Page 16 of Full Tilt
Lachie hums thoughtfully. “So, you’re single, charming, and good with your hands. That’s the trifecta.”
“You always interrogate strangers in bars?” I ask, raising my pint.
“Only the ones who might be spending time with my BFF,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta make sure you’re a good guy. We’ve got a vetting process.”
That actually lands softer. He’s still full of humour, but there’s something warm under it that’s loyal, protective.
I glance at Camden again, more out of instinct than anything, and find him looking not at me but at Lachie—with that sort of long-suffering fondness that saysI’m going to kill you in your sleep, but I’ll still cook you breakfast in the morning.
I snort. “So, this is the interview, huh? Should I have brought references?”
“If you’ve got a glowing review from your mum, I’ll accept it.”
“Tragically, she thinks I’m a delight.”
Camden shifts beside me—finally—and says drily, “Ignore him. He thinks he’s subtle.”
Lachie clutches his chest. “That hurts.”
“Good.”
Before Lachie can go full inquisition again, Camden says, his voice low but clear, “All right.” He steps in with a tone that walks the line between exasperated and dry amusement. “That’s enough interrogation for one night.”
“Oh, come on?—”
“I’ll buy you a pint,” Camden cuts in, turning to me. “To apologise for him.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Apologise or escape?”
“Bit of both.”
I grin. “Tempting.”
He gives me a look that dares me not to follow, and when he turns, his hand brushes the small of my back—barely a touch, just enough pressure to guide me through the crowd, but hell, my brain short-circuits. Camden’s hand is big and warm and right there, and I don’t care how packed this bar is, I’m pretty sure I could float to the other side of the room.
I keep walking, trying very hard not to think about the fact that my jeans are now about thirty seconds away from being classified as a health hazard.
Christ. I need to focus, but it’s not easy. Not when the gruff rugby captain with thunder in his laugh and bruises under his shirt just hauled me out of a conversation and laid a claim with nothing more than a half-smile and a hand at my back.
Camden moves to my side as the crowd thins while we weave towards the bar. “Lachie means well. He just thinks every conversation is a contact sport.”
I snort. “So… rugby, but in words?”
“Exactly.”
And God help me, I like this man more with every step.
Camden doesn’t say another word as he threads through the crowd. He just keeps that steady hand at the small of my back until we reach the bar. He orders without looking at me, like this is just another part of his job as captain—ensure the newcomer isn’t traumatised by Lachie’s enthusiasm, provide alcohol, return to strategic silence.
But when he turns and hands me the pint, his fingers brush mine—brief, accidental maybe, but definitely not missed.
I follow him without a word, and he leads me towards a quieter spot near the back—half tucked behind a pillar, one of those tables that’s slightly too small and too round to becomfortable. But right now, it feels like the only bubble of calm in the whole damn pub.
He slides into the bench seat and nods for me to take the opposite side.
No fuss. No small talk. Just him, quiet, watching.
I let the silence sit for a few beats as I take a sip, then lean my forearms on the table. “You always let Lachie do your PR?”
