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

The elevator dinged, stopping at Cameron’s floor, but he made no move from where he leaned against the back of the elevator. What did she see? She couldn’t possibly see what he saw in his head: her small, lithe body all soaped up, her soft skin pressed against his as she leaned back against him, naked in his bathtub, her back to his front, her hair tickling his bare chest, her legs entwined with his, his hands on her slick, pert breasts as she moaned his—

“I can give you Geraldo’s information. Hold on a sec.” She rifled through her bag, pulling out her cell phone as the doors opened.

Cameron’s cock was hardening by the second. He needed to get away from her. Far away. At least a full floor away.

“Text it to me,” he said, brushing her shoulder as he strode past her, through the open doors.

“But I don’t have your—”

Looking back at her buttoned-up beauty over his shoulder, he said, “717-555-7172.”

And the doors closed.

***

Margaret snapped her jaw shut and scrambled to enter the digits into her phone before she forgot them. Not that Cameron Winslow deserved anything from her, but she wasn’t the sort of person who withheld help just because the person asking for it was a bona fide jackass.

As she typed in his name, the elevator doors opened to her floor, and Margaret walked out of the elevator and headed down the hallway to her apartment. She’d purchased it last fall, after moving back to the United States.

Unlocking her door, she entered her dark apartment, placed her bag and keys on the front hall table, and slipped out of her heels. As she padded into the round center hall, the chandelier above sensed her movement and illuminated the room. Like the spokes of a wheel, all the rooms in her apartment opened into this hallway. Her kitchen was through an arched doorway to the far left, another arch led to the dining room, and yet another to the living room. To the right, a final archway opened to a hallway that led to her bedroom suite, guest room, and guest bath. Between the kitchen and dining room, there was a swinging door, and between the dining room and living room, French doors, which could be opened when entertaining.

It was an enormous apartment by Philadelphia standards, but she’d been captivated by it from the first moment she saw it, and her trust fund tidily covered the expense. Still, so much space was almost a waste for one person, she mused, heading into the kitchen. Especially when that one person spent every weekend at her vineyard in Newtown, Pennsylvania, about an hour from the city.

Margaret placed her phone on the kitchen counter and pulled a wineglass from a cedar rack, then opened her refrigerator and withdrew the bottle of Viognier she’d purchased from a vineyard near hers last weekend. She poured a healthy splash into the glass, picked up her phone, and headed through the dining room into the living room, where she left the lights off and curled up on the overstuffed couch that faced an elegant white marble fireplace.

Swirling the wine absentmindedly in the dim ambient light from the streetlights shining through her windows, she closed her eyes and dipped her nose into the glass, inhaling the bouquet. It wasn’t a bad vintage—the familiar smells of vanilla, apricot, and oak filled her nostrils, and she sighed, relaxing for the first time all day. Leaning back, she swirled the wine again, then sipped, letting the cool liquid take over her mouth as she breathed slowly through her nose. Finally, with another sigh of delight, she swallowed, amazed that such a decent wine could be produced in Pennsylvania, and hoping that her own vintages would one day surpass her neighbors’ and rival her competitors’.

For Margaret, who’d earned her undergraduate degree in Paris and her sommelier certification in Bordeaux, winemaking was an art. As for wine drinking . . . well, it was a very sensual, very visceral pleasure that made her toes curl as she took a second sip.

All of the stress of the day started to slip away as she balanced her phone on the arm of the couch and took the diamond studs out of her ears, placing them carefully on the coffee table before her. Her wineglass followed, and she propped up her feet beside the glass, leaning back on the couch and closing her eyes. Without thinking, her hands reached for her phone, and she played with it, handing it back and forth between her palms, as her thoughts focused on Cameron Winslow.

Why did he dislike her so much? And why did it bother her so damn much?

Gulping her wine uncharacteristically, she placed the glass back on the table and headed into the kitchen for the bottle and returned to pour herself another splash. As a rule, Margaret never overdrank, but if anyone could make her break her own rules, it was Cameron.

Cameron . . . on whom she’d had a crush for as long as she could remember. Cameron . . . who’d been the first boy to show her attention when she was ten years old. Cameron . . . who’d moved away when his father suddenly died. Cameron . . . who lived directly below her apartment and about whom she’d fantasized since the moment she saw him standing there in the lobby last November, talking to Alex English. Cameron . . . with his tall, muscular body, thick black hair, and grass-green eyes.

Cameron . . . who couldn’t stand her.

She looked down at her phone, where his name and number glowed.

It was clear he didn’t want anything to do with her. He barely gave her the time of day when he saw her, and if he thought she didn’t notice all the times he pushed “Door Close” when she was running for the elevator, he was delusional. After bumping into her at the building gym two mornings in a row in December—both times he’d looked her over carefully before offering the most unbelievable scowls—he started running outdoors instead. Even in the almost-unbearable cold of winter, he ran outside instead of using the treadmills, and she couldn’t shake the feeling he’d rather run in subzero temperatures than risk running into her. She had no idea what she’d ever done to him. Hell, if memory served, Cameron had been the one who gleefully teased her in the years before he moved to London. In fact, if she concentrated carefully, she could still feel him tugging on her tight, neat braids at one of the neighborhood pool parties.