Page 65 of Challenge
“It’s for your own good. You don’t need this on your shoulders.”
“It’s there with every word you say!” I rake my hands through my hair and grip the back of my neck. “Why didn’t you come to my surgery, Dad?” I throw the question at him, catching him completely off guard. If he’s going to poke me, I’m going to poke him back even harder.
He scoffs, “I’m a busy man, Camden. It’s the end of the season. The scouts need to know what final matches to go to for recruits.”
“Bullshit,” I say, pushing up out of my chair. It scrapes along the floor and hits the wall behind me. “You didn’t come because you can’t handle anything that reminds you of Mum.”
“Camden,” Tanner’s voice bellows from the archway of the hall, jolting me out of my rage. His hair is a mess and his beard is misshapen, but his eyes have that look that tells me he’s not in a joking mood. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m just sick of talking about fucking football. It’s all we ever do!” I turn on my heel, determined to get the hell out of here before I completely break down like the emotional sap I am.
Tanner steps in front of my path to the hallway and places both hands on my shoulders, gripping them firmly. But it’s not to stop me. It’s not to scold me. It’s to show me that he hears me. Our eyes lock for only a couple of seconds before he nods and lets me go.
Go where, I don’t know.
THE NEXT DAY,IBURSTout laughing when I open the door and find Camden dressed in a pair of tan trousers and a pale blue button-down tucked all the way in. I think he’s going for conservative church boy, but his slacks are tailored perfectly to his muscular quads, and his metal plaque brown belt and expensive leather shoes make him seem way too fashionable to fool me. Even his blonde hair is perfectly styled off to the side, revealing the horizontal line of his undercut.
My clothes are more casual than his because I didn’t realise he was playing dress up. I’m barefoot and wearing denim leggings and a loose purple tank. At least the leggings are my hottest pair.
I glance down at the bags in his hands. “What are those?”
“Hello, Ms. Porter. I was wondering if I might call on you?”
I puzzle over his formal voice. “Don’t you need a mobile for that?”
“I mean,call on youin the old-world sense. Like…a courtship. But with all the conveniences of modern-day sex.” He flashes a smile at me.
I laugh again. “Is this how it’s going to be all night?” I cross my arms and prop myself against the door. “Because I definitely prefer Penis Number One Camden.”
“Oh hush,” he growls, pushing me aside to enter my tiny flat. “Think of this as role-playing. I’m making you dinner and you’re going to like it.”
I watch him as he sets the food on the counter and busies himself with unpacking and prepping. He looks rather good with his sleeves rolled up and behaving all domestic. A girl could get used to a Penis Number Two type maybe. But he can’t fool me. A zebra can’t lose its stripes.
He informs me he’s going to make us a steak salad; however, by make, he means arrange takeout on plates. It sounds fine by me because my cooking skills have never been my strong suit.
He pauses for a moment, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall a few times. When I’m about to ask him what he needs, he turns and rushes toward me. His lips find mine as he backs me up against the closed door. Once our movement stops, he pulls back—mouth open, nostrils flared, eyes locked on my lips— as if he had to look at me to make sure I was real. Then he attacks my mouth again. The kiss is firmer this time, fierce and spinning hot jolts through my entire body. When I’m about ready to beg him to rip my clothes off and take me right here against the door, he pulls back and murmurs, “That was too much. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” My voice is husky as my eyes find his.
His brow line creases with apprehension. “I just needed to get lost for a minute.”
I want to ask why but my mind won’t let me. This stuff with Camden is supposed to be casual. Sexual. Fun. Asking the deep questions will open up too many feelings. Feelings that I started to experience at Tower Park yesterday. Feelings that I need to detach from straight away.
“I can think of another place you could get lost.” I pull him into me and slide my hands up his firm back.
“No, Indie. I’m determined to be your Cock Number Two.” His face is boyish and innocent again, like a child who wants to win the big game.
I huff an exasperated laugh. “You just like a challenge.”
His brows waggle, lifting his pensive expression from before. “That I do. Shall we begin?”
He grabs my hand and leads me to my small table where he pours me a glass of red wine from the bottle he brought over and pops the tab on his Guinness. When he hands me the glass, I slide myself up on top of the table and watch the sexy Camden in the Kitchen Show.
Cheerier now, he flips a bottle of dressing and tosses a bag of arugula behind his back, making a proper spectacle of his work. Rolling my eyes, I say, “Of course you have a flair for the dramatics. You’re a footballer through and through.”
He quirks a brow. “Are you saying footballers put on a show?”
“Well, not all, but some definitely do. It’s so funny how you guys flail wildly and make a big scene whenever you get tackled.”
