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Cursing under his breath, he yanked his phone out of his pocket and called Aaron. Cameron barely waited for his partner to answer before he cut in. “What’s Trish’s apartment number?”
Just like that, the sleepiness was gone from his friend’s voice. “It’s 3b. Why?”
“Call you in a few.” He hung up and took the stairs again, nearly sprinting. He had no idea how he’d get into her apartment if she wasn’t able to answer the door. Should have thought that through. Since he was already there, he pounded on the door and listened closely in case she cried for help.
Instead, footsteps padded on the other side of the door and a sleepy-looking Trish opened it. She yawned and then froze at the sight of him. Her blue eyes went wide. “Uh... What time is it?”
Cameron was too busy casting a worried eye over her to answer. She didn’t look injured. No blood or protruding bones. Maybe she fell and hit her head? He stepped into the apartment and slipped his fingers through her tangled blond curls, gingerly feeling for a goose egg that might indicate a concussion.
Trish frowned. “What’s going on?” She swatted at his hands. “What are you doing?”
“What did you fall from this time?”
She blinked and then backed up a few steps. “What are you talking about?”
She was definitely concussed if she didn’t realize what the hell was going on. Cameron pointed at his watch. “It’s nine.”
Horror dawned across her face. “Oh God, I’m late.” She looked down at herself and then at him, which was right around the time he noticed that she wore flannel pajamas with little cats frolicking across the bright blue background. It should have made her look childish, but Trish in pajamas led to thoughts of Trish in bed and Cameron turned to survey the apartment before he could follow that to its inevitable conclusion.
Small place, which was to be expected. A little studio apartment with a door on the other side of the room that must lead to the bathroom. Her bed was made—the comforter printed with brightly colored flowers—and she’d managed to imprint herself on the space in a limited amount of time. Flowerpots perched on either side of the kitchen sink, soaking up what little sunlight they could get this time of year. She’d even managed to find time to hang art on the walls—more florals, though they were strangely moody in black-and-white photography instead of bright oil like he would have expected. The only thing out of place was a container of what appeared to be Chinese takeout sitting on the coffee table.
Trish cleared her throat. “Cameron. You’re in my apartment.”
“You were late.” He spoke almost absently, his gaze going back to the paintings. Black-and-white with the faintest hint of color in each. Compelling, though something about the close-ups of the different kinds of flower petals made him a little sad. Or maybe melancholy. One of those less than happy emotions that he wouldn’t have thought to associate with the peppy woman in front of him.
Cameron wouldn’t have said he was without layers—he was human and humans had layers of personality—but he tended to set aside the bullshit and call things like he saw them. It didn’t always work out in his favor, but at least there wasn’t room for misinterpretation or confusion.
The more time he spent around Trish, the more he realized this woman was nothing but layers. The bright woman who smiled her way through every situation. The flares of irritation and anger on occasion. The pride. And now this new revelation that he couldn’t quite place within the puzzle that was Trish Livingston.
He cleared his throat. “I thought you’d fallen off something and hurt yourself.”
“Cameron.” Her exasperation drew his attention back to her. Trish crossed her arms over her chest. “You know I don’t actually fall off things often, right? I’m not particularly injury-prone and just because I took a tumble off a ladder and you caught me like some kind of romance hero doesn’t mean you need to get all anxious about my health.”
She sounded perfectly reasonable, but perfectly reasonable people read the instructions on ladders and didn’t step on the top step and lean precariously while painting. He mirrored her pose. “You’re an hour late. What else was I supposed to think?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes. “That I fell asleep on my couch and forgot to set my alarm and overslept. That’s a very normal thing to do.” She made a face. “Wait, I take that back. I don’t make a habit of being late, and I’m sorry I am, but you’re acting like I’m an accident waiting to happen.”
He started to argue, but the bottom line was that she was right. He shouldn’t be here any more than he should have done half the shit he’d pulled with Trish up to this point. If he was smart, he’d make some excuse to leave and put this whole awkward encounter behind him.
