She hollers something else, something I can’t understand and I see a short, older woman come to the door and ask her a question. I figure it must be Drogheda, the housekeeper.
Cami answers and then settles onto a lounge chair, turning her face up to the sun. Purposely, I turn away—away from the house, away from the temptation, away from her. It can’t happen and that’s that. Might as well get over it and move on.
I’m still telling myself that when I hear voices again, and one of them is much lower. I look back over my shoulder and see her douche of a boyfriend making his way around the pool to her.
With an intimacy that hits me like a sucker punch to the gut, I watch him bend down and kiss Cami. And it’s not a little peck either. Even from a distance, I can see that he wants to devour her. Of course, it makes me furious, but I can’t really blame the guy. I want to devour her, too.
When she pulls away, he taps her back and she scoots forward. He swings a leg over the back of the chair and sits behind Cami. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, he leans down and kisses her neck before he starts massaging it.
I see him whisper something in her ear. She nods and says something in response. Like watching a train wreck, I can’t look away from the scene. I’ve never been so jealous of someone else in my entire life. I’ve been fortunate in that there have been few things I’ve ever wanted that I couldn’t have. And none of those things were girls.
Until Cami.
I reason to myself that’s why I want her so badly. It’s a matter of wanting her so much simply because I shouldn’t, because I can’t really have her. But even as that part of my brain works to try and convince the rest of me, I know it’s not true. It has nothing to do with something so superficial. I want Cami for other reasons, reasons I’m not quite willing to admit yet because they come with consequences. Nasty ones.
An engine starts up and I see a station wagon backing out of the garage. Must be the housekeeper again. Everyone else is gone.
I look back to the couple and see that Brent the douche is also watching the car drive away. It must’ve been what he was waiting for. He wastes no time in taking full advantage of the alone time.
Fury boils in my blood when I see him pull one strap of Cami’s suit off her shoulder as he kisses her neck a little more aggressively. Cami shrugs that shoulder, a clear indication she’s not into it, but he doesn’t take the hint. He reaches around and slips his hand underneath her bikini top. It’s all I can do not to run up there and kick his ass.
I grit my teeth. I know I should stop watching them, but I can’t.
Cami grabs his hand and pulls it away, but rather than giving up, he moves it down to where her wrap is tied at her waist. She moves it again and he stops kissing her.
He leans back and it’s easy to see by his body language that he’s not happy. But neither am I. I still want to rip off his arms.
Cami says something to him and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. She turns and continues to talk. She moves her hands animatedly. I’m beginning to learn her body language, and I’ve never seen this before. I wonder if it means she’s upset. That’s the impression I get.
After a few seconds, the douche of a boyfriend flings his hands and stands up. He walks off and Cami pushes her fingers into her hair. I get the feeling she wants to pull it in frustration. But she doesn’t. Instead, she gets up and stalks off, too.
I’m a little disappointed that she’s chasing after him. I’m still chastising myself when I hear someone tearing down the driveway. I know it must be him. Another minute or two later, I hear a door slam. I look back toward the main house and Cami’s walking back to her chair by the pool. She’s carrying some kind of little square kit that has handles. Curious, I let my focus shift completely to her again.
She sits down and unzips the kit then angrily pulls her foot toward her. She takes a bottle out of the kit, pours something on what looks like a cotton ball and then starts swiping at her toes. My only guess is that she’s giving herself a pedicure, or whatever it’s called. For some reason, watching her do something so girly and intimate is fascinating. And very alluring.
I glance at her face. Her brows are drawn down tight over her eyes and she’s muttering. Whatever happened with the douche, she’s not happy about it.
When she’s finished swiping at all ten toes, she rifles through the kit again and brings out a bottle of red polish. I could see it a mile away it’s so bright. She shakes it angrily before unscrewing the cap. She leans over to carefully brush some on one toe. She must’ve messed up, though, because she gets the piece of cotton again and wipes it off. She holds her hands out and looks at them before she closes the bottle and lays her head on her bent knees.
She’s absolutely motionless. In my head, I can almost hear the soft sounds of her crying and, even though she’d be crying over a douche, it still bothers me. A lot. Before I can even begin to think of how stupid it is to go to her, I’m already halfway to the pool.
As quietly as I can, I open the wrought iron gate we used last night and close it behind me. Cami doesn’t budge. She’s perfectly still and perfectly quiet, not even making the soft crying sounds I’d imagined she would be. When I stop in front of her, she slowly lifts her head. Her eyes meet mine. They’re dry and she doesn’t look away.
Without saying a word, I bend down and lift her legs, pulling them across my lap as I sit down.
“Here,” I say, holding my hand out for the little bottle she’s still clutching. She frowns, but she hands it over anyway. I shake the bottle again, like I’ve seen women do before, then I unscrew the cap. “Talk to me,” I urge as I bend down to paint a bright red streak on her first toe.
“There’s nothing to say.”
Bullshit!
“You’re upset. Now talk to me. Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.” She snorts and I look back at her. “What? You think just because I’m not a Harvard grad I’m smart enough to give a little good advice?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re probably every bit as smart as Brent, maybe even smarter.”
Something about the way she said it, the expression on her face, makes me think she actually believes that. I clear my throat and swallow the smile that’s pulling at my lips. It bugs me that what she thinks of me matters. It shouldn’t. But it does.
“Well then, spill it.”
I return to painting her toenails. In the quiet before she starts talking, I am berating myself for being a complete imbecile. I need to stay away from this girl, so what do I do? I go and get myself all wrapped up in her. Literally. Every nerve and hormone in my body is locked in on her warm body so close to mine and the knowledge that all I’d have to do is pull her into my lap and…