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My head conks on the door, just below the BTS poster Morgan put up when we moved in. I kick the bottom with my boot a few times, cursing under my breath. Shoving my phone into my bag, I give it one last check to make sure that the coffee order and hundred is still inside and head out with my key fob in my hand.
I press the remote start and unlock when I’m within range and Cameron is already sitting inside comfortably by the time I reach him. If it’s even possible, he’s somehow more adorable today. Maybe it’s the post-kiss-bliss coloring my lenses, but I swear he put in extra effort today, unlike me. Black pants, crisp white shirt, skinny black tie, and suspenders—he looks ready for a charity auction whereheis on the docket. He pulls one foot up when I open my door, resting it on the dash, and I smirk at his Mickey Mouse socks and white Vans.
“I’d tease you about being a little liberal with the wholeoffice casualthing, but you had me at Mickey.” I hold a hand over my heart and tilt my head, temporarily forgetting all of the turmoil that dooms us.
Crooked smile. Wink.Sunk.
Five minutes late to the freeway and the traffic into the city is a whole different environment. I hate being late, and I’m terrible at hiding my stress. After the fourth lane change and twenty minutes of sitting as close as possible to the steering wheel, Cameron calls me on it.
“I’m gonna suggest you skip the coffee today,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
He simply nods toward my hand, which is beating the top of the steering wheel with the speed and force of the drummer in a metal band. I halt it immediately.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he says through a soft chuckle. His foot still on the dash, he’s practically lounging in the passenger seat without a care.
“We’re going to be late,” I shrill.
His laughter picks up and he holds out his open palms.
“And?”
I glare at him with wide eyes for a second then look back at the bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead of me.
“And that’s not professional,” I explain. “Cameron, I work at the mayor’s office. This is important to me. Maybe your internship doesn’t mean anything to you, but mine—”
“Stop there. You are going to say something you’ll later regret, and I don’t want regrets near us. Regrets are dangerous.”
His sudden serious tone pulls me out of my manic state, and my mouth snaps shut as I glance between him and the red taillights glowing in front of me. Cameron shifts in his seat, both feet now on the floor, his elbow on the passenger windowsill, thumbnail between his front teeth.
It starts to rain. My wiper blades automatically clear the window, the first few passes rough screeches against the glass. My instinct to panic threatens to boil over again, knowing this will put us even further behind, but I stop myself, instead looking to my right where Cameron stares out the window.
Without realizing what I’m doing, my hand reaches across the console toward him, my movement enough to catch his attention. His hand meets mine in the middle, fingers grazing over my palm until we’re locked together. The softest smile hits his lips, which prompts one of my own. I’m in this now. No regrets.
Cameron pleaded for me to drop him off at the coffee shop and do one lap around the block. By the time I got back, he had secured both of our orders, which required quite the feat in drink-holder construction. I’m not even sure how he managed to work the cardboard boxes into something that held a dozen drinks each, but he nestled the orders heading to my office on the passenger floor and insisted I head in while he walked to his building.
I still feel guilty about it, but the cheers from my officemates for bringing in their usuals without being asked, sparing them a walk in the rain, seems to have made showing up thirty minutes late a non-issue.
Despite my insistence that nobody pay me, everyone does. When I’m finally settled at my desk, I sort through the random bills in my purse and send Cameron an e-payment. To be funny, I tag it with a note that says it’s for the strip club, then slide my phone to the side when Chuck walks up with a notepad covered in the mayor’s awful handwriting.
“What do you have there?” I say, sitting up tall to peek at my next task. He sets the notepad down by my phone and sighs.
“I swear you can never leave this office because you are the only person who can decipher these puzzles. She wants us to find some images in the archives. I think this one says POTATO?” He pulls his glasses down his nose and bends over trying to get a different read on the scratched letters.
I squint at the word.
“Podium. That definitely says podium.” I smile up at him as he chuckles.
“I guess that makes a lot more sense. I was trying to recall some union speech or a trip to Iowa—”
“It’s Idaho. Idaho is the potato one. Iowa is corn.”
He smirks.
“Mind decoding her messages and then pulling together a shot or two for each?” he asks.
