The Real(60)

“Love you, bye.”

Right at the moment I ended the call, Cameron looked around the bar in search of me, and when his eyes found mine, he gave me his ‘come-hither’ finger. I loved that finger, and the hand, and the man attached to it.

We spent the second half of the game downing beers and catching each other’s eyes. I knew all too well it was the honeymoon phase of our relationship. I was no fool, and I was going to eat up every minute of it.

And sitting across from him in the café, all I could think of was the way he felt when he was closer, so much closer.

I knew Cameron was thinking the same as he engaged me while I ran my finger along the edge of my cup, then sucked the caramel off, inching my legs further apart.

His gaze hot on my hand, need ate up his features. I felt powerful.

“I couldn’t help but notice you sitting over here all alone.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the voice to the left of me. I clamped my legs shut and glared at Cameron, who was so entranced by the movement below he had failed to give me the heads up above.

Confused eyes turned icy as he stared holes through the man who spoke to me in a low beckon.

“I would love to buy you a cup of coffee,” he said as I twisted my head in the politest reception I could muster.

Cameron’s eyes blazed as I gave attention to the interloper, who was oblivious to the tension in the air.

“I’m Patrick,” he said, taking the seat next to mine. “I was just admiring you and wanted to see if you would be interested in more coffee or maybe some lunch?”

I gave him a sincere smile. He seemed like a nice enough guy. And four months ago, I might have considered it.

He was the light to Cameron’s dark features—blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin like mine.

But he wasn’t Cameron, so that made him not my type.

“Thank you so much for the offer, but I’m seeing someone.”

“Does this guy have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Cameron’s Mac: I will strangle that fucking douche bag with his own necktie. Tell him to fuck off, Abbie.

“He’s told me once or twice,” I told Patrick with a shrug.

Cameron’s Mac: I told you last night before I stuck my tongue between your legs and you called me Jesus.

I bit my lips to keep from laughing.

Cameron’s eyes fired, and his nostrils flared. He’d never been so possessive, but he’d never had reason to be.

Cameron’s Mac: Don’t play games, get rid of him. My cock is so hard right now, I can’t stand, but I will, woman. I’ll show the whole coffeehouse my hard-on. You want that on your conscience?

“So, are you two serious? Because I would hate to catch him slipping,” Patrick said carefully. I let his arrogance slide past me as the man opposite me began to white-knuckle his table.

“You know, I’m not sure. We were just talking about it. He seems to think we’re just sexual.”

Cameron’s Mac: Nice twist full of bullshit, Abigail. I will club you on the head Neanderthal style with this cock and drag you out of the coffee shop if you push me an inch further.

I let out a loud laugh and threw my head back. Cameron’s eyes flared again while he scrutinized Patrick and then kicked back in his seat in challenge.

He closed his laptop and packed it in his leather bag. He was done asking. It was a power play and clear alpha move on his part. I found it sexy as hell, albeit redundant.

But he wanted me. He made it clear. And in no way did I want to ruin that with any sort of game.

“I’m in love with him,” I said to Patrick as I spoke directly to Cameron. “I’ve never been in so deep with anyone. I couldn’t even entertain your invitation for a second. So, again, thank you, Patrick, but it’s very serious.”

Cameron stood then. Our jig was up as Patrick looked between us, read our posture, sheepishly apologized, and was ignored by us both as he walked away.

Cameron’s eyes nailed me where I sat as he made quick work of grabbing his bag and getting to my table.

“Let’s go,” he said as I gathered my things. I tried to read his expression and came up empty.

I couldn’t tell if he was still angry while he followed me out, his hand possessively on my lower back, guiding me. When we stepped outside the café, he gripped my hand and began to walk toward my house.

He took long strides, and I struggled to keep up. His steps purposeful and his silence agony, I stumbled behind him in a plea.

“Cameron? What’s wrong?”

He ignored me and kept moving while the chill, both in the air and in his demeanor, sobered me up.

Was I wrong? Had I misjudged his feelings, his words? He’d all but confessed his love and intentions for us.

“Cameron, please say something,” I begged as I took two steps to his one. He raced us through my gate and pounded up my steps.

“I’m sorry if—”

“Open the door, Abbie,” he ordered as I fumbled with my keys, my heart heavy.

Stupid, stupid. I should have never confessed how I felt first. But did I?

It didn’t seem possible with all that had happened between us.

He kicked the door shut while I rushed through my living room toward my kitchen. Reeling from the change in his behavior, I opened my fridge and grabbed a water, gulping it down as he stood on the other side of the counter, hands in his pockets.