Page 39 of Slots & Sticks
He runs a hand over his face, jaw tight. “I never know what to do in those moments. It’s not the fame—it’s people thinking they’re entitled to you, like you’re… there for their highlight reel. I hate that you had to see it.”
I want to tell him he handled it perfectly, but the words tangle up behind the rawness in his voice.
Cam keeps his focus on me, steady and kind. “Hey, you okay?”
I nod too quickly. “Totally fine.”
But I’m not. I’m angry and humiliated and, God help me, jealous. Because for the first time I can remember, someone else looked at him like I always have. And it made me want to claw the smile right off her face.
Camden sets his menu down. “Why don’t we order this to go? We can eat in the room.”
Since there are no chairs in the room, that would mean eating in bed while the creepy deer watches us, but at this point, I’ll take it. “Sure. I’ll have the blueberry French toast. Do you mind if I wait outside?” I’m trembling, even though nothing actually happened.
“Whatever you need.”
Camden stands and holds out a hand. I take it, expecting a quick pull up and release, but he doesn’t let go. The contact sends a small, sharp tremor through me—static after the storm.
For a second, we just look at each other. The laughter and clatter of the diner blurs into a single hum, like the sound inyour ears after a hit to the head. His jaw flexes; I can tell he’s replaying the same scene I am—the woman in his lap, the way my breath caught when it happened.
He leans in slightly, voice low. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, but it’s a lie.
His thumb brushes my knuckles, a slow back-and-forth that feels like a confession. “Because if I—” he stops, searching for words. “If I touch you any more right now, it’s not going to be for show.”
The space between us contracts until it’s just air and the faint scent of pine from his shampoo. He looks at my mouth. I take a staggered inhale.
For a single, perfect heartbeat, the world stalls.
Then he blinks, steps back, the spell shattering. “I’ll grab the food,” he says, voice rougher than before.
I nod and force my fingers to unclench. “I’ll wait outside.”
The cool night air hits like a slap when I push through the door. My chest aches with everything that didn’t happen. I tell myself I’m angry about the fan, about the invasion, but the truth sits lower and meaner—I’m angry because I wanted him to prove she was wrong about me.
Behind me, the bell over the door jingles. He’s coming. I don’t turn. I can’t yet.
“I’m sorry again,” he blurts. “I hate when that happens. I just… freeze. I never know the right thing to do. I don’t want to be rude, but fans don’t want to talk to me or learn about me. They want me to play a part, and I don’t know the rules. Who climbs into a stranger’s lap? That’s weird, right?”
I should’ve said something. Should’ve told the woman to back off. But I sat there, stunned, and let him handle it.
Instead of saying that, I give his hand a squeeze. “They think theydoknow you, though. They’ve seen you on TV, theyprobably follow you on socials, they talk to their friends about you.”
“True.” Camden sighs. “I’m not great at navigating the social side of things, though.”
“It’ll get easier. Anyway, I don’t blame you for how rude your fan was. And I’m sure a lot of your fans are wonderful. She was just… extra.”
Camden squeezes my hand in response.
We take the elevator up to our room, and I’m struck by how comfortable this feels. The car hums, and our reflections hover side by side in the mirrored door—his taller, steadier; mine pretending calm. His hand brushes mine once, enough to create a riot of raw emotion inside me. I don’t have the first-date jitters I used to get in college. I’m nervous about later, but I’m not nervous abouthim.
We kick off our shoes, and I climb onto the bed, settling in for a bed picnic. Camden opens all three of the boxes he got and lays them out in a row to display the two kinds of French toast I was trying to decide between, and a mountain of bacon.
“I figured we could share.” Camden sits on the right side of the heart-shaped bed, crosses his legs, and reaches for a piece of bacon. “Bon Appétit.”
I let my fork hover between the two boxes of French toast. These both look delicious, but it’s hard not to think about what might happen in this bed later. The knot in my stomach has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the gorgeous, thoughtful man sitting across from me.
Our meals smell amazing, but my appetite’s shot. He looks too good sitting there, sleeves pushed up, fork balanced between his fingers. It feels like we’ve skipped to the part where couples share lazy Sunday breakfasts—except I’m still learning how to breathe around him.
