Page 39 of Close Knit

A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard. I want to make this right. “I’m sorry that I accused you of stalking me.” I tip my head to one side, flexing my jaw. “Not a lot of people call me out on my behavior. That sounds bigheaded, but it’s true.”

And damn it, she’s attractive when she’s putting me in my place.

She studies me, probably trying to figure out if I’m playing games. I’m not. But getting her to believe that? A long shot.

“That’s a start,” she says.

I roll my shoulders, my hands finding refuge in my jeans pockets. “I’ve been dealing with stuff.”

“Not very well,” she snaps back, and I smirk.

My sisters would get a kick out of her sass. “No. Not very well.”

“Doesn’t give you the right to be a jerk to someone who’s making a genuine effort to be nice to you,” she says.

“I was an asshole,” I admit. “But I’ve been trying. The boxes? The spider?”

“Words hurt, Cameron.”

I know how true that is. “Sorry again.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. What more can I do? Beg for her forgiveness? Ask her to come upstairs and let me show her how sorry I am? It’s ridiculous to feel this way about a fling. “Can I make it up to you?” The words slip out.

“Perhaps.”

“What do I have to do?”

She thinks for a moment before saying, “One hundred push-ups.”

“Not the response I was expecting.”

“Maybe stop making assumptions about me,” she scolds me, highlighting the adorable wrinkle in her nose.

“I—uh, I lost a match today.”

My legs are on fire from all the sprinting. My core feels like it’s been through a blender. And let’s not even talk about my shoulders and arms.Am I actually considering this?

“You asked me what you could do. Now all I’m hearing are excuses.”

Is her forgiveness even worth it? What am I trying to get out of this? Being just neighbors doesn’t feel right, but I have no time for another situationship. My sister’s advice echoes in my head:Maybe you could make some new friends?

Could Daphne, of all people, be a friend?

It seems absurd to hang out with an influencer while also dodging the media, but Daphne isn’t like Mal. Online, she paints herself as kind and charitable. She advocates for mental health. TheStone Timesdescribed her as genuinely good-hearted.

Maybe I need someone like Daphne, who sees through me without trying to fix me.

“Okay,” I manage, shrugging off my leather jacket, feeling every ache in my lats. “One hundred push-ups, and we can be friends?”

“Friends?” Her forehead wrinkles in surprise. “You don’t even want to be neighbors with me.”

God, she has no idea.

“I do, I—” I can’t articulate what I want.

“Right, sorry, you don’t want to be thinking about me at all.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” I palm the back of my neck. “I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. You trip me up, and—fuck, I don’t know what the right move is around you.”

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