Built to Last, page 15
“Still?”
“Yeah.” She tucked her hair behind a glowing-red ear. “Well. It’s really soft.”
“I bet. It’s, like, twelve years old.”
“Yeah,” she said again, biting her lip. “I swear I have other sleep shirts.”
“The evidence says otherwise,” I said, willing a teasing tone past my bone-dry throat.
“I should give it back to you probably.”
“No!” I said. Christ that’s the last thing I need. “It’s fine. It’s yours. Possession is nine-tenths of the law or whatever.”
“Okay,” she said and tucked her clothes in her suitcase before scrambling under her covers and hiding her bare legs away.
That should have been the end of it. So what if she was sleeping in my shirt? If she’s been sleeping in my shirt for twelve years? It’s fine. It’s not like she’s touched herself thinking of me while wearing my shirt. It’s not like it smells like me. For fuck’s sake, I barely owned it. It’s honestly her shirt at this point. I turned over in the dark, facing her, and closed my eyes. Within seconds I heard her breathing even out. I thought I was about to follow her into sleep when the softest, most breathless little whimper echoed into the silence from her bed.
My eyes shot open.
She was asleep. She didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a noise she makes.
Another tiny moan and she turned, her leg slipping out of the covers, moonlit and perfect and close enough to reach. A whimper, followed by a long, shuddering exhale.
This time I groaned, rolling to face the opposite wall and tugging my pillow over my ears. Those were definitely sex noises. Shelby was making sex noises in her sleep while wearing my shirt. I will never sleep ever again.
* * *
The moment the sunrise cracks through the top of the ruffled buffalo-plaid curtains, I throw back my quilt, more than ready to end the torture. I’m greeted by my own morning wood (or all-night-long wood), but if the snores coming from Shelby’s bed are any indication, she’s still plenty asleep. I don’t bother covering myself as I trudge to the shower. I don’t even have it in me to be embarrassed. The cold spray will fix me right up, scaring away the boner to end all boners, and hopefully waking me up long enough to make it down the stairs and into the dining room to find some coffee I can inject directly into my veins.
In fact, I almost hope she does see me in this state. A man has his limits, and they include when your beautiful ex sleeps three feet away from you while wearing your old T-shirt as if she hasn’t just ruined you for all other women.
I groan, tilting my head against the freezing cold shower tiles. When I am old and gray and barely able to shuffle my way from my La-Z-Boy to my microwave to make my Cream of Wheat laced with MiraLAX, I will still have a hard-on.
Less than twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the front porch of the B&B in a flannel shirt and jeans with a thermos of steaming black coffee, watching the late-season frost get chased into dew by the sun. I have to admit, it’s pretty up here. It’s not the wild plains of Africa, but it feels like home.
“Danish?”
I look up, surprised to see Shelby. She’s fresh-faced and pink-cheeked, wearing a chunky knit sweater over jeans and brown boots laced to her shins. She is sufficiently more covered than the last time I saw her, but I know things now. Things I can’t ever unknow. And there’s only fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes until I see her in my T-shirt again.
She’s still holding the plate and I take a pastry without looking too closely. After a bite, I realize it’s raspberry. My favorite. Shelby sits in a rocker next to me and takes a bite of hers, balancing a coffee in between her knees.
“I couldn’t remember if raspberry or blueberry was your favorite, so I took a guess.”
“Good guess,” I say, lifting the danish. “This is perfect.”
She makes a noise of agreement and leans back, looking out over the acres of woods in front of us. “It is, isn’t it? The house-flipping market isn’t great up here, but I would love to settle down in the U.P. one day. It’s so peaceful.”
“The market isn’t good, but they still host this giant flea market?”
Shelby nods and swallows a bite. “That’s part of what makes the market so great. It’s an untapped resource. When I first moved back and started working for my dad, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to focus on, and all the thrift stores and antique hot spots downstate are pretty touristy. They’re super picked-through and cater to the trends … lots of shiplap and farmhouse sinks and that kind of thing. Those have merit for sure, but it was being done already, you know? I needed to find my own niche.”
“You realize if this show takes off, your niche will become the next trend, right?”
Shelby makes a face, brushing her fingers off on her pants. “I’ve thought about that. It’s part of the reason I didn’t want the cameras around this weekend. The last thing I want is everyone making this a tourist destination next spring. I have to keep some of my secrets.”
“It’s that great, huh?”
