Page 26 of Second Quarter Comeback
Her jaw tightens, and I can tell she’s debating whether to pack up her mat and storm inside. But then she steps closer to the divider, her body screaming irritation even as she exhales deeply—probably some yoga trick to keep from throwing her mat at me.
“Look, Killion,” she says, her voice softer now but no less firm. “I’m here for work, not to relive whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is?” I repeat, grinning wider. At least she’s acknowledging it. Even if she doesn’t want to, she can’t pretend there’s nothing here. “You mean the fact that we used to know each other?”
“Barely,” she shoots back, quick and precise like a jab to the ribs. “We hung out for what? Two months? That’s nothing.”
The casual air drops from me like a weight. I straighten, my tone cooling. “That’s not how I remember it.”
“Well, maybe your memory’s a little skewed,” she says, her voice rising to meet the tension crackling between us.
I push off the railing, stepping closer to the divider, close enough that the air between us feels electric. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t have the luxury of pretending everything’s fine,” she says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You walked away, Killion. You decided football was more important, and now you think you can stand here and act like it’s no big deal? Like we can be besties?”
I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off, her gaze locking onto mine with enough fire to scorch the city below us.
“I moved on after you,” she continues, her voice steady but simmering with barely contained anger. “So whatever this is—whatever you think it is—just leave it alone.”
The silence that follows is deafening, louder than any argument we could’ve had. Her words hit hard, but it’s her expression that guts me. The hurt beneath the anger, the way she’s looking at me like she’s trying to bury something that refuses to stay dead.
“Camille—” I start, my voice soft, but she holds up a hand, cutting me off again.
“I have a meeting to prepare for and, after that, a few consultations,” she says, her tone final. “I don’t have time for you or your nonsense.”
She picks up her mat, her movements deliberate, and heads back toward her apartment without another glance.
I stand there, watching her disappear inside, the ache in my chest settling deeper.
Whatever this is, it’s not over. Not by a long shot.
And as for this Ben guy? He can go fuck himself. Camille’s mine. She always has been. She just doesn’t know it yet. I need her to remember it.
Chapter Fifteen
Killion
How to Use a Kitten as a Wingman
I’m halfway to the elevator, gym bag slung over my shoulder, when I see him. A guy loitering outside Camille’s door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s debating whether to knock or bolt. He’s tall, though not quite myheight, with the wiry build of someone who spends more time hunting for vintage band tees than lifting anything heavier than a cold brew.
He’s got dark jeans rolled at the cuffs, boots so pristine they look allergic to dirt, and a tousled haircut that probably required three different products to achieve that “just rolled out of bed” look. Round glasses frame a face straight out of an indie movie, and at his feet is a bulky black bag that could be a duffel, a suitcase, or who the fuck knows.
I stop dead in my tracks, my brows knitting together. “Can I help you?”
He glances up, startled, then immediately checks his phone, like talking to me is an inconvenience. “I’m looking for Camille Ashby. She moved in yesterday.”
“Benedict?” The name slips out before I can stop myself. The regret? Instant and absolute.
He blinks, adjusts his glasses, and nods like he’s pleasantly surprised I’ve passed the first test in some secret society. “Yes, Benedict. So you’re aware. Did she leave you any instructions?”
Instructions? What am I, her secretary?
“No,” I say, crossing my arms, my voice tight. “But if you need help . . .”
Why the hell am I offering to help? I should be telling him Camille moved to France. Hell, I should grab his bag and fling it off the balcony just to establish dominance. Instead, I’m standing here like a moron, watching him check his watch with the air of someone far too busy for this conversation.
“Obviously,” he mutters under his breath. “My flight leaves soon, and I don’t want to miss it, but she’s not here.”
