Page 60 of Knotted Laces

I’m sure to fuck it up and then I’ll lose everything.

Everyone—

Fuck, I need to go.

“Come with me?”

I blink and turn to see that Cam’s back, wearing his coat and boots. He has my jacket in his hands andmyboots tucked beneath his arm.

There’s a wariness in his eyes, as though he knows what I’m thinking, or…maybe that he’s feeling nervous too.

Surprisingly, that makes me feel better.

And angry, I guess.

He’s not the one who’s guaranteed to fuck this up—he’s a Jackson, he’s a pro at interpersonal relationships.I’mthe idiot in this scenario. He’s…well he’s fucking perfect.

“I’m not,” he says.

Stilling, I look from the coat back up to his face. “What?”

“You’re thinking I have it together, that I know what I’m doing. And you’re thinking about bolting the hell out of here because you’re scared.”

“You said you love me, Cam,” I blurt. “That’s scary shit.”

A ripple of pain across his face, and I kick myself. Fucking it up already. Saying the wrong thing.

They’ll never love you. You’re unlovable.

I close my eyes.

Warm fingers brush my cheek, and I jerk them open, see that he’s crouching in front of me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s scary,” he whispers back. “Some idiot guy blurting out big emotions when you prefer to keep your distance.”

“You can’t love me,” I say, still whispering. “You don’t even know me.”

He sighs softly. “I love you, Ats, but you’re right. I don’t know you, not really. Not all the knowledge that comes from being in a relationship with someone. I don’t know all of what’s going in here”—he taps my temple—“or here”—the spot above my heart—“but Idoknow the person you are. I knew it from that first time you showed up at my parent’s lake house and I know you now. I love that you care about our family, love that you’re so passionate about your job and work so hard. I love that you’re smart as hell and can protect yourself. I love that you have no qualms about jumping in to battle dragons and orcs and that you don’t know a thing about hockey, but you’ve always cheered me on.”

“Hey,” I attempt to joke. “I know what icing is now.”

“In hockey?” he asks lightly. “Or on my mom’s cinnamon rolls?”

Surprised, I laugh.

His fingers trace my lips, my smile, and I feel some pieces shift inside me—realigning, opening up…melting. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know what to do with this. I—” I exhale. “I don’t know what I’m feeling or thinking, except to know that I’m going to mess it up.”

“So…you mess it up,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “And then we figure out a way to fix it.” His brows slide together, forming a deep V between them, and I fucking hate that I get to watch the doubt creeping into his eyes in real time. “Of course, that’s if youwantto fix it, if you want to continue this when we, um, get out of here.”

It’s probably the most reckless thing I’ve ever done?—

Leaning in and cupping his face in my hands when I should pull back, should tell him that, yes, this is all a mistake, should do anything but allow another thread to connect us.

But…

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