Page 13 of Indiana Idealist
“Really?” I ask as my chest puffs up with the honor of being granted the privilege.
“Yes, I like the familiarity of it.” After a moment she adds in a warning tone, “Just don’t call me Cam.”
“No, never,” I readily agree.
With that settled, she says, “I really don’t want to move out of your arms, but my body has needs.”
As if proving her point, her stomach growls loudly.
I chuckle at the obnoxious sound as she stands and heads into the bathroom. She picks up a decorative pillow and lobs it playfully in my direction for laughing at her.
When she emerges from the bathroom, I’m bummed to find that she has donned a short, silky robe. I’m already making plans in my mind to take it off her after she gets some breakfast in her grumbly tummy.
I head into the bathroom as she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll feed Charlotte and let her out. Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I answer, marveling at how natural and comfortable things are between us. The usual morning-after awkwardness is nowhere to be found.
I take a quick shower. Hoping I don’t smell too frou-frou from her lilac-scented body wash, I emerge from the steamy bathroom and head to the kitchen.
The delectable smell wafting from the stovetop stops me in my tracks. I must make a noise in the doorway because Camille turns and gives me a big smile before turning to pop some bread into the toaster.
My blood is pounding in my ears when I glance between Charlotte chewing happily on a toy on the living room floor and the pan that Camille has on the hot burner. I can’t manage much more than a croaky whisper when I ask, “Are you making bacon?”
“Yep,” she answers breezily as she pours coffee from the pot into two mugs. When she turns to hand me one, she catches sight of me and freezes.
Her eyebrows scrunch together as she asks, “Are you okay? You’re deathly pale.”
Rather than answering her question, I glance in Charlotte’s direction, then back at the sizzling pan before saying, “Bacon.”
Understanding dawns in Camille’s expression. “Ohhh, no.” She sets the coffee mugs down on the table before saying, “It’s turkey bacon. I haven’t eaten any pork products since I met Charlotte, but I still love the smell and taste of bacon.”
Relief surges through my system. Running my fingers through my damp hair, I say, “Phew. I know that I don’t have any right to be judgmental of your––or anyone else’s––eating habits, but I don’t know if I could stand quietly by and watch the woman I love eat bacon, especially with Charlotte in the room.”
She nods her head before comprehension dawns. Her eyes are alight with excitement when she asks, “Wait… The woman you love?”
I hadn’t meant to say it, but it’s out there now, and I have no desire to take it back. After bridging the short distance between us, I take her hands within mine before saying, “Yes, I know it’s fast and that, at least on paper, the two of us don’t make a lick of sense. But in real life, I don’t want to live without you. I love you, Cami.”
Tears are shining in the beautiful woman’s eyes as she blinks up at me and says, “I love you, too, Leo. And I don’t care if it makes sense or not. I want us to be together.”
We seal our proclamations of love for each other with a tender kiss.
Charlotte chooses that moment to make a contended, rhythmic suckling sound. We both grin over at the adorable animal before Camille says, “I’m glad we figured this out because it’s definitely what is best for the pig.”
“This is what is best for us, too,” I assure her as I sweep the amazing woman into my arms intent on taking her straight back to bed to show her my level of love and commitment.
My grand romantic gesture is paused when Camille screeches, “Wait! I need to turn off the burner under the turkey bacon.”
We make a quick pitstop to turn off the stove, and then I carry the woman of my dreams into our happily ever after.
EPILOGUE - CAMILLE
“Argh… Leo,yourpig chewed another pair of my high heels!” I grouch, beyond frustrated with the ornery animal and her handsome owner.
The man in question comes up close behind me and calmly wraps his arms around my waist before whispering near my ear, “Charlotte isourpig.”
Even though his nearness and soft-spoken words send a tingling shiver down my spine, I hold on to my anger. “Well, she’s getting into too much mischief lately. She has plenty of toys. Why does she feel the need to get into things that she knows she isn’t supposed to mess with?”
“Perhaps she’s bored,” Leo answers rationally.
