Page 38 of Second Quarter Comeback
Killion: No, just trying to figure out where to find you, since someone won’t answer her texts.
Camille: Remember the part where I said, “leave me alone”?
Killion: I have a deal for you.
Camille: No.
Killion: Just hear me out. You give me five minutes of your life, and after that, I swear I’ll leave you alone—unless you change your mind.
Camille: Nothing is going to make me change my mind.
Killion: And I’ll respect that. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.
Camille: Fine. I have one last surgery, and then I’ll head to my place.
Killion: How are you getting back?
Camille: I’ll walk or . . . something.
Killion: I’ll have a car waiting for you.
Camille: I don’t know when I’ll be finished.
Killion: That’s fine. The driver will wait until you’re ready. Take your time.
Camille: Why do I feel like you’re going to play me into doing something I don’t want to. Is this something from the Crawford Playbook? Are yougoing to guilt me into it?
Killion: The playbook has nothing to do with this. Guilt? Never. Just a masterclass in persistence.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Camille
The One Where He Opened the Wound
You know what I don’t need after a day of back-to-back surgeries? Killion Crawford standing outside my door holding a takeout bag and a small jewelry box.
I’m exhausted, worn down from hours in the OR. All I want is to get inside, feed Benbefore he decides to hold a grudge, and fall into bed. Instead, Killion is here. And damn it, he looks good. Very edible, not that I’m hungry. Okay, I might be a tad hungry since the last time I had sex was . . . well, I can’t even remember. It’s hard to find a guy who’ll take me seriously when I talk about tightening your vagina online more often that I want to.
Exhaustion is settling into my bones, but here he is, leaning against the wall like he stepped out of a fever dream I never wanted. His t-shirt clings in all the right places, his jeans are slung low on his hips, and somehow, even in something so simple, he looks like he’s trying to casually ruin my life.
Though, I’ll admit, the driver waiting for me outside the hospital with boba was a nice touch. After a day like today, it felt good to have someone think about me for a change. Not that I’d tell Killion that.
“Thank you for the driver,” I say, shifting the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, ignoring how his eyes linger like he’s memorizing every detail. “And for the boba. It was . . . appreciated.”
“I’m glad I was able to help,” he says, his voice calm, like we’re old friends having a casual chat. “He’ll be at your disposal while you’re in New York.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because it’s safer,” he says, shrugging as if this isn’t a ridiculous conversation.
“I’m capable of walking,” I reply, cutting off whatever noble nonsense he’s about to spout.
“And you’ve got more than three million people following your every move on social media,” he counters. “I figured a driver could help . . . keep an eye on things. Mostly you.”
There it is. The hero complex. Classic Killion Crawford.
“What do you want?” I sigh, my patience thinner than surgical thread. I’ll fight the driver thing another day.
