Better than being soaked in milk, I guess.
I clear my throat. “How did it go last night?”
Casual, as if asking about a murder clean-up is standard breakfast banter.
“Fine.”
Great. We’re in the monosyllabic phase of post-sexual-tension regret. He’s that pissed I turned him down, and now I get one-word answers and perfect golden pancakes that I know will make me want to forget every hiccup we’ve faced.
“Fab,” I mutter, folding myself deeper into the silence.
But every time I glance up and catch him—bare-chested, absurdly edible, jaw tight with whatever he’s not saying—I regret it a little more. His sweats cling to his hips, and as much as I try not to be a total creep and stare at his ass, it’s so hard not to.
I regret pushing him away. Regret not letting him finish what he started when he dropped to his knees like he meant it.
I hadthat manbetweenmythighs, and I turned him down.
Whodoesthat?
Oh, wait, I do! This is how I’ve managed to stay single since my breakup with Adam. I’m a walking cock-block. Even to myself apparently.
What’s wrong with me?
He sits beside me, casual like it means nothing—like the air between us hasn’t been thick for hours. Then he slides a plate my way, the edge of it grazing against my arm.
His hands catch my eye—broad, steady, veined in that way that shouldn’t be distracting but suddenly is. Hands that have held violence and gentleness in equal measure. Hands that touched me like I was breakable, then kissed like I wasn’t.
I focus on the food. Not him. Not the burn blooming just beneath my skin.
I swear, if I stay here much longer, I’m going to devolve into a full-blown sex maniac.
“I need to know about your uncle.”
The words land like a slap. No question. No lead-in. Just straight up impact.
I choke mid-bite—pancake catching in my throat as I splutter like a deflating balloon. It finally ejects in a less-than-glamorous projectile across the table. So much for elegance.
And as if the universe hasn’t humiliated me enough, Boomerang picks that exact moment to demonstrate just how vile he’s capable of being. He saunters up, sniffs the half-chewed mess… and starts eating it.
Like it’s his goddamn birthday dinner.
Absolutely revolting.
Normally, I’d laugh. I’d make some gross joke and carry on like I’m not perpetually teetering on the edge.
But the second Cameron said “uncle,” something in me locked up—like a steel door slamming shut. The cold moves fast, straight through bone. And suddenly, the room feels suffocatingly small.
There’s nothing funny about this part.
Neither of us acknowledges Boomerang’s vile breakfast antics, thank God. Cameron just sits there unnervingly silent, sipping his water like it’s a holy ritual. Like silence itself might crack me open if he holds it long enough.
I already know what’s coming.
“I’m not talking about that,” I snap, before he can open his mouth again.
“I need to know what happened, Nell.”
The way he says it—low, steady, too careful—makes my skin itch.
