Page 67 of Married As Puck
His mouth quirks into a half-smile, that cocky-but-not-quite look that always manages to throw me off balance. “Dinner,” he says simply. Then he steps forward, pulling out a chair for me. “For you.”
I stand there like an idiot, bag still on my shoulder, coat half slipping off my arm. The whole thing feels unreal, like I’ve walked into the wrong apartment. Cameron doesn’t do this. He broods, he smirks, he pisses me off. He doesn’t set candles and cook whatever that is on the table.
“Dinner,” I repeat slowly, narrowing my eyes at him. “For me?”
He arches a brow. “Unless you think I light candles and eat alone.”
The corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest twitch, but I fold my arms over my chest. “What’s the catch?”
His smile deepens, and I hate that it makes my stomach flip. “Why does there have to be a catch?”
“Because this is you,” I shoot back, though my voice softens near the end. My eyes scan the room again, lingering on the candles, the steam rising from the plates. “You don’t do… this.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, though I catch the faintest glimmer in his eyes. “Well, you do not know me and that’s understandable, but even though, what if, maybe I’m trying something new.”
I don’t move. Not yet. Suspicion claws at me, but awe slips in too, curling warm and confusing in my chest. My legs want to give out, to sink into that chair he’s still holding out for me, but my brain is already whispering warnings. Don’t fall for this. Don’t fall for him.
Still, when he tilts his head, wordlessly beckoning, I find myself setting my bag down and walking forward. My heels click against the floor, too loud in the quiet, too loud against the pounding of my heart.
He waits until I’m close enough to touch before saying, softer this time, “Sit.”
I lower myself into the chair, my eyes never leaving his face. “I’m still waiting for the part where you tell me what you want from me.”
For once, Cameron doesn’t smirk. He just holds my gaze, steady and unreadable. Then, almost gently, he says, “For tonight? Nothing. Just eat.”
And that, somehow, is more terrifying than any scheme he could have cooked up.
I pick up the fork, twirl it against the plate, and take a cautious bite. My eyebrows shoot up before I can stop them. “Okay… wait. This is actually good.”
Cameron smirks, sliding into the chair across from me. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I am shocked,” I counter, pointing the fork at him. “I didn’t know you could cook. You give off more of a… order-steak-rare-and-make-the-waiter-uncomfortable vibe.”
He shrugs, taking his own bite, unbothered. “I can make the effort.” His gaze flickers up to catch mine, deliberate and sharp. “For the people who deserve it.”
The fork freezes halfway to my mouth. My stomach does this little flip I pretend not to notice, and I focus hard on the plate instead. “Smooth,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “You’ve been practicing that line, haven’t you?”
“No,” he says easily, leaning back in his chair. “Just telling you the truth.”
The worst part? It doesn’t sound rehearsed. It sounds… honest. And that unnerves me more than any sharp remark he’s ever thrown.
So I deflect. “Well, don’t get used to me singing your praises. This pasta could still kill me in an hour.”
He laughs a low, warm sound I’m not used to hearing from him and shakes his head. “If I wanted to poison you, Brie, I wouldn’t use basil and garlic. I’d be more creative.”
“Comforting,” I deadpan, though my lips twitch. “Really putting me at ease here.”
“Good,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “That’s the point.”
I want to tell him he’s full of it. That I see through this performance. But as I take another bite and another after that, and I can’t help noticing how he watches me, like this matters to him more than it should. And that unsettles me in ways I don’t have the strength to untangle after the day I’ve had.
I swirl the pasta on my fork again, trying not to look impressed. “So what else are you hiding, Cameron? Should I expect crème brûlée for dessert? A surprise soufflé?”
He lifts a brow, that sly smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t get greedy. I said I can cook, not that I’m auditioning for Master Chef.”
“Oh, so pasta is your magnum opus.”
“Exactly.” He lifts his glass of water like it’s a toast. “Appreciate the art while it lasts.”
