Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(29)

Her assumption that he had feelings for her was, apparently, correct, but the extent or exact nature of those feelings was still unknown. As for her own feelings? She could barely articulate them beyond the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering about him, yearning for him. Despite the fact that she loved her vineyard with a fierce protectiveness, she’d easily acquiesced to his suggestion that he handle the renovations of a major structure. It shocked her, and yet it felt somehow organic and right. What was it about Cameron that made her trust him?

Perhaps it was the way he loved Jessica, doing whatever he had to do to make her dreams of a vineyard wedding come true. If he would go to the ends of the earth for his sister, what wouldn’t Cameron Winslow do for the woman he loved? It made the words to be loved by you circle endlessly in Margaret’s head.

Perhaps it was his impulsiveness. The way he’d shown up at her cottage and demanded use of the winery, or suddenly clutched her against his body in the vineyard, offering to pay for the renovations. Most of the parents on Blueberry Lane, including her own, had called Cameron hotheaded for various adolescent offenses, and she supposed he was in some ways, but he owned that impetuousness as a grown man and Margaret was drawn to it. She loved his passion. She loved his single-mindedness.

Perhaps it was the way he looked at her lately, with such desperate hunger. It made her want to soothe the ache inside him by offering whatever he wanted from her, whatever he needed from her. And what was it he needed? Her vineyard? Her friendship? Or . . . more? He didn’t seem to be able to offer more, hastily explaining that his business was floundering and his free time was nonexistent. And yet his eyes, his lips, his very body, told a different story—about a man who wanted much more than a business venture or a friendship. It felt like he wanted her, and it made her whole body tighten and flush to imagine him giving in to his desire and urging her to give in to hers.

Perhaps it was as simple as the deep rumble of his voice when he murmured such deliciously sexy things to her: You’re f*cking stunning . . . Because he was touching you . . . Say yes. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes as she heard the rich color of his voice in her head. Meggie. Meggie. Meg—

“—gie? Meggie?” A strong hand clamped down on her elbow. “Are you okay?”

She blinked her eyes open, focusing, disbelievingly, on the very object of her fantasies. Just inside the door of Hunan Gourmet, staring at her with his head cocked to the side and his eyebrows raised like maybe he’d said her name a couple of times, stood Cameron Winslow.

“Cameron!”

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, releasing her arm.

“Oh, I was . . . I was a million miles away.” In a business suit and tie, he was too handsome for words, and her heart skipped a beat as she swept her eyes up and down his body. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting some dinner,” he said slowly, grinning at the way she’d checked him out and moving out of the doorway to stand beside her. “Are you okay?”

She gulped, still feeling flustered that she’d been in the middle of a full-on daydream when it had suddenly come to life. “I’m fine. Just . . . daydreaming.”

“Looked like a good one.”

You have no idea.

“Best Chinese in the neighborhood,” he said, reaching for a menu.

He wore a blue striped shirt under a navy-blue suit jacket and a blue and green striped tie that picked up the color in his eyes and made them greener than ever.

“So,” he said, “what did you order?”

“My favorites: moo shu pork, tangerine beef, pineapple fried rice.”

“You like pineapple,” he noted, grinning as he referred to the pastry she’d eaten at the cottage two weeks ago. Then he turned around the words she’d used on him when he’d bought out the pastry case at Swiss Haus: “That’s enough for an army.”

“I like the leftovers,” she said, then heard herself add, “but I wouldn’t mind sharing.”

The playful grin on his face faded a little, as he locked his eyes with hers. “You sure?”

She nodded.

He placed the menu back on the counter with the others. “Great. I’d like that.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Because it seems like you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Order up! Story!” yelled the woman behind the register, holding out a brown paper bag.

Cameron took it from her hands, nodded at the woman in thanks, then held the door open for Margaret. She preceded him onto the sidewalk, her awkward comment sitting heavily between them.

He sighed as he shifted his briefcase and the food to his outside hand and let his fingers brush against hers as they started walking home. It was the only invitation she needed to reach for him, entwining her fingers through his, butterflies winging back and forth through her ribs as his palm settled flush against hers.

“It’s true. I have been,” he admitted softly, “Avoiding you.”

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I kissed you.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Even though it didn’t happen.”

Her lips wiggled immediately at his deadpan delivery.

“I guess neither of us was able to forget it.”

He squeezed her fingers gently. “How’re things with Olson?”