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“Well, it’s a day . . . that me . . . and others at the firm . . . spend in the—”
My brow pulls in and I grimace at him. “Basement day. Clever. Got it.”
He laughs, so damn proud of himself for teasing me.
“Seriously, Cam. I want to know what kinds of things you do.”
He clears his throat and drops his foot to the floor.
“Okay, well, basically, I work with a lot of the paralegals and aides all day pulling together research and collating papers. Sometimes it’s really boring stuff, like today. One of the attorneys is working on a tax case and she needed about forty different files from the boxes in the basement.”
“Ah,basement day,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “Me and two of the aides lugged boxes up and down the elevator all day while a team spread them out in the conference room in search of the perfect documents.”
“Sounds frustrating,” I admit.
Cameron’s head wiggles side to side in response.
“A little. Mostly because this would be so much easier if some of the older partners would get with technology and have their files converted to digital. They’re old school, though.”
I think about my father and how that description fits him, too.
“My dad has every speech he’s ever made saved in spiral notebooks. They are all labeled and in this massive file cabinet in his office at home. Of course, they are spiral notebooks, so those labels . . .”
“Can’t be read on a spine,” Cameron says with a laugh, following my drift.
“It drives my mom crazy because he’s always asking her to find one of them so he can pull out a quote or make sure he isn’t repeating himself. The last real argument my parents had ended when my mom threatened to drop a match in one of the metal cabinet drawers.”
Cameron’s mouth forms an O.
“Okay, good to know the Bennett women mean business.” He scoots closer to the passenger door and forms a cross with his fingers as if I’m a vampire.
The easy flow between us is as smooth as the traffic out of the city. Everything that felt wrong when I woke up seems so irrelevant now. The only sense of doom remaining is that text my father sent, and I decide to handle it frankly with him. I won’t go in unprepared. I’ve been taught politics well, and it’s important to have talking points for debate. I can only speculate on my father’s disapproval of me having a relationship with Cameron, but I have a good sense for the things that concern him, and I’m sure everything centers on his dad’s incarceration. The one bridge I willhave to cross that might be hard is with Cameron. I’ll need to warn him that his father will be brought up—in debates, in mudslinging articles, on social media.
It hits me all of a sudden. The realization so hard and fast that my body tingles with anxiety, my pulse racing as sweat beads on the back of my neck. What if Cameron decides being with me isn’t worth it?
That thought sits heavy with me throughout the end of our drive home. I do my best to keep up the façade, but I fear my fake smiles are pretty transparent. To add to my worry, campus is buzzing with people when I pull into the parking lot. It hailed recently, which left a layer of crystal-like ice on the main lawn and several people are out pretending it’s snow. Cameron’s smiling as he looks on through my windshield, the carefree kid that is always close to his surface probably dying to run out and slide along the slick grass with his bare chest. I can’t ruin that.
He exits my car and I snag my bag from the back seat then join him. He’s waiting a few steps in front of my SUV, and I’m paralyzed. My hand itches for his. My fingers literally stretch with want at my side before I ball them into a fist. No longer able to mask my thoughts, I blurt them out before Cameron turns around to read my face.
“My dad doesn’t want me connected with you.”
I cup my mouth with both hands. Cameron remains perfectly still in front of me, his black tie blowing over his shoulder, his hair wild in the wind. I’m so ashamed. I’m not even sure what embarrasses me most. That my father’s opinion matters. That my father’s opinion is what it is. That I would even suggest that his circumstances are something to be hidden—erased. What’s worse is it’s clear that’s what he’s been forced to feel. Otherwise, we all would know his story.His complete story.
Cameron is so beautiful. His sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, his forearms defined, every inch of him flexes in reaction to my words. All I want to do is step up behind him and wrap my hands around his chest, pressing my face to his broad back while I inhale his scent. He’s whiskey and cinnamon, but the rarest kinds. I would never be able to match his formula, even with all the ingredients in the world.
Cameron’s head turns, his eyes not quite reaching me as he drops his hands in his pockets. His mouth opens, his breath fog in the air. My eyes are trained on his lips. My fingertips linger on my own as I hold on to the memory of how they felt.
“Thank you for the ride, Brooklyn.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. I wouldn’t have one for him now, anyhow. Not the right one. I would be blinded by this aching desire I have to be with him, to feel safe in his arms. I’ve only felt beautiful twice since the accident ripped so much away from me. The first time was when we kissed, and I know he saw my scars but kissed me anyway. The second was when he told me as much this morning. I won’t dare ask what he thinks of me now.
Chapter12
Brooklyn
It’s only Lily in our room when I enter. I’m relieved. Morgan and I haven’t found our footing again since she not-so-subtly told me Cameron wasn’t good enough. It’s this common theme from those I love the most—first her, then my father. I won’t ask for Lily’s opinion. She’d be as wrong as they are.
