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Not just the idea of her or the memory—but her. The flesh and blood woman sitting across from him at that table, unable to make eye contact.
It felt inevitable. And reckless. And…mean? He wasn’t sure about that. But there was an edge to his desire for her that hadn’t been there when they were young. He wanted to take all of their innocence and smash it. And all that restraint he’d shown for so long? He wanted to tie her up with it.
Oh god. That image.
He wanted to make good on all the promise their relationship had had. He wanted to be sweet, so sweet. The sweetest, like they were still virgins.
And he wanted to hurt her. And be hurt by her. He wanted raw and filthy and wrong—and then he wanted to walk away. From the boy he’d been. The girl she’d been.
His messed-up memories of that night.
Yeah. I gotta get out of here.
It just wasn’t worth it. He’d shown his face. Told some stories. Hugged some people. He could leave with a clear conscience. Thanks, Helen, for the invite. It’s been fun, but I can’t stay.
He would text her that from the road.
Texts from the road were his calling card. He never stayed long in any place, and when he left it was no one’s business but his.
Cameron sighed and sat up, running his hands through his hair. He’d spent a year getting made fun of for his man bun so he tried to avoid that length now. But it wasn’t always easy to find a barber, or sometimes even a pair of scissors, in his life on the road less taken.
It was too short for a bun, too shaggy for Alice’s kitchen.
He pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants and a T-shirt. Found a pair of socks that were mostly clean (laundry was always an issue when you only had a few of everything) packed up the rest of his stuff and headed downstairs.
The lodge was beautiful and never more so than at Christmas. The wooden walls and high ceilings were made for pine trees and blinking Christmas lights and roaring fires in the fireplace.
At the foot of the stairs he sighed, bag in hand.
Alice was making breakfast. He could smell coffee and baking bread. He could hear her humming off-key, taking bacon out of the fridge.
For him. He knew she was doing it for him.
And he might have adopted a love ‘em and leave ‘em attitude over the last seven years, but he couldn’t do it to Alice. Again.
He took a deep breath. Cool air. Christmas tree. Faint woodsmoke from hundreds of fires like last night’s. The smell of the Riverview Inn at Christmas. In a few hours Alice would put the mulling spices to simmer on the back of the stove and it would smell so good you could take a bite out of the air.
Stay, he thought. Just…stay. For a little while. What could it hurt?
And he put down his bag. Another lesson learned from his years on the road—he could leave anytime. Once he’d let that be his code of conduct, it was pretty freeing. Stay for a while. Go when things got too tense.
Owe no one anything.
He pulled his phone and his little tripod out of his backpack. The coffeemaker was in there, that one Josie gave him. Blackened by a million fires. Beat up from the time he’d dropped it off Half Dome in Yosemite.
The number of times he’d thought about replacing it…countless. He’d been sent other camping stoves, other coffeemakers, and he used none of them.
With a hard jerk he pulled the drawstring taut on the top of the bag, hiding his life from view.
“Hey,” he said, walking into the kitchen to find Alice exactly where he expected to find her. Standing at the stainless-steel counter, cookbook in front of her, coffee cup in hand.
“Good morning,” Alice said with a smile. Sunbeams highlighted the years that had passed, but in a beautiful way. Almost holy.
He sighed at his melodrama. That was the problem with him and this place. Why really it had been good he’d left. His attachment, his perspective, was unreasonable. He’d never been able to see these people clearly. It was all hero worship in his head.
And lust for a girl who could never be his.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I need a cup of coffee.”
“You know where the pot is,” she said.
He poured himself a cup and sat down on one of the stools on the edge of the stainless-steel island.
“What…what are you doing?” she asked as he set up the phone and the tripod.
“I think you know what I’m doing.”
“Cameron.”
“Five questions, Alice. We’ve never done it.”
“Oh my god,” she sighed. “What’s my hair look like?”
She had a wild rooster tail on top and it was seriously hilarious. “Fantastic.”
