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Brandon chuckled. “Of course.” He slung a comforting arm around his shoulders. “I’m sorry about Dad. I tried talking to him, but . . .”
“You persuaded him to let me use the place while he was gone. That’s more than I could ask for.”
“Have you found somewhere—”
“Working on it.” Or he would. Next week. Would he find a place big enough for his mother’s books? “Don’t worry about me.”
“Ah, but the role of big brother dictates I do anyway.”
“‘A little misery makes one appreciate happiness more.’”
“The Patchwork Girl of Oz.”
The smile that lit his brother’s face warmed Cameron and helped him bury the Dad-related disappointment.
They dried off, and as Cameron draped his towel over his shoulder, he caught sight of a red-haired woman in sunglasses staring in their direction from Knightly’s backyard gazebo. The Airbnb guests. He gave her a friendly wave and ducked inside after Brandon.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang and Cameron opened it to a red-painted smile. “Hi, I’m Isabella. Staying next door?” She shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head. “The one so rudely staring at you in your backyard.”
“Oh—”
“Sorry!” She laughed. “I was soaking up what there is of the sun, and movement caught my eye.” She leaned in and cupped a hand to her mouth. “A gorgeous man was doing laps. Don’t think anyone can blame me for ogling.”
Brandon’s warm chuckle snapped Isabella’s gaze over his shoulder. A flirty smile twinkled in her dark eye. “As your friendly neighbor, I think we should all get to know each other.”
With glittering coolness Cameron could only long for, she sidled her way inside.
She liked her coffee with milk and sugar and rapid-fire chit-chat. She kicked off her sequin-trimmed ballet flats and curled up like a long-legged cat on the sofa near Brandon, who lounged, arm outstretched along the back, amused and awed and—if he were anything like Cameron—a little overwhelmed.
“Enough about me,” she said, finally ripping her sights from Brandon. “My tragic backstory could fill chapters.” She eyed the books Cameron had left on the side table. “Who’s the mystery fan?”
Cameron raised a finger. “Well, I—”
“Have you read beyond the classics?” She sipped from her lipstick-printed coffee mug, but not long enough to let him reply. “If you like a romance twist, have you tried Josh Lanyon? Gregory Ashe? If you haven’t you’re missing out.”
“I haven’t.”
“You’re missing out! These are musts for any cute, single gay man.”
“Do I have single printed on my forehead or something?”
A laugh. “Not the forehead. It’s a whole-body aura.”
“Splendid.”
“So witty. I’ll curate a list for you to read. God, this is so great. You and I will be great friends.” She winked at Brandon. “And you and I . . . well.”
She whipped out her phone, polished nails tapping on the screen. “Ohhh, my brother John’s arrived. He drove down from Christchurch in his new car, he’s dying for me to see.”
She unfolded from the couch and glanced at him, a twinkle in her eye. Cameron straightened under her slowly assessing gaze. “Come look with me. You’ll like John, and he’ll absolutely eat you up.”
“Go on, then,” Brandon urged. “I’ll start on the pulled pork tacos.”
Isabella batted her eyelashes his way. “I bought a lovely red wine if we want to lengthen this rather serendipitous visit?”
Brandon laughed easily, agreeing they should eat together, and Isabella hooked an arm around Cameron’s and whisked him toward the door. “God, I can hardly take my eyes off him,” she whispered.
“I noticed,” he whispered back.
She giggled and marched him out to the street like a prize puppy.
Late afternoon light lengthened their shadows, the soft scent of honeysuckle laced the air, birds twittered in newly-made nests, and then . . . a haphazardly parked bold-orange convertible occupied Knightly’s driveway, roof down, a goateed twenty-something polishing the BMW symbol at the hood.
“John!” Isabella raced ahead, throwing her arms around her brother.
John almost toppled over but caught himself, returned the hug, and at Isabella murmuring in his ear, swept his gaze to Cameron.
Cameron folded his arms against the long mental critique. Wasn’t it impolite to stare so hard? Those glittering eyes. Positively ominous.
When Isabella said he’d eat him up, had she meant it?
Cameron felt the socially constructed need to speak. Not that he knew what to say.
The convertible glowed in shafts of sunlight. He gestured to it. “Nice car?”
John ripped himself out of Isabella’s hold and trailed his fingers over the paintwork. He leaned against the car reverently, lips curled, absorbing Cameron. “I’m all about a smooth ride.”
Well, it was a very sleek-looking car. “Smoother is better, I guess.”
John flashed a set of unnaturally white teeth. “Cameron, right?”
Cameron shifted from foot to foot. Part of him—most of him—wanted to retreat, but . . . politeness. “Uh huh.”
“You wanna feel the power of this baby around you?”
A car ride with a man he barely knew? He smiled wanly. “Not before dinner?”
