Page 21 of You're So Vine
“I’ll set up a series of appointments – my office and the hospital. Take it step by step.” Doc’s suddenly cheerful again. “But for now, son, look after her. Make sure she eats. Don’t overtire her.”
He knows what we were up to. He knows I know he knows. But that was earlier, when Primal Cam was in charge. Rest of today, I’ll be on my best, most Responsible Cam behavior. Rock solid self-control.
I shake Doc’s hand and watch him leave in his dusty old Camry. Walk inside again.
Find Ava waiting for me. Stark naked.
ChapterSeven
AVA
Soon as I see Cam’s face, I know we’re not getting back on that counter. Curse Doc Wilson and his promptitude. Don’t care if that’s not even a word, I curse it anyway. Or “cuss” as Doc would say. I won’t stay pissed at Doc, I’m too fond of him. But if he’d been even just fifteen minutes later, Cam and I would have been in a post-quickie coma, and I would have been a lot more relaxed about the medical check-up.
But would a quickie have been a good thing? Just because I’m desperate for a distraction and, let’s face it, very focused on achieving my goals, it doesn’t mean it would have been the right choice. Sure, Cam responded, but any straight guy who isn’t dead generally doesrespond when a woman has her hand down his pants. Judging by the fact that he now looks as if he wants to clap both hands over his eyes, I’d guess he’s had second thoughts about us being hasty.
Slowly-slowly. Words of advice I ignored. Because I wanted to feel something other than terrified.
So, what now? Given the circumstances, and the fact that Doc Wilson’s visit hasn’t exactly boosted my libido, I think the best thing is for me to help us both escape with dignity. I’ll start by folding my arms to cover my bazooms.
“I’m standing here naked”, I tell Cam, “because the towel is damp, the blanket scratchy, I slept in the T-shirt, and we’ve already discussed that I don’t have any other clothes. Got another of those flannel numbers you’re wearing?”
Cam looks like someone dropped a brick on his skull. If he says “uh” again, I’ll smack him.
“Sure,” he says. Must have read my mind.
He makes a dash for the stairs. Thump of boots up. Rummaging. Thump back down.
Cam holds a flannel shirt out in front of him so it blocks his vision. I grab it, throw it on. It comes to just above my knees, but it’s clean, soft, and comforting.
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.
He smiles. Relief, mainly, but who cares. When he smiles, his brown eyes get a glow, like burnished chestnut in firelight, and they crinkle around the edges. Cam’s smile makes you feel warm and safe. If he were a horse, I’d be confident to put anyone on his back. But let’s not have riding and Cam in the same thought. Not right now, anyway.
“Don’t suppose eggs are still on offer?” I ask.
“Sure. Yeah. Coming right up,” he says, and leaps into the kitchen space in a single bound.
Honestly, it’s like I’m a judge giving him a stay of execution. I could feel offended, but I haven’t the energy. The medical check-up not only snuffed out my sex drive, it also brought back all the fear and panic of last night. But I won’t tell Cam that I’m feeling scared because I don’t want him to take pity on me. I hate being pitied more than I hate feeling out of my depth. I want to know what’s wrong with me, so I can start doing something about it. But Doc won’t commit to any diagnosis until he’s run fifteen million tests! Stubborn old coot.
It suddenly occurs to me that the reason Cam’s being cautious might be because Doc Wilson gave him the same lecture he gave me. Doc knows patience has never been my strong suit, so he basically forced me to agree to rest up. Emotional blackmail is probably against some medical code of ethics, but I swore on the family grave of the Durants I’d take it easy. Maybe Doc bailed Cam up against the wall outside and forced him to promise, too? Doc may be half Cam’s height, but he’s got sharp instruments in that bag of his.
And, really, it could be worse. Cam told me no one else is coming to visit, so I can spend the rest of the afternoon just with him. And then, maybe later, we can… It’s not like I have any plans for today. Or plans for any day after, for that matter.
I take a seat at the small kitchen table, which I realize folds up when not in use. The stool I’m sitting on looks like it folds up, too. Cam’s whole home is a marvel of space-saving smarts. If Cam designed this as well as built it, he should start a business. The tiny house movement is taking off, and this is the best example I’ve seen. Along with the compact woodburning stove, there’s a dinky pull-out pantry and a tiny fridge. There’s storage everywhere; even the staircase has cupboards and shelves slotted into it. The bed upstairs is elevated on top of a sort of wardrobe. I say “sort of” because it’s made to fit only guy stuff: shirts, jeans, underwear, socks. No hanging space for dresses. It’s a one-dude pad, no doubt.
I watch Cam cook the eggs and make toast. Bread looks homemade, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Cam was the baker. There are so many questions I want to ask him.
Patience, Ava. Eat your eggs. Then interrogate.
“Here you go. Hope they’re okay.”
Cam slides a plate in front of me. The scrambled eggs are perfect, buttery and soft but not sloppy. And they’re topped with—
“Are these chives?”
“Yeah.” Cam looks up from his own plate, uncertain. “Don’t you like them?”
“I do,” I say. “But where’d you get them?”
