Page 96 of Not That Into You

My stomach drops as I look up at Cameron’s house. He lives on the Upper East Side, right off Park Avenue, and of course, his home is a beautiful townhouse. I shake my head. My entire apartment would probably fit in his living room.

Nibbling on my bottom lip, I consider leaving and telling him I got caught up with work or got food poisoning or am trapped in an elevator. On Staten Island. And the ferries aren’t running.

Growling inwardly, I take a deep breath. Get it together, Monica.

I’m not sure why I’m so nervous about being here. It’s not like I didn’t just spend an entire weekend with Cameron, surrounded by wealth and luxury.

But, of course, this is different. This is his home.

I take a deep breath and, before I can think better of it, ring the bell.

The door swings open, revealing Cameron in a gray suit. “Hey.”

I suck in a breath. He looks good. Really good. All businesslike and serious, not a wrinkle in sight. Ready for a board meeting where he’d no doubt dominate the room.

Like he dominated me last night.

I shiver.

Giving myself a mental shake, I train my eyes on his tie to keep them from wandering all over his fine form.

He opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

I pause in the foyer, taking in the hardwood floors and light walls. I can see all the way through to the back of the house, where there are huge windows that look out over a garden. The place is beautiful, with warm wood accents and a spacious, airy feel.

“Come into the kitchen.”

We walk through a small dining area and into the kitchen with its natural wood cabinets and white marble countertops.

Cameron crosses his arms and raises his brows. “So, are you going to talk to me or just stare?”

I lift a brow.

“I mean, I get it. A lot of people are struck mute by my good looks.”

“Please.” I snort.

“She speaks!”

I roll my eyes at his grin.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Beer? I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine.”

“Sure. Wine’s good.”

He pours two glasses of red and hands me one. “Would you mind if I ran upstairs to change? I was running a little late at the office and only just got home.”

Shaking my head, I press my lips together, not trusting myself not to ask to go with him.

“Great.” He hesitates a moment, seemingly conflicted. “I’ll be right back.”

Once he disappears up the stairs, I take a deep breath, determined not to think about him changing. I will not think about him unbuttoning his shirt or walking around in his boxers. Nope. Not going to do it.

I take a big gulp of wine.

Unsurprisingly, it’s quite good.

Deciding to take advantage of being left alone—which I take as permission to snoop—I wander into the sitting area off the kitchen. It’s a two-story den with a built-in bookcase, a comfortable looking couch, a TV, and a wall of windows, including a glass door that leads out to a patio. I can easily imagine curling up on the couch and reading a book.

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