Page 42 of Fault Lines
I didn’t feel it. I pictured the brunette I’d seen him with—a woman who looked like she belonged in a magazine.
I shrugged. “Thanks.”
“You okay? Did something happen? Did you and Rachel fight?”
“No, it’s just been a long day. And I went for a drink after. I don’t usually drink beer, but tonight I did.” I stood at the shower, twisting the faucet until the water steamed. “I guess I’m learning I like more things than I thought.”
Like working in bookstores or making lattes or the way Nate’s eyes looked in the sunlight. I shut the thought down—it felt dangerous to even think it.
Cam just watched, his expression unreadable. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror: pale skin, slim hips, the old insecurity sliding in. Was Cam comparing me to her? Did I stack up at all? I locked the door behind me, a barrier I’d never put up before.
That night, curled in bed, I let my mind drift. For the first time in all the Thursdays since Cam’s new rules, I didn’t picture faceless bodies and betrayal. I imagined Nate instead, laughing, alive, wrapped up in music and light.
And, just for a night, that was enough.
Chapter Fourteen
I tipped a generous pour of cream into my coffee, swirling the spoon until the color mellowed to warm tan. It was too hot to drink, but I blew on it anyway, needing that first jolt to get the day moving. I felt sluggish. Today was supposed to be busy—a big shipment coming, and Mr. Porter wanted to reorganize the whole fantasy section to make room.
I stood, half-dreaming, until Cam came into the kitchen, crisp shirt half-buttoned, the faintest hint of cologne following him.
“Morning, babe,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. He reached down to brush a kiss over my cheek, his mouth grazing my skin. “Did you make me a cup?”
I grabbed a mug from the cabinet before he could ask again, poured coffee, hot and black, from the pot, and slid it across the counter toward him. The action was familiar, almost automatic.
The oven beeped, punctuating the quiet, and I grabbed a potholder and rescued the tray of croissants, setting them to cool with a little flourish. They made the kitchen smell bright and golden—the scent of morning.
“What’s this for?” Cam asked, a note of suspicion in his voice. “We never eat breakfast.”
“I was going to take them to—,” and I had to break the sentence off abruptly, not daring to finish it. “To Mr. Porter.”
It was dangerously close to the truth. But not quite a lie, either. I really was going to take them in for Mr. Porter and for Nate. That counted, didn’t it?
“Mr. Porter?” Cam repeated.
“He owns that antique shop on the edge of town—the one that sells books, too.” I fumbled the words, hoping if I stuck close enough to the real facts, I wouldn’t slip. “I stop in sometimes, and he’s always so nice. I wanted to bring something by for him—and the other employees.”
It was true, in its way.
Cam just looked at me, his gaze a tangle of curiosity and caution, like he wanted to dig deeper but wasn’t sure he wanted to find anything. Maybe he didn’t know how much I was holding back. Maybe it didn’t matter.
“Can I have one?” he said, gesturing impatiently to the croissants.
“Of course.”
He snatched one up, devouring it in three quick bites. Coffee washed it down.
“That was really good,” he said, surprise in his voice. “You ought to make those more often.”
“Maybe,” I said, noncommittal.
He leaned in for another kiss before he left, this one lingering longer. I waited until he pulled out of the driveway, the car’s engine fading into the morning, before picking up my phone and calling Rachel.
She answered on the third ring, but her voice sounded distant. “Hold on a sec,” she said.
I could hear muffled voices behind her, a door closing sharply, then the sound of her settling herself somewhere more private.
“Okay, what’s up, girl?”
