Page 78 of Tipping Point

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CAMILLE

When he gets out of the car, he’s guarded. He nods at me, and I nod back as I stand up, dusting off the seat of my pants. I’m wearing my usual t-shirt and jean shorts. I had put on three different dresses before ripping them off angrily. I didn’t want to dress for him. My hair is washed and loose, the curls soft and springy, a mess.

I shouldn’t be here. It’s not for work. And yet, here I am, despite my best intentions.

When he walks up, he crouches to scoop up the paper bags at my feet.

“You’re not surprised to see me,” I state. It’s obvious from his casual demeanor.

“Groundskeeper notified me. Thought I had a stalker.”

“Does that happen often?”

“You’d be surprised.”

When he’s on the bottom step and I’m on the top step, we’re eye to eye.

His eyes are deep brown and riveted on mine.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Not a stalker,” I declare.

I can tell he wants to make a joke, but it’s so fragile between us. He shuts his mouth and steps up beside me.

It startles me and I step aside, so he shoulders past and turns his back to the door, shoving it open.

“It’s unlocked?” I follow in his wake.

He grins over his shoulder. “It is, for me.” He shakes his keys and there is a prominent electronic tag dangling from a chain. The keys to the kingdom, so to speak.

In the kitchen, he puts the paper bags on the counter and turns to me. He has that look on his face again, the one from last night. His mouth is slightly open, and he’s breathing hard.

Again, I wait for him to speak.

“What are we making?” he ends lamely.

“Your bread soup.”

He laughs.

“Passatelli in Brodo?”

I nod.

“It’s bread noodles in soup.”

I shrug.

“Where did you get the recipe?” He pulls celery, carrots, and onions from the bag.

“Online.”

He shakes his head in mock disappointment. Pulls out a chunk of parmesan and sniffs it. Satisfied, he puts it on the counter.

He pauses to pour me a glass of crisp white wine and I stand with my hip against the counter, watching him cook.

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