Page 33 of Cut up
“I think I just blacked out from that gravy. Did I moan out loud? I’m not even sorry.” Camille laughs.
I smirk, my eyes on her, “you did. It was… noted.”
Camille laughs, mock-gasp, “guess I’ll keep the moaning to a minimum from now on.”
“Please don’t,” I say—too quickly, and with way too much heat. I clear my throat, trying to cover. “I mean… it’s the only validation I get. I’m just cooking for the applause here.”
Tyler teases. “Are you trying to impress your new roommate?”
I lean back, tilting my head and smirk at her. “Is it working?”
Camille pretends to think. “Hmm. The potatoes could’ve used more salt. But the effort’s cute.”
Tyler starts laughing loudly. “Savage.”
Camille is being so playful right now and I love it. “I’m just trying to keep him humble.”
“Don’t worry. Living with Tyler is humbling enough.” I tell them.
“You’re welcome.” Tyler chimes.
After dinner, she helps clean up even though we tell her she doesn’t have to. Then she says goodnight with a soft little smile, disappearing into her room with a tired wave.
Tyler yawns, mumbles something about crashing early, and heads off too, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.
I make myself a tea that I don’t really want—just to wind down. Standing there, leaning against the counter in the low kitchen light, I feel it—that weird mix of peace and danger that comes with her being here.
I meant what I said earlier. I want to be her friend. She needs safety, not complications. And I can do that. I will do that. I take a slow sip of tea.
And then I hear the soft creak of a door opening down the hall. I glance over my shoulder, and immediately forget how to breathe.
Camille steps out of the hallway, her bare feet silent on the floor. Her hair’s down now, slightly damp from her shower, curling softly over her shoulders. But it’s the nightgown that does me in—black, short, silky, thin straps. The kind of thing you’d see on a lingerie ad you’re not supposed to stare at for too long. And I do stare.
My jaw actually drops. I’m not proud of it. She’s doing this to me more often than I’d like.
“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she whispers, walking over to the fridge with a drink bottle. “Just needed a refill.”
“It’s alright, you didn’t scare me,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds like I’m a teenager hitting puberty again.
She glances back at me and smiles sleepily. Innocently. As if she has no idea the kind of war going on inside my head right now. And maybe she doesn’t. But God, I do.
She fills her bottle. Then wraps her lips around the straw, taking a long sip.
She’s completely unaware I’m using every ounce of self-control not to drop everything and fall at her feet.
She looks angelic. She looks sinful. She looks like a thousand bad ideas wrapped up in silk and soft curves.
“You made a killer roast.”
I blink, dragging my eyes up to her face. “Thanks. It’s a specialty.”
She leans on the counter beside me for a second, yawns into her shoulder, and then says, “Goodnight again, Lucas.”
“Night, Angel.”
She blushes, and then she’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long time, then sigh and mutter to myself.
