Page 74 of Not That Into You

Which is true. I woke up this morning feeling much better. The side of my head is still a little sore, but I no longer have a headache. However, I assumed we’d be going back to the city this morning, not heading to a pickleball court.

Yesterday, after Cameron made the latte he promised me, I spent the rest of the day relaxing in bed while he waited on me. I enjoyed ordering him around and teasing him about his pillow-fluffing technique, which made him look like an accordion player on speed.

He was in and out of our room, constantly checking to make sure I didn’t slip into a coma, until he finally crawled into bed next to me and insisted we watch Jaws. If he hoped to see me flinch, he was disappointed. I can handle sharks on the big screen. It’s real-life sharks that freak me out.

Hanging out with Cameron was surprisingly fun.

Last night, he told me to rest rather than come down to dinner. It was his father’s actual birthday, and only family would be present for a more sedate celebration. As much as I wanted to glide downstairs in a show of resilience and fortitude, I gratefully stayed upstairs because a gift is a gift. And I don’t care what the Stanhopes think of me.

Telling myself I wanted to touch base with Cameron before we went to bed, I tried to stay awake by reading, watching ridiculous pet videos, and texting with friends. Until it finally dawned on me Cameron was right—I was lying to myself. My desire to stay up had more to do with wanting to be awake when he came to bed and anticipating what would happen after the lights were turned off and we were within touching distance.

Disgusted with myself, I immediately turned out the lights and shut my eyes, willing my mind to clear. I must’ve been more tired—or more successful—than I thought because I don’t remember Cameron coming to bed last night.

This morning, however, was a different story.

Courtesy of all my rest the day before, I woke up earlier than usual, my mind hazy with sleep. I snuggled closer into a hard, warm body, smiling with contentment.

Until I realized it was Cameron.

I was lying half on top of him, my head resting on his chest, his arms wrapped around my body. One of his hands had slipped under my sleep shirt. For an insane moment, I considered letting my hands wander before decency and common sense prevailed, and I jumped out of bed, paused to catch my breath, then rushed into the bathroom.

“So if you don’t have a headache, what’s with the silence?”

I glance at Cameron before looking back out the window. “I’m just not enthusiastic about getting roped into playing pickleball.”

Which is also true. When I came out of the bathroom this morning, freshly showered and ready to go home, I found Cameron standing in the middle of the room, dressed in matching white shorts and T-shirt. He thrust a tennis skirt and tank top at me with the directive to change.

The jerk had made plans to play pickleball with Vanessa and her friend without consulting me or giving me any time to prepare. I advised him where he could shove the sporty little outfit, but my ire didn’t faze him. I’m still not sure how he got me to agree, but it probably had something to do with me needing a ride back to the city, and my ride heading out to the pickleball courts first.

It was only after I changed that I thought to ask who organized the game. Cameron busied himself with tying his shoelaces as he explained last night’s “family dinner” included the Threadstones. No doubt Mrs. Stanhope jumped at the chance of inviting them when she realized I wouldn’t be joining. So, while I was watching cats freak out over cucumbers, Cameron was apparently charming Vanessa Threadstone and making plans to play pickleball.

And I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

At least I woke up before he did this morning and extricated myself from his clutches before he realized I used him as a body pillow. And thank the god of common sense for intervening before I acted on my insane impulse to rub up against Cameron further. That would have been mortifying.

Cameron sighs. “It won’t be that bad.”

I grunt.

He chuckles. “I really do appreciate you doing this.”

I lift a brow. “Did I have a choice?”

He grins. “No.”

Taking a deep breath, I decide I’ve sulked long enough. Whether I like it or not, we’re going to play pickleball, and I don’t want to be Grumpy Gus to Vanessa’s Suzy Sunshine.

I grit my teeth. “So, pickleball’s like tennis?”

Cameron lifts a hand from the steering wheel and makes a seesaw motion. “Kind of. It’s usually described as a mix of tennis, badminton, and ping-pong.”

“Huh.” I’m not sure how one combines those three sports, but I guess I’ll find out.

“Don’t worry. It’s easy to pick up. Vanessa hasn’t played either, so you’re both beginners.”

That’s a relief. I’m confident I can pick up the game—I played tennis in high school—but I was concerned I would be the one beginner amid three pro-level players.

“What about the friend she’s bringing?”

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