Page 27 of Full Tilt
“What does that even mean?”
“You stay locked up in a zoo of your own overthinking, you’re gonna miss the jungle. Or die in it. I dunno. Metaphors aren’t my strength.”
I’m laughing before I can stop myself, the sound catching in my chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s so Cosmo, and somehow it helps, even as a pang of homesickness squeezes inside my chest. “Thanks, philosopher child.”
“Anytime. Just don’t die in the wild, man.”
“I’ll try not to.”
He hangs up with a cheery “Go make out with someone!” and leaves me sitting here, smiling at my phone like a fool.
Don’t be the gorilla.
Fuck.
Easier said than done.
After Cosmo’s gone, I stare at the phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the thread of messages I have with Camden. Thelast one I sent was twelve hours ago. Maybe more. I scroll up, reread the one with the dumb flirty feather joke, and wince.
God, Brent, really?
Still… there’s nothing aggressive. Nothing pushy. Just a guy trying to hold a thread between him and someone he maybe shouldn’t have kissed. But definitely wanted to.
I tap out a new message. Professional. Neat.
Me: Hey—no pressure, but wanted to check in. Design’s looking strong, and I’m happy to go over it whenever you’re ready. Studio’s quiet tonight if you want to pop by. If not, no worries. Just let me know what works.
I hesitate for a beat, then hit Send. The second I do, the bell over the door chimes. I glance up, already halfway to rolling my eyes because, of course, someone walks in with sixty seconds to spare before we lock the place?—
Then I almost swallow my goddamn tongue.
Camden.
Big, broad-shouldered, and looking like someone just dared him to walk into traffic. His brows are drawn, his mouth in that tight line I now know means he’s two seconds away from bolting. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, his thick brown hair covered by a beanie, and he looks about as comfortable as a man wading through a minefield barefoot.
Flick glances over from his station, one brow already on the rise. Carrie pauses behind the desk, eyes flicking between us.
Camden’s standing just inside the doorway, as if he’d been there—waiting—when the message came through. His hood’s still up, shadowing his face, but I don’t miss the tightness in his posture. Like he’s still not sure if he should be here. Like he’s halfway out the door even as he stands in it.
I clear my throat and force my voice to stay even despite my heart burning at inferno levels. “Hey. You, uh… you came.”
He nods once. Short. Sharp. “You said it was quiet.”
I blink. “I only just sent that,” I say carefully.
He shrugs, eyes flicking around the shop but never quite meeting mine. “Figured you’d be here.”
“I am.”
Then I turn to Flick. “You and Carrie can head out. I’ve got it.” Christy is already long gone—only working part-time at reception. The rest of the time we fend for ourselves.
Flick raises both eyebrows now, but he doesn’t say anything. Just flicks his gaze between the two of us, grabs his bag, and offers me a low, amused “Night, boss.”
“See ya,” I mumble.
Carrie mouths, “Good luck,” as she passes me and makes a clean exit.
The moment the door closes and the latch clicks, the silence drops like a curtain. It’s thick and tense. I’d like to say it’s thick with chemistry, but that’s probably wishful thinking.