“Better, Cam. This is like Disneyland for thrifters.”
I laugh at her enthusiasm and finish my coffee. “I’m going to refill. You ready to go?”
She stands up. “I’ll top off my cup.”
* * *
We spend the morning weaving in and out of tents stuffed with musty-smelling bookshelves, dinged-up rolltop desks, and all sorts of knickknacks ranging from unusual to absurd. Apparently, flea markets are one part farmers’ market, one part As-Seen-on-TV infomercial products, two parts beeswax-hemp candles, and infinity parts Christmas crafts. But if you know where to look, which Shelby obviously does, you are sure to find at least a pickup truck’s worth of early twentieth-century furniture worth rehabbing.
And two more items besides to be shipped.
“I knew I should have driven separately.” Shelby sighs after signing her address to the dotted line. “Four to six weeks. I miss her already.”
I bite back a laugh at the forlorn expression on her face. “I think it will take you that long just to make the room for a Hoosier cabinet this size. How will you fit it through the door of your shop, even?”
“Duh. I have a garage door off the side.”
“Of course you do.”
“I might keep this one, though. I don’t think I could sell her.”
“Do you also have a garage door off the side of your house that I don’t know about?”
“No. But I do have a sliding door in the back. I just need someone strapping to help me get it up the deck steps…” She taps her chin, smirking.
“I’m not sure Daniel’s knees are up to it. Better hire movers.”
She smacks my arm as we turn away from the tent. “Ouch, woman. If you want my biceps to bring in your giant-ass Hoosier whatsit, you really ought to treat them better.” I lead us toward the food tent where I can smell something fried, probably twice, calling to me.
Shelby wraps her arm through mine and tips her head to my shoulder as we walk. “I’m sorry, Cam’s Biceps, please forgive me.” She rubs the flannel covering my upper arm and I work at keeping a bland expression on my face as my whole body burns under her ministrations.
My. T-shirt. For Christ’s sake.
“I’m sure all will be forgotten if we can take an ice-cream break. My treat.”
“Deal. It’s finally warming up.” Shelby lets go of my arm to slip out of her heavy sweater and tie it in a bulky knot around her waist. “Let’s get some lunch first. I think there’s a small folk band playing, so we can sit and listen to music.”
We end up ordering a plate of loaded nachos and a couple of lemonades and sit at a picnic table near the edge of a gathering crowd that’s huddled in front of a small stage. For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence, but once the music starts up, Shelby’s boot starts tapping and before I know what I’m doing, my hand is outstretched and a smile quirks on my lips.
Shelby’s blue eyes sparkle with humor. “Seriously?”
“Dare you.”
“Well, hell. I haven’t been dared in years.” Shelby takes my hand and I tug her to her feet, leading her out toward the middle of the crowd. We sway side to side, connected by hands and hips and shoulders. The song is a cover of a country hit, and I can’t help but sing along with the lyrics. Shelby giggles and joins after a few beats. I twirl her around, growing more comfortable. We aren’t anyone here. I spin her out and pull her back in and she follows my lead seamlessly in a modified kind of two-step. I meet her eyes and can’t look away. I’m lost in a memory of us, the sun setting on an open field while I clumsily kiss my way down her body, giddy with nerves and lust. I knew that night I could love this girl—woman. That I would always love her.
God, I’m an idiot for ever walking away.
I can’t do it again.
What if I didn’t? What if I stayed? What if we sold the season? Could I stay here, working so close to Shelby, loving her as I do, unrequited?
But would it be unrequited? She told me to stop running, but I can’t tell the real from the fake anymore. We kissed at the Caroline Street house. That was real. We fought and I stormed off, but then we talked and worked things out. That was also real. We flirt. On camera. Maybe not real. Well, okay, real for me, but …
She brought my T-shirt to sleep in.
Too fucking real.
No. It’s not unrequited, but things aren’t progressing either, and I’m starting to realize why.
I take a chance and pull Shelby closer. Her scent is nearly my undoing. She smells like lemons and springtime. She wraps her arms around my neck without hesitation, her cheeks rosy and her hair shining gold in the midday sun.
I can’t leave her again.
14
SHELBY
BACK TO YOU
After The Dance (a.k.a. the dance heard round the world or at least in Shelby Springfield’s best Nora Ephron–fueled daydreams), Cameron suggests grabbing soft-serve ice-cream cones before continuing on to the next tent. Not like I have room for more furniture finds, but I haven’t even made it through half the vendors yet, and well, we’re here.
