Page 114 of Story of My Life
“Relax. It’s me,” Cam said gruffly. “Who did you think it was?”
“A bleacher troll.”
He shook his head. “Your mind is terrifying.”
“You have no idea.”
He frowned and leaned in closer. “You look tired.”
“And you look like a bodybuilding Smurf.”
“Don’t hate on the participation, Trouble. Why do you look like you were up all night?”
“Because I was. And when you stay up all night in your midthirties, your face tends to broadcast it.”
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, leaning back against a support and crossing his arms.
The blue paint only served to accentuate his muscled chest, those bulging biceps. I pinched myself again. Nope. Still not dreaming.
“I got carried away writing.”
“All night?” he asked.
“What can I say? When inspiration strikes, you have to follow it.”
Cam’s blue face became suddenly more smug. “Glad I could be of service.”
“I didn’t sayyouwere the inspiration.”
“But I was,” he said, with the confidence required for face paint.
“You may have managed to plant a few ideas that I embellished,” I hedged.
“Then I guess you didn’t hate the kiss.”
I tried to laugh but snorted instead. “Did you have any doubts?”
Cam’s lips quirked. “Nope.”
“Aww. Are you checking in to make sure I don’t have regrets about our very brief make-out session? That’s adorable,” I teased.
It was his turn to snort. Unlike me, he did it on purpose. “More like I was making sure you didn’t fall in love with me and start designing wedding invitations.”
“It was nothing but research, buddy.”
“Research that kept you up all night,” he pointed out.
“Pfft. I’ll have you know, I have a wildly out-of-control imagination. You and your arrogance only served as a practically insignificant spark of inspiration. Besides, you’re the one who should be careful. I’m a delight. Spend too much time with me and you’ll be out chopping down trees to build a wedding gazebo,” I challenged.
We were bickering under the bleachers like a couple of flirtatious teenagers. A few weeks ago, the only bickering I’d participated in was yelling at a guy on the sidewalk for spitting in my purse.
His lips quirked.
“Did you…think about me last night?” I asked him.
He gave an arrogant one-shouldered shrug. “Only to wonder when I’m getting my shirt back.”
“It’s already in the washer,” I lied.
