Page 35 of Sunny Skies Ahead
Kameron Miller
Please do
Come to the farmhouse and grab a bowl of soup before you head to the tiny house.
It’s my night to walk the grounds for evening checks, but I’ll see you in the morning
My heart skipped and my skin flushed, and I knew for a fact that my body’s reaction had everything to do with the speed at which he’d responded. Kameron didn’t wait by the phone for anything, much less a text from me.
Yet I couldn’t deny that there was something girl-ish about the excitement that a boy responded to your text quickly.
Kameron Miller gave me freakingbutterflies. The realization stunned me.
Me
I’ll text you when I’m on the road. See you soon :)
Was the smiley face overkill? Maybe. But something told me Kameron wouldn’t mind.
A few hours later, I’d gotten a full quote from Dillon for the mold remediation, and I’d almost swallowed my tongue at the total listed at the bottom of the invoice. It was estimated to take a week at most, during which time I needed to be out of the house. As I packed a full suitcase full of clothes and a week’s worth of necessities, I realized I was going to pull a classic “ask forgiveness later” when I rolled up to Winding Road with a full suitcase and an intention to hang out on the property for a full week.
I realized thirty minutes into the drive to Winding Road that I now owed Abbie Collins ten dollars.
Chapter twelve
Kameron
For the first time in six years, I woke up with a scratchy throat, an aggressive cough, and a pounding headache. I was freaking sick.
Imogen had texted me to say she arrived late last night. I’d been upstairs in my bed, trying and failing to take my mind off of the phone call with Gail. Around midnight, I finally forced myself to stumble downstairs and take some decongestant meds. It was spring, anyway. Didn’t people usually get sick in the winter?
After a night of tossing and turning, I returned downstairs. I opened the screened window in the kitchen to rotate some fresh air through the living space, futilely hoping that the soft smell of mountain pine would clear my sinuses, to no avail.
Around 8 a.m., Imogen strolled through the front door of the farmhouse. I tried to raise my hand in greeting and failed miserably, letting out a weak “hi” from where I was curled up in the fetal position on the couch.
“What’s happening right now?” Imogen said, shrugging off her laptop bag and laying it on the dining room table.
“Hurts to talk,” I sniffled.
Imogen’s confused expression morphed into one of pure delight.
“Kameron Miller, are you ill?”
My silence was damning.
“Youaresick,” Imogen said, crossing her arms over her chest and shifting her weight to one foot. “The man who always jokes about his perfect immune system issick. In the middle of spring, no less.”
“Don’t be mean,” I mumbled, meaning it as a joke. Imogen’s expression softened.
“I’m sorry,” Imogen said softly, coming to kneel in front of the couch. She reached out and swept my hair off my forehead. I closed my eyes, savoring the feeling of it. “Do you think it’s just a cold?”
I opened my eyes again, just a fraction, so as to not aggravate my headache with a sudden onslaught of sunlight.
“If I say yes,” I croaked, coughing for emphasis, “will you make fun of me?”
Imogen’s laugh was sudden and breathtaking as she threw her head back with the force of it. Even though the sudden noise made my skull rattle, I didn’t say a word, content to watch her just as she was. Stunning. Effortlessly so.
“I will keep my judgements as internal thoughts.”
