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“I so love being right,” I say, leaning into Cameron. His head falls back with a quiet laugh.
“Oh, Brooky. You were not right. She was wrong.”
I punch his arm, which basically does nothing more than temporarily wrinkle his jacket sleeve. I think he might have been flexing underneath, and I like that he wants to show off. I won’t say it, but the whole Brooky thing is starting to grow on me too. Kind of like he is.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to spill the beans about you rock climbing or whatever. I get that people probably want you to be cautious. Your dad makes me nervous. I think I’ve talked to him twice in my entire life, and the first time I was pouring rainbow sprinkles on top of seven scoops of ice cream.” He holds up one hand to spread fake sprinkles over imaginary dessert.
“It’s fine. My dad was probably just shocked to hear I did something so physical. My mom and I are more of the shopping type. Outdoorsy stuff was always for him and my brother.” Part of me wonders whether my mom would like climbing as much as I did.
“You should let me take you camping sometime. Give you the full outdoor experience,” he says, nervous, breathy laughter tailing his words. His eyes flit away, and I dare say . . . he’s blushing.
“Yeah, me in the great outdoors. You just want to take videos of me blundering around a forest so you can monetize my awkwardness.” The visual of being alone by a fire with Cameron’s arm around me briefly invades my mental space, and my neck warms. Great. Now I’m blushing, too.
“I can’t believe you remember my birthday party!” I say, changing the subject.
Cameron shrugs as we finally move inside the café.
“It was pretty epic. Were all of your parties cool like that?” he asks.
I think back to when I turned eight and my mom turned the alleyway behind our brownstone into a petting zoo.
“I see that grin. That’s a yes,” Cameron says, leaning into me again. I like the way he leans.
“My parents have always been busy with work, so they made sure our birthdays were over the top. My brother got to fly in a trick plane when he turned twelve. I was too young, but I’m not really into loops in the open air a thousand feet up,” I say.
“I’d be down for that,” Cameron adds.
“Uh, yeah. I know. You probably would have talked them into letting you skydive,” I say.
“I have,” he responds. I narrow my eyes at him with skepticism, but he pulls his mouth into a tight-lipped grin and simply nods.
“No shit! I’m pretty sure if a plane were going down I’d take my chances on surviving by clutching my seat-cushion floatation device.”
Cameron laughs at my very honest response.
“I had to make my own fake ID, but if you go out far enough into the sticks, you can find a crazy guy running a small prop plane business just about anywhere who’s willing to take your word for it to make a couple hundred bucks.”
I can tell by his expression that he isn’t joking.
Cameron Hass navigates danger like it’s a tightrope and he’s willing to fall to his death.It’s a lifestyle I cannot understand, but there’s a part of me that’s a little envious of his willing to jump with both feet.
“How about you? Any crazy birthday parties?”
His smile fades a bit, and I think he’s forcing it to stay put as his gaze moves down to the floor. His hands drop in his pant pockets as he shrugs.
“Nah. Never really had a lot of family around to throw parties and stuff.”
There’s an instant sadness to him, and I feel bad for broaching the subject with him. My pulse beats in my chest, rattling my neck and echoing in my ears. I want to pry more, but I also get the sense that this subject is off limits.
“You don’t talk about your parents—” I start, only to get cut off by a familiar and rarely welcome face.
“Brooklyn Bennett? In the flesh?” Cole Masterson has known me since we were both five years old. His dad served with mine, and they both ended up working for the same engineering group. It forced Cole and me into a lot of the same social groups, which was nice for a while . . . having someone to talk to all the time. But somewhere along his trip through adolescence, Cole turned into a major douchebag.
“Cole, hi. What are you doing here?” He moves in to hug me, so I oblige, reluctantly. Cameron’s gaze meets mine and his eyes twitch faintly as his head tilts.
“It’s fine,” I mouth to him. He nods, but his eyes remain on Cole, specifically his hands.
My hands barely pat his back as he ropes me into his tentacles and holds on a second longer than is socially acceptable. If our fathers had their way, we would be on our way to an arranged marriage. I’ve made it abundantly clear to both of my parents, though, that Cole—and his bleached-out perm, odd fetish of wearing cowboy boots around the city, and his fumigation-level use of cologne—are not my type.
