“Why? Were you worried or something?”
That same big smile covers her mouth, making her look really appealing.
I shoot for honesty, because that’s all I know. “Yes, Camila. I was worried.”
Her smile falls, and something real drifts into her brown eyes, like maybe this is the first time a man has ever been worried about her.
She masks it quickly. “Well, sorry. I told Harvey not to wait up.”
“You told Harvey?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs and then walks past me to her room.
I look down at Harvey as her door clicks shut. “When have you and Camila been conversing?”
His eyes peek up at me, but unfortunately, he doesn’t answer.
Hess
For a month-long platonic marital relationship,I’ve had Camila’s body pressed up against me more times than I can count. And I mean that in the most harmless way possible. Camila and I just keep bumping into each other, or I catch her when she’s reaching for something high. These moments just keep happening.
All the time.
In every room.
That’s been the worst part of the last four weeks. Because there’s nothing quite like Camila up close. It’s her smell. It’s the nuance of her light freckles. It’s the softness of her body. How her wild curls tickle my skin.
It’s a problem.
Specifically, a traffic-pattern problem in the hallway by our bedrooms.
That’s where Camila and I keep bumping into each other the most. Whenever we’re both walking in the hallway, it’s like we’veforgotten all social conduct, like passing on the right. Instead, we end up doing the stupid dance thing, or worse, the thing where we have absolutely no spatial awareness and end up running into each other, bodies pressed together, arms tangled up.
Luckily, this morning, I see her coming. I’m heading down the hall with my laundry basket stacked high with dirty clothes when Camila comes the other way, her own basket of clean clothes teetering in her arms. We both try to sidestep, but the corners of our baskets clip, and that’s when fabric goes flying.
Her stuff, my stuff, all over the floor in a jumbled mess of socks, shirts, andotherthings. I freeze, staring at what’s laying between us: a black jock strap on one side, a lacy scrap of fabric on the other.
Red.
Tiny.
Definitely not meant for structural support.
Camila gasps, dropping to her knees to scoop things up. I do the same, but of course, in our gathering, things get mixed up—her thong in one of my hands, my jock strap in hers.
We both just stare until she holds up my jock strap like she’s dangling a dead rat. “Whatisthis?”
I clear my throat. “Athletic support.”
“You wearthissmall thing for support?”
My brows lower, taking offense. “I wouldn’t call itsmall.”
Her lips twitch.
“It’s practical,” I shoot back then instantly regret the word. “And comfortable. You know, for workouts.” One brow rises with skepticism. “Weightlifting support. It’s…” I stutter as I yank the item from her hand. “Look, it’s a thing.”
She’s trying not to laugh.
