Crazy about Cameron: The Winslow Brothers #3(7)

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t rebuke him for leering at her, or drop his eyes with embarrassment.

She lifted her chin so slightly, it was almost imperceptible, but Cameron recognized what it meant. It was a dare. It was a challenge.

Stop staring, or do something about it.

He heard the words in his head as if they’d passed through her lips. Dropping his gaze, he watched as she bit the corner of her bottom lip, holding it between her teeth for just a moment before letting it go. His eyes skated up her face again—her perfect face, framed by tidy, perfect hair—and whatever fierce connection he’d perceived between them dispersed as she straightened her glasses and cleared her throat.

What had just happened between them?

Had he imagined it?

Had it all been in his head?

“I’ll text you Geraldo’s information later,” she said crisply. “Perhaps we should work out a schedule.”

“A schedule?” he asked dumbly, still a little flummoxed by the unexpected heat from their unspoken exchange.

Had she noticed it, too, or was he going crazy? Aside from pink cheeks that could be explained away by her brisk pace and the embarrassment of crashing into him, she looked as tidy and composed as always.

“A schedule. So the poor man knows which apartment he’s working on when. Like, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at your place, and Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at mine.” She took a deep breath, crinkling her nose as she thought this over. “Or maybe just weekdays at your place and weekends at mine.” She paused, locking her eyes with his, somehow provocative, even though her voice was even. “I’m rarely here on the weekends anyway.”

Because you’re probably over at Olson’s, he thought, suppressing a sneer, with his hands all over your perfect little tits.

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me,” he said tightly, fisting his hands, feeling his eyes narrow at the idea of Olson invading the sanctity of her space, her body, her skin. Christ— “Great. Then I’ll let him know.”

“Great.”

Great? What was great? What had he just agreed to? Damn it, this is why he needed to avoid Margaret Story! He couldn’t think straight around her.

She was looking down at the calendar on her phone. “Can you come to my place tomorrow at eight? I’ll have him stop by.”

Him? Oh, right. The contractor. Geraldo. To work on a bathroom that was absolutely fine the way it was.

She glanced up at him, waiting for an answer. “Cameron? Eight o’clock tomorrow?”

Eight tomorrow? Eight was early. Eight wasn’t nearly enough time to finish everything that needed to be done at his one-man office. Be at Margaret’s at eight? Not possible.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

“Fine. See you then.”

Without another word, she took a step around him and resumed the brisk pace she’d employed when they first smashed into each other, and within moments he couldn’t hear her anymore.

Stop staring, or do something about it.

Scratch that.

The only thing he couldn’t hear anymore was her feet.

***

Margaret had been a little disappointed when her text to Cameron with Geraldo’s contact information had been met with a polite, bland Thank you. She had expected more.

No, she hadn’t. Not really. But she had hoped for more.

Almost as soon as she left Cameron on the sidewalk, she’d texted Geraldo to set up the meeting at her apartment tomorrow night, and it occurred to her now to reiterate her invitation to Cameron in response to his tepid Thank you, but she didn’t. Women probably threw themselves at Cameron all the time, and she’d be damned if she would even walk the perimeter of that neighborhood. He’d sniff out her desire for him in a flat second, translate it into designs on him, and where would that leave her? Humiliated. When it came to Cameron, all she had to protect herself was a strong wall of decorum, and she didn’t intend to let it slip.

She’d come close enough yesterday, boldly staring into his eyes as he leered at her chest. She should have been more demure, let her cheeks flush with indignation, and dress him down with a stern look, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t because she liked it that he checked her out. And she loved it when his breath hitched as he stared at her breasts. It told her something that she’d been longing to know for months: Cameron Winslow may not especially like her, but part of him—even if it was a very small part—was attracted to her, and that was a very significant victory for a woman who’d been convinced for months that he disliked her.

Heady with the knowledge all day yesterday, she’d forgotten to ask Shane about dinner at her father’s house on Saturday, and received a stern reprimand from her father this morning. But even Douglas Story’s sour mood couldn’t dull her spirits. Cameron Winslow would be walking into her apartment tonight for the first time, and, with any luck, they’d have a chance to share a glass of wine before Geraldo arrived at eight-thirty.

A glass of wine alone with Cameron Winslow, she thought with a soft sigh.

It would be one of Margaret’s favorite fantasies come true.

How many times had she imagined his lips pressed against her delicate Baccarat crystal, a dark maroon sip of velvety smooth Pinot Noir sluicing down his throat? Her heart thrummed as she took a quick inventory in her head. Ah, yes! She had a perfect 1999 Dugat-Py bottle of inky, show-stopping Burgundy that had been cellared for twelve years before she bought it two years ago. She would open it tonight, let it breathe for a while, and then— “Margaret?”