Page 53 of Fault Lines
I scoffed. “I love Cam. How do I sleep with Nate when my heart’s somewhere else?”
She leaned forward, her tone gentle but fierce. “Livi, Cam is sleeping with someone else every week. You deserve a break from this martyr routine. Enjoy yourself a little. Maybe it’ll wake Cam up.”
“How do you think Cam would take it if he found out?” I asked.
She raised her eyebrows. “Well, Nate would probably have to go into hiding—but maybe that’s the shock Cam needs.”
The idea unsettled me, but she had a point.
It was a lot to consider.
Chapter Seventeen
The airflow in the trunk was stale and dry, like breathing in crumpled paper, as I grabbed the smallest bag—it was all Cam would allow me to carry. I had to fight the itch of a cough as we stepped over the threshold into the cabin, and it hit me immediately: it looked as if it had been abandoned for years, dust motes swirling everywhere in the weak afternoon light.
Cam didn’t waste a second. He dumped our bags on the scuffed wood floor, then made a lap around the place, unlocking and opening each window one by one.
“Going to have to let it air out a bit,” he said, his voice echoing off the empty walls. “Dad said he hasn’t had a chance to call a cleaner up here in a while.”
I shrugged. “No big deal,” I said, wrestling the suitcase down the hallway toward the main bedroom.
We spent what felt like forever dusting, unpacking, sneezing, but eventually the place looked fresh, like we’d summoned a new skin over the old bones. I eyed the sunlight peeking across the rug and felt a small jolt of satisfaction.
“I’m going to get a fire going,” Cam said, already at the fireplace with practiced hands.
It wasn’t even cold out, not really—but the idea of a fire seemed too cozy, too picturesque to protest. I let him have his ritual.
I picked a bottle of wine from our grocery bag—a pinot, something light and berry-sweet—and uncorked it, pouring myself a glass. The sound of the cork popping was like a sigh. I padded out through the sliding glass doors to the small patio. Two wooden chairs straddled a round end table facing a quiet fire pit. There was no flicker, no flame, but I didn’t mind. I just sat back, glass in hand, letting the chorus of crickets and breeze start to unknot my nerves.
Behind me, Cam was somewhere near the woodshed, chopping at the logs in tidy, rhythmic swings. The crack and thump of wood was like a metronome, even and steady, and I found it oddly soothing. I closed my eyes, sipping my wine, letting the peace settle around my shoulders.
Then my phone buzzed. I almost ignored it, but curiosity won. I fished it out and saw the message.
I hate that I didn’t get to see you at work today.
Nate. My pulse danced in my wrist. He’d been gone for once—the rare time he didn’t show up at the shop. Mr. Porter had apologized, said Nate was drowning in his “real job,” too behind to come in.
That always made me feel guilty, somehow, even though I never asked Nate to visit the store. But I knew he did it for me.
Since our kiss, he’d been different. Open. He lingered, found excuses to brush my hair from my face, to let his fingers graze my cheek under some innocent pretense. I should have shut it down. I knew I should have. But I didn’t want to.
I missed you today too. It’s just not the same without you.
Cam appeared beside me so silently I almost startled. He’d poured himself a glass of wine too, and now he dropped into the chair next to mine, the wood creaking beneath him.
“Who’s that?” he asked, nodding to my phone. “Rachel?”
I slid my phone away, shaking my head. “Just a friend.”
“A friend?” He sipped the wine; eyes fixed on the trees. “What friend?”
“Mr. Porter’s grandson, Nate.” I said it quickly, hoping honesty would be enough. “You know, the bookstore owner. The croissants? I told you about that ages ago—I take the pastries there for him and his employees. Nate is his grandson.”
“Okay,” Cam said slowly, suspicion leaking into his tone, “but that doesn’t explain why Mr. Porter’s grandson would have your phone number. Or why he’d be texting you.”
Oh, here we go.
“Really Cam?” My words came out sharper than intended. “Do you honestly want to go there tonight? Do you feel entitled to ask? Need I remind you about the aquarium?”
