Page 37 of Not That Into You

I shrug. “I do like to stretch.” Noting her frown, I smile. “Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

“Please. I’m more concerned about you manspreading into my space.”

Finished with the iron, I put it aside and shake out the jumpsuit. Not perfect, but it’ll do. I hold it out to her. “I’ll stay on my side.”

She narrows her eyes and takes the jumpsuit.

I cock my head. “The real question is whether you’ll stay on your side of the bed.”

She snorts. “You’re nowhere near as tempting as you think, Cameron.”

“Ah, but you do find me tempting.”

“About as tempting as a packed subway car in the dead of summer.”

“Hot and steamy?”

“Off-putting and ill-advised.”

I clutch my chest. “You wound me.”

“Doubtful.”

“You know.” I take a step toward her. “If you want to test your theory...” I rub a hand across my chin. “I wouldn’t push you away if you wanted to womanspread into my space tonight.”

She moves forward until we’re only an inch apart. Excitement zips through me as a small voice in the back of my head warns I’m playing with fire.

Not that that’s a deterrent.

The air thickens as I slowly breathe her in, my fingers twitching with the urge to remove her glasses and caress her cheek. Awareness sparks between us. Her eyes darken as her lips part, and for an insane moment, I consider dropping my mouth to hers.

Just as I start to lean in, she steps back and narrows her eyes. “You wish.”

With a frown, she sweeps past me and heads into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a sharp click.

Blowing out a breath, I run a hand through my hair. I need to be more careful with Monica. As much as I like messing with her, it wouldn’t be wise for us to mess around. This weekend will be challenging enough without inviting further complications.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and I look over as Rick walks in.

“Your mother is waiting.”

Chapter 11

Monica

I pick up my napkin and carefully lay it on my lap as a server places a bowl of cold soup in front of me. I note the different utensils on either side of my place setting and locate a spoon I hope is for soup and not dessert.

Looking around the table, I try to determine whether anyone has selected a spoon yet, though I’m not sure why I’m concerned about making a silverware faux pas. They’re not my family. I’m not going to see them again after this weekend. And I don’t care what they think of me or my table etiquette.

I glance at Cameron, who’s seated to my left, but he seems as unruffled as ever, even in the face of his family’s chilly reception. I could understand them being standoffish with me, but they were dismissive of Cameron when we walked out onto the patio. Instead of acknowledging him, Cameron’s mother had immediately ushered us all into the dining room for dinner.

His sister, at least, introduced herself and explained that her husband, Dan, was in Brussels on business. There’s a clear resemblance between Grace and Cameron, but where Cameron takes after his father in coloring and height, Grace takes after their mother with her brown hair and fashion sense. Grace’s straight, knee-length skirt and blouse mirror her mother’s own conservative attire, and both women have their hair swept back in chignons.

I glance around the table one more time. Screw it. I’m eating my soup. I’d been in such a rush earlier in the day that I’d skipped lunch, and I’m starving.

As I lift a spoonful of soup to my lips, a voice booms, “Have they poured the wine yet?”

Startled, my hand jerks, and soup sloshes over the side of my spoon, onto my chin, and down my front. Perfect.

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