Page 38 of Slots & Sticks
“Breakfast for dinner?” he asks.
I laugh. “Is that still your dad’s specialty?”
Camden bobbles his head back and forth. “He’s getting better now that he’s retired.” When we were little and his mom was traveling, his father fed Camden one of three things: food that could be cooked on the grill, takeout, or breakfast for dinner. In Anders’s defense, he worked a lot, and he always made sure to throw plenty of veggies and fruit in there. Whenever I visited, breakfast-for-dinner felt like a luxury, even if Camden was over it.
“Do they have French toast?” I scan the menu. “Oh, they havethree kinds.What do you think, cinnamon raisin or the one with blueberry topping?”
“They both sound good.” Camden peers over the top of his menu. “I require bacon. Copious amounts of bacon.”
“Oh my gosh!” a voice squeals from across the diner. “You’re Camden Beck! Oh my God, it’s actually you!”
Heads swivel. Forks pause mid-air. Even the fry cook looks over.
A woman in a body-con dress and stilettos totters toward our table like she’s walking a catwalk that’s seen better days. Three friends trail behind her, whisper-squealing and filming.
Cam’s smile freezes somewhere between polite and terrified. “Uh—hi.”
She doesn’t wait for permission. She wedges herself between the table and his chair, perfume hitting me like a glitter bomb, and flings her phone at me. “Take our picture, would you?”
“Excuse me—” I start, but she’s already leaning down, practically in his lap, cheek pressed to his shoulder like they’re posing for a prom photo.
Her friends cheer. One shouts, “Get the angle, girl!”
Cam shifts back, trapped by the wall of the booth. “Miss, this really isn’t—”
“Oh, don’t be shy,” she purrs. “I’ve watched every game this season. You’re so much hotter in person.” Her hand lands on his arm, then slides toward his chest.
I feel my jaw tighten. This isn’t jealousy, I tell myself—it’s secondhand embarrassment. It’s feminist rage. It’s… okay, fine, it’s a slow, dark pulse of mine.
Cam’s voice sharpens. “Please don’t touch me in front of her.”
She blinks, finally noticing me for the first time. “Oh. Sorry, are you, like, his handler or something?”
I choke on air. “His date.”
I say it clearly and loudly. Not because I think she’ll believe me—but because I need to.
I might not look like the kind of girl who gets picked, but right now, I am. And I won’t apologize for it.
Her eyebrows shoot up, then she laughs as if I’ve told a joke. “Right. Sure, babe.” She turns back to him. “You should come sit with us instead. We’ve got tequila shots and zero curfews.”
For one savage second, I want to spit in her mimosa. Instead, I smile, brittle, wondering if she can see the way my pulse jumps in my throat. If I were half as bold, I’d already have my hand on his thigh. But no—I’m Dot. I hover at the edges, make myself small, and hope someone notices anyway.
Something in Cam’s posture changes. His shoulders square, and his jaw tightens. Without a word, he takes her phone from my hands, places it gently on the table between them, and says, clear enough for the whole diner to hear, “I’m on a date. Now’s not a good time.”
The woman’s smile cracks. She flips her hair and says, louder, “Whatever. Viktor Abbott’s a better player anyway.”
Her friends gasp, snort, and herd her back toward their booth, still filming.
The silence they leave behind is deafening.
Cam exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his mouth. “Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault,” I manage, but my voice sounds thin. My hands are shaking under the table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her friends holding their phones up again—sneaky little camera flashes aimed right at us.
Fifty bucks says this ends up on social media before dessert.
