Camila
No sane womangets married at the age of twenty-one.
But a desperate one…well, that’s a different story.
“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” Sam from my political science class says.
I push my lips into a flatline smile, politely acknowledging him, though I’m losing faith that this guy will actually show up with each passing minute.
It’s obvious. I’m getting stood up.
Sam sits across the booth from me, impatiently checking over his shoulder every thirty seconds. “He’s normally really responsible—at least that’s the impression I got from him in our biology class. I didn’t pick a loser.”
Is that supposed to make me feel better?
That’s cute, Sam. Nothing could ease the tightness in my stomach at the moment.
Now, I’m starting to doubt putting so much trust in Sam. I barely know the guy, but I overheard him talking in class aboutall the shady things he could get for people. And while my situation isn’t on the same level as prescription drugs, I thought having someone like Sam, who deals with hush-hush situations all the time, would be helpful for me.
The bell on the Waffle House door rings, and both our eyes shoot to the man who just walked in. I shouldn’t be surprised by his good looks. I told Sam that if he’s going to set this up, he had to find somebody attractive—otherwise it won’t be believable. This guy definitely fits the bill. He’s tall-ish with shoulders that easily fill out the dark suit he’s wearing. His face is smooth, as if he shaved ten minutes before he came. His hand swipes over his buzzed head as he glances around the cafe. The only way he could be better is if he were a cowboy.
I have a thing for cowboys.
Always have.
Always will.
No judgment, please.
His blue eyes lock on Sam then drift with curiosity to me. I sit up taller, hoping he finds me somewhat attractive. Not that it matters, but still, I want his approval.
Sam jumps to his feet, meeting him halfway. “I was getting worried you weren’t coming.”
“I couldn’t find my suit.” He shrugs as they make their way to me.
“Camila, this is Harrison.” Sam gestures between us. “Harrison, Camila.”
Neither of us says anything. We just shake hands over the maple syrup jar and half-eaten waffles. Maybe I was supposed to stand. I don’t know the etiquette on something like this.
Sam looks between us, senses the awkwardness, and decides it’s time to leave. “Well, I’m going to run a few errands before we make this official. I’ll meet you guys at the church.” He slapsHarrison on the back in agood luck, buddykind of way and turns to go, the bell ringing as he exits.
“So…” Harrison glances around. “Should I sit, or are we doing this thing now?”
“There are a few items we need to talk about first.”
He drops into the booth. “Oh, like getting-to-know-you questions? Background checks?”
“No, not like that.” Although, the background check is a good idea. I wish I had thought about that before.
I grab a stapled packet from inside my purse.
“Is the Waffle House your favorite restaurant or something?” He picks up Sam’s fork and stabs the corner of his half-eaten waffle, taking a bite of the soggy carb.
My brows lower as I watch, grossed out by him easily eating another man’s food. “It was a place I was certain nobody I knew would see us together.”
“Itsh pretty good.” He’s already stabbing his fork for another round. “It would be better with buttermilk syrup and powdered sugar.”
“We have a few things we need to go over.”
