Page 75 of Second Quarter Comeback
Camille: Look, the no-moving-in thing isn’t about you. I just don’t want to be that girl. The one who moves in, eats all your snacks, takes over your bathroom, and starts hiding your stuff when you forget to do the dishes. I don’t think you’re ready for a roommate like me.
Killion: You mean living with my dream girl?
Camille: Oh, please. You’d regret it the second you opened your fridge and realized I replaced your beer with kombucha.
Killion: You wouldn’t.
Camille: Try me.
Killion: (sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose) Fine. Don’t move in yet, but we have sixty days to make you realize we can be epic roommates.
Camille: You’re stubborn, Crawford.
Killion: Yeah, and apparently off my game.
Camille: I hope not, because you have one coming up this weekend.
Killion: Yep. Are you going to eat dinner with me tonight?
Camille: Another invitation. I’m starting to like you, Crawford.
Killion: Is that a yes?
Camille: It’s a definitely ‘let’s have dinner together, but I’ll cook tonight.’
Killion: I think I like you more than this morning, Ashby. See you later tonight.
Chapter Forty-Five
Camille
Playing Defense with the Ashbys
The soft glow of the pendant light over the dining table gives the room a cozy warmth. Killion finishes his plate with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t eaten in a week. He uses the last piece ofsalmon to swipe up the remaining lemon-dill sauce, and I can’t help but laugh when he moans while he’s chewing it.
“You’re an amazing cook,” he says, once he’s done with his meal. He leans back, clearly satisfied.
“That’s the third time you’ve said that,” I reply, sipping my kombucha. But I’m smiling. I can’t help it. Watching him enjoy a meal I made? It’s embarrassingly satisfying.
“That sauce, though,” he says, pointing to his plate like it’s evidence in a court case. “You could bottle it and sell it.”
I laugh again. “You really liked it, huh?”
“Liked doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he says, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. “Do you cook like this for all your dinner guests, or am I just ridiculously lucky?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s usually just me, so I keep it simple most of the time. But if we’re alternating meals . . .” I shrug, feeling a little self-conscious because I honestly don’t know if this is just a temporary thing or if we’ll be able to continue having meals together every evening. “I can find more recipes.”
He grins, the kind of grin that makes you forget why you ever tried resisting him in the first place. “If this is your version of low effort, I’m officially intimidated.”
“Oh, please.” I shake my head. “You’re just trying to butter me so I cook more often.”
He rolls his eyes and asks, “How’s the hunt for a place going?”
“Honestly? I haven’t done much,” I admit, taking another sip of kombucha. “Scottie suggested I look in Boston too.”
“Fuck no,” he says, so immediately and so emphatically that I almost spit out my drink. “You’re staying in New York, with me.”
“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” I tease, laughing.
