Page 57 of Revved up & Ready

“I’ll help you find it,” he says, shifting his leg under the covers to tap my socked foot with his shin. “Do you always sleep in socks?”

“Lately, I do,” I chuckle.

“Why now?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I just—”Maybe I shouldn’t brush this off.Deep breath.“Actually, you like the house really cold.”

“Youdon’t?” His shocked voice echoes around the sparsely decorated bedroom and probably down the hall.What must Skye think we’re talking about?

“IthoughtI did until you moved in,” I say, rubbing my feet together self-consciously.

“What were you keeping it at?” he asks.

Hiding my face behind my hands, I answer, “Seventy-two.”

Cam is off his bed and moving toward the door in an instant.

“You don’t have to change it for me,” I protest, pulling off the covers. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“You’re ridiculous.” He grabs the door handle, pointing at me as I try to scoot off the bed. “Andstay in bed. Evidently, it’s cold out here.”

“Seriously, don’t change the thermostat for me. I’m having fun buying cute socks,” I say, wiggling my toes to show off the fuzzy, mint-green ones I got last week.

Cam’s mouth drops open in mock offense. “You’ve had to buy new socks because I keep the house so cold?”

I try explaining again how little I mind it, but he walks out to the hall—presumably adjusts the thermostat—then reappears and shuts the door behind him. “Are you cold right now?” he asks.

Glancing down at my bare legs, I answer, “Surprisingly, no.”

His brows lower skeptically as he comes to the end of the bed. “I’d better check,” he says, running both of his warm, wide palms up the sides of one leg and down the other. He passes over the scars left there from my crash, and I’m grateful it’s a story he already knows. I never liked them—what they represent, or how they look.Jared certainly never made me feel any better about the latter.

Finding my legs satisfactorily warm, he gives a nod and returns to his spot on the bed next to me, holding his wrist out for my inspection. He jumps back into histattourlike nothing happened. “This bird is a swallow. You know when people ask what superpower you’d choose?”

I nod, holding his hand just above my lap, taking in the details—thick lines, heavy black shading, red belly and yellow wings, eyes represented by littlec-shaped curves, like the bird is soaring through the air with its eyes closed.

“My answer has always been flying. It’s the only thing that seems like it would be more freeing than ripping around turns on a motorcycle.” His lips curl into a grin as he explains, “There’ssomething about the spirit of a bird—they can go as fast and as far as they want, whenever they want. I appreciate that.”

Cam picks up one of my hands in both of his, cradling it above his lap.What could he possibly want to know?

Smoothing his thumb over a thin pink horizontal line on my forearm, he asks, “This is from an oven rack, right? Baking battle scar?”

I nod. “They don’t lasttoolong, but I always have at least one.”

“Do you remember the first time you got one?” he asks, turning my wrist in the light.

“I haven’t thought about that in forever,” my words come out on a delighted breath. “My mom and I used to make cookies together before Christmas—classic ones like gingerbread, snickerdoodles, and peanut butter.Shecan make a perfect cookie.” My lips roll together as my shoulders shake with silent laughter. “My mom is a little scattered. Her kitchen is always a wild mess, so she often can’t find an oven mitt and uses kitchen towels instead to pull things out. I was probably six or seven, and I’d seen her do it so many times, but I hadn’t noticed how she would fold the towel over and over again so it was thick enough to protect her hands.” Cam winces, anticipating what I’ll say next. “I tried to pull out a tray of cookies with only one layer of thin kitchen towel to protect my hands. That didn’t burn me, but it hurt enough that I dropped the towel, and when my arm swung down, the inside of my wrist hit the oven rack.”

“Have you called her lately?” he asks, running his thumb along the scar.

The question confuses me until I rememberCall Momis on the first page of my to-do list. I could tell him I don’t want to talk about it,but I’m being nosy tonight, too.“Not yet,” I answer. “But I should.”

He nods along, clearly curious but not pushing.

Deep breath.“I’m not that close with my family. I talk to my older and younger sisters maybe three or four times a year. We pretty much only see each other at the holidays, and that works for everyone.” I shift, adjusting the pillows so I can lean on my side and face him. “A few years ago, Jared didn’t want to come home with me like he usually did. He had a ski trip with friends over New Year’s and couldn’t do both. Honestly, I didn’t care that much.I guess that should have been a sign.” I roll my eyes.

“Maybe,” Cam shrugs.

“But it made my parents angry. They held it against me that Ilet him get away with it, and after that they did not hold back with their feelings about him. It became really hard to talk to them because they wanted me to move on before I was ready, and they had no patience for me to figure it out on my own.” I flinch.That memory still stings. “It sucked because when I finallywasready, our relationship was so soured, I couldn’t even tell them. I’m sure my sisters did, but I haven’t talked to my parents since I moved down here. I didn’t even go home last year.”

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