Page 53 of I Think He Knows?

As expected, Cam looks super-hot in his fitted gray T-shirt, black athletic joggers, and socks with no shoes. It’s his usual work attire, but he looks even more relaxed and comfortable than he does at school. I’m excited to see him in his own space.

“Great, because I’m starving,” I exclaim. “I was so busy today I barely had time to eat lunch.”

“Come in, come in,” he says opening the door wider. “Welcome. And as a disclaimer, I spent the last thirty minutes cleaning, so I might’ve missed something.”

I step inside and look around Coach Cam’s home, it looks spotless, so it must not have been that messy. It’s very nice—cozier than I thought it would be. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe a recliner, a massive TV, and a weight bench?

The main area is a good size with beige leather furniture, a tall bookcase, an average sized TV, and a round dining table. The kitchen overlooking the living room is small with very nice stainless-steel appliances.

“Your home is nice—although you didn’t have to clean for me.”

He shrugs. “I know.”

We both grow quiet for a few seconds.

“What can I get you to drink? Diet Coke, water, wine, beer?”

I follow him to his little kitchen.

“A glass of wine would be wonderful,” I say. “It’s not a school night.”

He smiles. “Good call.”

I rest my hands on the counter while he opens a bottle of pinot noir and pours two glasses.

“Here’s to the weekend,” he announces, holding up his glass.

“To the weekend,” I repeat. “Cheers.”

We both take a sip, and then I wander into his living room and over to the bookcase.

“Wow, Coach Cam, you’re quite the bookworm,” I tease.

“You sound surprised,” he says with a laugh.

“Not at all.”

He joins me by the bookcase. “Fitness and learning. Two of my favorite things.”

I smile. “That makes you the perfect PE coach.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” he says.

I continue to scan over his books, and then there’s a knock on the door.

“The food’s here,” he exclaims. “Be right back.”

I sit on the leather sofa and take a long sip of my wine to keep myself from watching Cam walk to the door. Surprisingly, I’m not the least bit nervous being here with him. It feels so natural.

“Dinner is served,” he says holding up the bags of food. “I’ll grab some plates.”

“I can help,” I say rising to my feet.

“No, no, no,” he insists. “You’re my guest.”

I sit back and watch as Cam moves around his kitchen, gathering plates and silverware.

“We can eat at the table if you want to be formal or right there in the living room,” he says. “Whatever you prefer.”

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