Page 71 of Most Valuable Player
His sentence crumbles away when I roll onto my tiptoes and kiss his cheekbone. “Pancakes are great,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
Redness soaks into Cameron’s tan, handsome face, and I think I’d hang a picture of this next to the painting he gave me, so I could look at it whenever I was feeling down. Then he sees my palms and notices the mustache rock, and he makes a noise like he’s gagging on his saliva. “Where?” he squawks. “Why?”
I smile wider, presenting it to him in my open hands. “He’s adorable.”
Cameron kneads his forehead with exasperation. “You were snooping?”
“Your closet was wide open.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Cracked open.”
“Hmm.” His suspicious look only makes me break into a bigger smile. I can’t help it. Even looking at him makes me feel giddy. It’sstrange, considering a mere few weeks ago the sight of him made me roll my eyes.
“Can I buy him?” I ask hopefully.
Cameron’s flush spreads all the way into his neck. “Just take it, creep,” he chokes out, and it makes me burst into laughter. I try to scoop him into a hug, but he pushes my wrists away with flustered disgruntlement. “Go the hell away.”
“What’s wrong? Are you mad that I found your adorable rock collection?”
“Mom made extra coffee,” he says, thoroughly ignoring me. He flips a not-nearly-ready-enough pancake, causing loose mix to splatter the griddle. “She’s in the living room. Dad left to finish up a thigh tattoo, so he’s not around, thank God, that absolute dick.”
I have the feeling his father scolded him this morning or something, which makes me laugh again. Cameron loves his parents—I saw it in the way they interacted at dinner. Even though he’s a momma’s boy, the tension between him and his father is entirely fabricated. It’s refreshing, being here.
I place his rock on the counter, making a mental note to bring some money for it next time I have my wallet. I pour a cup of coffee and maybe act a little selfish by adding too much sweetened creamer, then shuffle toward the living room, leaving Cameron to cuss over his pancakes. His mother is tucked on the love seat in a flowery pajama suit, her brown hair knotted into a bun, an open book propped on her kneecaps.
“Good morning, Mrs.Morelli,” I say. “Thank you for making extra coffee.”
She grins, as radiant as her son, the skin crinkling around her green-blue eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” she says brightly. “Come sit.”
I only popped in to greet her and was going to return to Cameronso I could torment him about his misshapen pancakes. I stride farther into the living room anyway, swallowing when she pats the couch cushion. I sit on the love seat, gripping my coffee with two hands.
“Cam says you walked here in the middle of the night,” she says.
It comes with far less bounciness than her previous sentence. She’s folding her book shut, angling herself toward me. Her eyes latch with mine, colored with concern.
“I…what?” I croak, startled by her sudden change in atmosphere.
“Why did you show up at our house after midnight, Mason?” she asks softly.
My heart sinks into the bottom of my feet. “I just needed fresh air,” I say, pushing through the rasp in my throat. “I got into a fight with my dad and left.”
She straightens her posture, and I can tell she’s really inMommode. “Did you let them know where you are?”
“I forgot my phone at home,” I admit. “Though, Dad usually texts or calls me.”
Mrs.Morelli’s eyes glint when I say the word “usually.” I take a massive gulp of sugary coffee, hoping it’ll speedrun my waking process so I can be more careful. “I see,” she says gently.
I’m not sure what she’s going to ask next. She’ll probably try to wriggle out my reasoning for running off or demand if I feel unsafe at home. I’ll say no, because my parents don’t hurt me. They’re not a threat.
My house itself, though, is another story.
It has several entry points that can be unlocked by a key. A key my parents gave him some years ago, all the way back when he was my babysitter. My parents fought angrily one night over whether we should have the locks changed—Dad insisted, but Mom said he’s family, andwe can’t cut him out. Losing him means also potentially losing any benefits that come with being connected to his family.
He can come striding through the door whenever he wants. Even when I’m in bed, sound asleep, my ear is open. My window must stay locked—it’s a more discreet way of getting to me, less likely to alert my parents, so it’s his preferred method.
I’m falling into a dangerous lull, Mrs.Morelli’s protective gaze drawing me in, making me want to be vulnerable. Why did Cameron tell her I walked here? Couldn’t he have said he came to pick me up because I was bored?
