Page 29 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Fine,” I say, and I sink onto the edge of a creaking chair.

Camille mutters something to the roofer, who nods and heads outside, the click of the door closing behind him a tiny relief. My hands shake, and I dig my nails into my thighs just to feel something real.

“What do you know about the cottage? Why have you been so weird about it?” I ask quietly, looking up at him.

Camille studies me, as if he’s weighing whether I can handle the answer. At last, he says, “I told you this is not the time, Ryan.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I say, because it’s all I have left.

His eyebrows rise, but instead of anger, there’s something almost wounded in his eyes. And then—like he can’t stop himself—his gaze drops to my mouth, just for a second, and he smirks.

My whole face goes hot.

I mutter, “Poor choice of words.”

“Was it?” Camille says, and the room is suddenly so charged I feel like I’m standing in a thunderstorm.

I stare at him, every muscle in my body at full alert. His gaze is steady, unblinking, predatory, but not unkind. I look away first, because I always lose this game.

“I meant—tell me what you know. Stop being so cryptic all the time.”

“I have done nothing cryptic,” Camille says, almost laughing, and for a second I want to kick him and kiss him in equal measure. He steps closer, closing the distance between us so abruptly that I feel the heat off his body. I want to bolt, but I can’t move. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

“Huh?” I say, because my brain can’t process normal words anymore.

“Dinner,” he repeats, like it’s a dare.

“…Why?”

“Because you have questions.”

“And if I join you for dinner, you’ll answer them? Really answer them?”

He inclines his head. “Some, yes.”

“That sounds conditional.”

“It is.”

I cross my arms. “What do you get out of it?”

“Company,” Camille answers instantly, no hesitation or irony.

“Are you saying you don’t have friends who could join you?”

Camille’s mouth twitches, a slow unfurling of his wolfish smile. “Would that cause you to accept? If I am lonely?”

“I… guess,” I say, my words sounding more like a question than an answer.

He laughs, for real this time—low and brief, but not at my expense. I want to hear it again, and the realization destabilizes me completely.

The front door then opens, and Monsieur Barthes calls to us from the landing.

Camille glances back, then fixes me with a final, unreadable look. “Seven,” he says.

“That wasn’t a yes,” I force out.

“It wasn’t a no.”