Page 8 of Second Quarter Comeback
Her laugh is soft, her head shaking like she’s trying not to be charmed. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Charming people. I bet you’ve never heard the word no in your life.” Her tone is playful, but her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s testing me. “Let me guess, you’ve had everyone wrapped around your finger since you were five.”
“Maybe,” I admit, scratching the back of my neck. “Grandma says I got Pop’s charm. My twin, Kade? He’s more like Dad—dry and no-nonsense. But for the record, I’m not trying to charm you. I just want to get to know you.”
Her gaze softens, like I passed some unspoken test. Before I can say anything else, the waitress reappears with our food. Timing, as always, is everything.
Camille starts with her fries, dipping one into the small cup of ranch. She takes a bite, and her eyes flutter closed for a moment, a soft hum slipping out as she chews. Her lips part slightly, curling into a satisfiedsmile. It’s not subtle—it’s downright sensual, like she’s fully immersed in the experience of eating a fry.
My throat goes dry, and my thoughts derail in a direction that’s way less innocent than fries and ranch. “Good?” I ask, my voice lower than I mean it to be.
Her eyes flick to mine, mischief dancing in them. “Perfect,” she says, licking a bit of ranch off the corner of her lip.
I swallow hard, trying to keep my head in the game. Not easy when every move she makes feels like it’s pulling me closer to the edge. How is it that she can make eating fries look like a goddamn art form? And why the hell am I thinking about how much I want to kiss her instead of finishing eating my food?
We talk between bites, slipping into an easy rhythm. She tells me about her roommate, Zindy, who apparently has a flair for drama and owns sequined pajamas—actual sequins. I counter with my siblings: Kaden, the hockey star who’s annoyingly perfect. Leif, the weird-as-fuck goalie. Luc, who’s plotting his escape from college. Our sister Scottie, the bossy one who keeps us all in line. And there’s Greyson, the baby who knows exactly how to play the favorite card.
Camille laughs, full and unguarded, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. God, that laugh. It’s impossible not to smile back, even as my thoughts keep drifting to how much I want to reach across the table, pull her closer, and see what her lips taste like.
By the time our plates are cleared, the conversationhas shifted to the deeper stuff—future plans, dreams . . . stuff I barely discuss with anyone.
“I want to go to med school,” she says, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “Biochemistry’s just the start. The plan is to specialize—surgery, maybe. I want to help people.”
There’s something in the way she says it that draws me closer. She’s not bragging or fishing for praise—it’s honest. A glimpse of someone who’s thought about this deeply, who’s shouldering her ambition with a quiet determination that leaves no room for doubt.
“That’s incredible,” I say, leaning forward without realizing it. “I know you can do it. I mean, you party and bring your books with you. I call that determination.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. “What about you? What’s the big dream for Killion Crawford?”
“Play in the big leagues,” I answer automatically. It’s the line I’ve given a thousand times, but this time it feels . . . shallow, almost rehearsed. I’m not helping anyone. I’m not changing anyone’s world with what I do. Do I? But the thing is that . . . “Well, it’s what I’ve been working toward my whole life.”
“And after that?” she presses, her tone gentle but pointed.
“After?” I hesitate, running a hand over the back of my neck. “I don’t know. Spend my twenties and thirtiesplaying ball. The rest? I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
She nods slowly, like that answer isn’t good enough, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she glances at her phone and sighs. “I should probably get back. I have a ton of studying to do.”
Even when I’m disappointed and I want to protest, I pay the bill, and we step outside into the crisp morning air. She stops just shy of the curb, turning to face me.
“This was fun,” she says, her smile soft and genuine. “Thanks for convincing me to tag along this morning.”
“It was,” I agree, and I wish I could say more so she could stay if only just for one more beat.
Since I have nothing coherent to start a conversation, I step closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her. My hand moves almost instinctively, tilting her chin up as her breath catches. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, I think she’s going to say something—but she doesn’t. Instead, her eyes flutter shut, and that tiny, almost inaudible gasp undoes me completely.
When our lips meet, it’s slow, deliberate. Her hands come up, resting lightly against my chest, and I swear I feel my heart trying to hammer its way out of my ribs. The kiss deepens, her lips soft and inviting, moving with mine in a way that feels effortless—natural, like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
By the time we pull back, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes searching mine.
“Definitely better than fries,” she murmurs, her lips curving into a teasing smile.
I chuckle, still trying to catch my breath. “I don’t know. The fries were pretty great.”
She laughs, and I know, without a doubt, I’m in way deeper than I ever planned. And I don’t care one bit.
Chapter Six
