The Paid Bridesmaid(49)

“No, here, here. Not on your phone every ten minutes. You’re going to miss everything.”

For a second I thought he might tell me it was none of my business, and truthfully it wasn’t. I just didn’t want him to look back on this and regret that he hadn’t been more present for his best friend.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Those are words I do not hear often enough.”

One of Hank’s assistants handed us all the things we’d need for s’mores—the giant marshmallows, Hershey chocolate bars, graham crackers, and long skewers.

I got to work, preparing the chocolate and the crackers. Then I got my marshmallow on the skewer and put it over the fire.

“How do you take yours?” Camden asked. “Golden brown or flaming black?”

“It’s sugar. I will take it however it wants to present itself. Burnt or otherwise. Plus, when it is burned, it means it’s really melty inside.” Kind of like how I felt every time I was around him.

My marshmallow did indeed catch fire, and I blew it out. I pressed it into the other components and let out a moan after I took a bite. So yummy. The marshmallow was oozing out everywhere, and it was getting all over my fingers. I started licking them off.

I noticed Camden watching me with that hungry look in his eyes that turned my spine to Jell-O. “Do you want a s’more?” I asked.

“I think I prefer a s’less,” he said, then waved his hands. “Sorry, bad joke. I don’t like s’mores.”

“Don’t like . . .” My voice trailed off. Who could say no to all these amazing ingredients combined together into a melted deliciousness? It boggled the mind.

“But I do enjoy watching you eat them.”

His words echoed inside my chest, making it hard to breathe. Desire flared up inside me, like the flame surrounding the logs in front of us. “Why are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe I just enjoy flirting with you?”

“But why?” The jig was up. He didn’t need to keep doing this.

He leaned across his armchair, so that he was in my space. “I like how your cheeks flush, how you grab your lower lip with your teeth, the way that you pretend you don’t like it, but I can see in your eyes that you do.”

“That’s . . .”—entirely correct—“entirely untrue. And back to my point earlier: if I was a corporate spy, I would have willingly fallen into your honey trap.”

“Unless that was your plan all along. Act as if you didn’t like me so that I’d be even more interested.”

I shook my head at him. “That is one messed-up dynamic that human beings enjoy.”

“Agreed.”

I focused on my s’mores, making a few more. Okay, five more. Ignoring Camden’s intense gaze and eating my dinner.

Or, more accurately, trying to ignore his gaze and how it made me want to throw this chocolate-and-marshmallow concoction to the ground and leap into his lap.

That’s how much my body liked Camden. It was willing to forsake chocolate and gooey goodness.

“I’m going to get a bottle of water,” he said. “Do you want one?”

“No thanks.” I needed one, but I didn’t want to feel any more indebted to him. He got up and I realized that my right shoulder was aching. I rolled it a few times and it made a crunching sound. I had probably tweaked it during the pillow fight.

“Is that bothering you?” Camden asked. I wondered where the water bottles were located; he hadn’t even been gone for ten seconds.

“Just an old acrobatic injury,” I told him. When his eyes widened, I laughed and added, “I’m kidding. It’s just a little sore. I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to massage it for you?”

No. What I meant to say was no. No, thank you. No, your hands on me is a very bad idea and no, you can sit over there and just not touch me.

What I actually said was, “Yes, please.”

He stood behind me and I was already shaky with anticipation before his hands made contact with my shoulders. I let my eyes drift shut slowly as his strong fingers kneaded my muscles. My head lolled forward and I had to struggle to not slide off the chair completely. It felt so, so good.

“You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders,” he commented.

“I promise you it’s everywhere.” I meant of the stress variety, but I had no idea how my statement came across because I was too busy wondering what else I could claim was sore. I wanted more of his touch.

As if he could read my mind, he put his palm against the left side of my face, leaning me into it. Then with his right hand he began rubbing my neck, his slightly calloused hands causing a flood of warmth across my oversensitized skin.

“How’s that?” he asked, his voice totally normal, like he wasn’t in the least bit affected.

Meanwhile, the ability to speak had left me entirely. The sound I made was along the lines of, “Viningrah.”

“Better?”

I tried to nod, but nothing in my body was cooperating. I was a heady mess of want and need, rendered speechless and immobile by his touch.

He let me go and I slumped against the chair, my skin still tingling where he’d touched it. Like he’d marked me. It was a good thing my entire skeleton had collapsed or else I would have attacked him then and there. Forgotten about my job, about my rule, everything.