Page 47 of Hot Damn
I hear her huff through the door but I also hear the tell-tale click of the deadbolt sliding into place. With a smile, I head for Cami’s car, pleased she’s safe inside my house.
The alarm might not be the best but I doubt anyone, especially reed-thin Kenneth, will break in at this hour of the day. Then again, most burglaries occur during the day while the occupants are out at work or whatever.
That thought has me picking up my pace and when I jump behind the wheel and crank the engine, I slam the gear into reverse and accelerate so fast the tires give a little squeal against the driveway’s concrete surface.
And I’m not ashamed to admit I went a few miles above the speed limit all the way to Whit’s school.
Cami
Pacing Beckett’s house I notice a few things are different since I left this morning. For one, the clean laundry I left in the utility room is gone, and the dishwasher had been run and everything put away.
The small amount of last night’s leftovers I put in the fridge are gone too.
It pleases me to think Beckett ate them for lunch. Or breakfast. And I can’t help wondering if he liked what I made. It wasn’t fancy, just a chicken, bacon, and leek bake I’ve made for years because it’s great for freezing leftovers. And when you’re cooking for one all the time, meals that have more than one use are better and more efficient than cooking a single meal every night.
Not that I cook as much as I should. Years of living at home meant Mom took care of that most nights and now I’m out of their home, I find myself back at Mom and Dad’s a lot of the time.
Except recently.
I might not have had much say—or any—in the way the Rogues came together but I’ve been there. Which shocks me that most people don’t seem to know I’m part owner. Like I told Beckett, it’s not a secret and I’ve been at every press conference aboutthe team from the announcement of the franchise nearly two years ago.
Although I tend to stand toward the back. And I never speak. I leave that to Nat, Oakley, and Blake. They’re all front and center whenever something happens. It’s the same way with Rogue sportswear. I’m not comfortable in the spotlight, not after spending my childhood being thrust into it.
The thought of my life before Dad took me away from it makes me shudder. Crossing my arms, I rub my hands up and down my biceps in an attempt to ward off the chill.
I hate thinking about that time in my life. Hate that no matter what I do the memories are as clear as the day they happened and still have the ability to affect me.
Resentment and hate are all I feel for the two people I spent my first eight years with. The last two the worst of them because Andrea finally admitted I wasn’t Gun Muskin’s kid.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by the door to the garage bursting open. For a moment my instinct is to reach for a knife in the block sitting prominently on the kitchen counter. The urge is squashed a second later when Whitney’s voice echoes off every surface.
“Cami!”
The girl races toward me and throws her arms around my neck. Shocked by the show of affection I stare at her father with wide eyes. His indulgent smile has me snapping out of my daze and reciprocating the hug.
“Hey. How was school?”
“It was school.” She pulls back, her arms still around me. “But guess what?”
“What?”
“Dad said if it’s okay with you I can stay at your house or you can stay here whenever he has an away game from now on.”
“Oh.” My gaze darts to Beckett for confirmation. The look he sends me is sheepish, and I have to believe there’s a reason he offered me up as babysitter. “That sounds like a plan. But I haveto work things out with your dad first. There might be conflicts in my schedule and his?—”
“That’s okay. Oakley said I could also stay with Pa or Natalie with the twins.” She lets me go and walks to the fridge. “I’m starving, are those leftovers still here?”
“I ate them for lunch.”
Whitney eyes her father over the fridge door. “Of course you did. But I’m not going to last until the barbecue tonight. I need something to tide me over.”
One thing I noticed about Whitney last night was that for someone so slender, she has an appetite. One to rival a teenage boy. “I can whip something up.”
The offer is out and I’m moving toward her before I think about what I’m doing.
“Oh. Sorry.” I glance at Beckett. “Cal said he’s going to be another thirty minutes so I’ve got time to make you both something before then.”
“You don’t need to get going?”
