Page 48 of The Long Game

And naturally, just like always, my spine straightened in response to that voice. My cheeks also flushed—a relatively new development.

Cameron’s boots moved the gravel around as he walked closer to me, making me wonder if he, too, had come out of the bushes. He stopped in front of me, and when I looked up from his feet, the first thing I saw was the humor dancing in eyes.

That was also new. Cameron apparently did something besides grumbling and storming off places. He also laughed.

“Looks like a chicken to me,” I said from my post on my not really a porch.

My gaze dipped, trailing down his body. Another of those outdoorsy fleeces hung off his wide shoulders, zipped up to his throat. And he was also wearing a pair of those pants with zippers and pockets he favored so much. They were dark gray and the fabric clung to his legs. His wide and strong thighs. Which I seemed to be fixated with.

“It’s a cock.”

I nearly choked. “Sorry, what?”

The tiniest of smirks hid beneath his beard. “A cock,” he repeated, and I still blinked, feeling my whole face heat. “Not a hen. The shape of the comb is a dead giveaway.” He pointed at the top of his head with one of those large fingers. “But when in doubt, roosters also have sickle and hackle feathers.” He paused, pushing his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. “Hens don’t.”

Oh. Oh? I cleared my throat. “Thanks for the poultry anatomy lesson, Attenborough.”

Cameron’s lips twitched. “He’s also not my pet.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Were you spying on me? How long were you standing there?”

He shrugged. “Josie came to me with some ideas for a coop. Apparently, someone told her I had a pet chicken and she has decided I should have a brood.”

The thing clucked and batted his wings, as if acknowledging Cameron’s words.

I flinched back. “I don’t know how I feel about having more of these around.”

Cameron closed the distance to where the rooster and I were, then kneeled down and started picking up the mangled remains of my sandwich.

I remembered his warning from the morning he’d found me sleeping in my car and felt like I needed to explain myself. “I wasn’t feeding it my dinner, by the way. I’m not stupid. I dropped it when—”

“I know,” he said, confirming he’d been there enough time. “You might be a lot of things, but I don’t think you’re stupid.”

I knew a backhanded compliment when I heard one. “Thanks.”

Cameron put the food leftovers he’d collected inside one of the pockets of his pants and then checked his watch. “A bit early for dinner, isn’t it?”

Yes. But I’d been exhausted from unsuccessfully disassembling that bed in order toyassifythe stupid cottage. And I’d had nothing else to do. Today was a Tuesday, and without practice to occupy myself… “I was hungry.”

“Are you also a toddler?”

I shot him a bland look. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

Cameron shifted closer, and before I knew what was happening that large body of his was plopping down beside me, providing the answer to my question.

My breath caught at the sudden closeness, just like it did last night, when he’d caught me in the air after that miserable trip. Or Sunday, when his hands had been all over my body. Because there it was, his scent again. There was a hint of perspiration in there, asif he’d just come from a walk or maybe a run, but he still managed to smell so… good. Like outdoors and musk and—

I shook my head.

Sweaty men were something that I usually had to make myself tolerate. Live with and try to avoid. That was why I never set foot inside the changing rooms after games or practice unless extremely necessary.

“How’s the renovation coming along?”

Glad for the distraction, I thought back to the mess I left behind. “It’s going great,” I lied. I caught Cameron giving me an inquisitive look over his shoulder and I looked away. Was I flushed? My face felt warm. “How do you know I’m renovating?”

“The constant screeching coming from yourcottage,” he explained, and I didn’t miss the way he said the wordcottage. “Then there’s the dust you’re completely covered in.”

I fought the urge to touch my hair. Brush my hands over my top. I swallowed. “You really love to continuously complain about me, huh?”

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