Page 68 of Married As Puck
I shake my head, pretending to sigh. “And here I thought you were secretly a domestic god. Turns out you’re just a one-trick pony.”
“Careful, Brie.” His voice dips lower, playful but with that edge he always carries. “Keep insulting my cooking and I’ll stop making the effort for you.”
Something about the way he says, ‘for you’ lingers in the air. I take another sip of my wine to keep from reacting too much.
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s charged. He watches me like he’s cataloguing every flicker of my expression, every time I try to mask how caught off guard I am. I stab at the pasta again just to do something with my hands.
“This is weird,” I finally mutter.
“What is?”
“You. Being…” I gesture vaguely toward the table, the candles, the perfectly plated food. “…this.”
His eyes glint with amusement. “A perfect gentleman?”
I huff a laugh. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He leans in slightly, elbows on the table. “Maybe it’s not weird. Maybe you just haven’t given me the chance before.”
That makes me pause. I don’t answer. Partly because I don’t know how, partly because the food suddenly feels like a very convenient distraction.
So I keep eating, even though I’m not all that hungry anymore. Because the way he’s looking at me… it’s making me feel self-conscious.
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.”
He pours me another glass, the red catching the light from the candles as if it’s glowing. I wrap my fingers around the stem, mostly for something to do. The food’s been cleared away, but the silence between us hasn’t gone anywhere. It lingers, pressing, like it’s waiting for one of us to break it.
Cameron leans back in his chair, swirling his wine lazily. “You know,” he says, his voice casual but his eyes fixed on me, “for someone I live with and have a lot of sex with, I don’t actually know a damn thing about you.”
I arch a brow. “Oh, really? You know plenty.”
“Mm.” He tips his head, pretending to think. “Let’s see. I know you’re annoying.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes.
“And that you hate your boss.” He grins, clearly fishing for a reaction.
I can’t help laughing, even though I try to hold it in. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“That’s literally the full list,” he says, raising his glass like he’s delivering a punchline. “Annoying. Hates her boss. End of dossier.”
I laugh again, softer this time, but it fades as his gaze lingers on me. There’s no smirk now, just quiet curiosity. “Seriously, though. I don’t know anything else. Not really.”
For a moment, I just stare at him, debating. Normally, I’d deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But something about the wine, the candles, the fact that he’s asking, actually asking, makes my chest ache in a way I can’t ignore.
I take a sip, slow, buying time. But when I put the glass down, the words are already pushing at me. “There’s not much to know,” I say quietly.
“That’s never true.” His voice is low, steady. “There’s always more.”
I glance down at my hands, fingers twisting against the stem of the glass. “Fine. You want my story?”
He nods once.
The tug in my chest grows stronger. And before I can stop myself, I start.
“I grew up in foster care. Bounced around a lot, never really stuck anywhere. No family to go back to, no… real anchor. Just me, trying to figure things out one placement at a time.”
The words spill easier than I thought they would, maybe because I’ve never really said them out loud before. Maybe because his eyes don’t flinch or pity, they just stay on me, listening.
