?”
“A photo shoot? Like a model?” Those are pretty much the last two words I ever expected to hear come out of Cam’s mouth. Not because she isn’t gorgeous enough to be a model but because she’s Cam, and she’s just not that girl. Still, a picture of her flashes into my mind—Cam in skimpy little panties and a push-up bra, with thigh-highs on her mile-long legs.
Okay, yes, I know I’m a total dog and that not every photo shoot is for a Victoria’s Secret catalog, and still I can’t help thinking about her like that. Can’t help thinking about what she would look like dressed in some sheer little nightie as she wrapped her legs around my waist and let me—
“You don’t have to look so shocked, you know.” The sheepishness is gone, but it’s been replaced by annoyance. “I’m not that ugly, am I?”
“Of course not! You’re beautiful. Gorgeous. It’s just—” I break off, try to find the right thing to say. Since I’m pretty sure my detailed fantasies about her in a pair of thigh-highs don’t fit that bill—no matter how hot those fantasies are—it takes me a few seconds to come up with something reasonable. “It just never seemed like your vibe, you know?” I finally say. “But I’m sure you’ll rock it. You’re amazing and—”
She rolls her eyes.
“No need to go overboard, dude. It just makes you sound more insincere.”
“But I’m not being insincere. I totally mean it. You’re going to barge the shoot, no doubt.”
I use my conditioner-free hand to guide her out of the spray and turn her around so she’s facing away from me. Then I rub my hands together until they’re both coated with the stuff and draw them gently through her crazy red curls.
She stays stiff for a couple seconds, then relaxes with a long, low moan. Her head drops back on her shoulders, rests against my chest, and I know I’ve got her. I know she’s mine, for at least as long as it takes me to finish washing her hair.
I take my time, massaging her scalp, working the conditioner through every strand of her hair from roots to ends. But I know she’s in a hurry, so I skip the shoulder and back massage I want to give her and reach for the handheld showerhead instead. Making sure the water’s finally warm, I squirt the water over her hair, taking care not to get any in her eyes as I wash the conditioner out.
“God, that feels good,” she tells me as she sags against me. “And if I didn’t have to be at the shoot in an hour, I would totally talk you into joining me in here.”
Since just the thought gets me hard—a condition that’s getting to be a 24/7 thing when she’s around—I hang the showerhead back up, and then step away from the shower. It’s not that I don’t trust myself or the decision I made earlier—but I totally don’t trust myself. Especially not when the girl of my dreams is wet and naked and interested in me being the same.
I grab a towel out of the linen closet, then ask, “So, who’s the shoot for?” as I wait for her to rinse off a final time.
“American Snowboarder.”
She turns the shower off, reaches for the towel.