As if I could concentrate, at any rate. I’m basically a puddle of hormones and incoherent reason at this point. Sleeping practically within reach—close enough to hear his breathing. I mean, if I hadn’t taken that Tylenol PM, I’d probably be staggering through my day like, well, like he is, if I’m honest.
Poor guy.
I didn’t mean to pack his T-shirt. Okay. Yes, I definitely meant to pack it. I rarely sleep in anything else because I’m pathetic. But I absolutely meant to take that secret to the grave and I couldn’t very well sleep in my jeans.
But then there’s how he’s oh-so-casually paid for everything so far. Like a date. Like a date weekend. I should probably fight him over it, women’s lib and all, but hell, it’s been so long since anyone tried to pay for me.
Again. I’m tragic. We covered this.
And maybe I’m just a little bit hopeful. As if when added up to a whole, these things could mean something … because at first, we were only dancing, and it was all friendly and cool, and then it was more. Like, more more.
And this time, when our fingers dangle between us as we stroll along the center aisle of the tent, his catch mine, and I swear the clouds clear overhead and an angel chorus breaks into jubilant song.
Halle-fricken-lujah.
I watch as his tongue darts out to capture the chocolate sweetness. “Is this okay?” he asks. Which part? I wonder, sardonically. The strong, calloused man-hand wrapped around mine or the talented tongue flexing?
Because, option C. ALL OF THE ABOVE.
I squeeze his giant hand in mine. “Remember when we couldn’t do this?” I swing our hands between us, choosing to stifle my overly enthusiastic pheromones. “Nothing but dark corners.”
“Not that there was anything wrong with dark corners,” he admits, and I feel my face flush. Cameron’s pheromones clearly missed the stifling memo.
Fuck it.
“I prefer open fields.”
He throws his head back with a groan. “Peaked at eighteen.”
“You did have a pretty strong game,” I admit.
“Did I ever tell you I got my first speeding ticket that day?”
“No!”
He nods, squeezing my hand once and licking around his cone before swallowing. “Earlier. Lyle was such a tool that day, I swear he knew something was up. He kept messing up his lines and we got out super late.”
“I remember.”
He continues. “Well, to top it off, I’d already told you I had a spot worked out, right outside town. And I did, but I freaked out that it would be taken, so I wanted to run out after work and save it.”
“With a blanket?”
He shrugs. “I was nervous.”
“Me, too,” I admit. “So, you drove out?”
“I did. Floored it the entire way. I made it, laid the blanket down, and then on my way out, I was pulled over for speeding.”
“Were you speeding?”
“Hell yeah. I was out of my mind. I was about to have sex!” he stage-whispers the last word and I burst into giggles. “With Shelby fucking Springfield!”
I’m laughing-crying at his pure expression. I can just picture him, ten years younger.
“I didn’t even try to get out of it. I was all, ‘Yes, officer. Go ahead. I messed up. Do your worst.’ But the cop must have been able to tell I was in a hurry and thought I wasn’t taking it seriously, so he gets pissed.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah.” His expression is churlish. “So, I’m trying my best to look contrite.” He points his cone to his chest. “Child actor, right? Should have been cake. Meanwhile, I probably have a raging boner because…”
“Because you’re about to have sex for the first time!” I’m dying.
“Exactly. Now I have the self-awareness to be humiliated, but right then, I just wanted to get back to you before you changed your mind.”
“I wasn’t going to change my mind.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t,” he admits.
“Cam,” I say softly. He turns to me. “I made my mind up about you basically the moment we met.”
He swallows. It’s the barest of movements, but I can tell he’s finally starting to see.
Thank Jesus, because I’m laying this on pretty thick. Like, weeks of pathetic Shelby being all “Hello? Over here! I AM YOURS.”
“Did the cop know who you were?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. He asked me for an autograph for his daughters.”
I shake my head. “Unreal. If it’s any consolation, I had zero idea. You came off completely calm and collected by the time you showed up at my trailer.”
He shakes his head. “You’re just remembering the good parts.”
I bite my lip. I know I need to take this slow. I don’t want to freak him out, but also, how can I? I’ve been waiting possibly my whole life for this man to get a clue. “I remember all the parts.”
He clears his throat. “Me, too.”
I finish my cone and let go of his hand to throw the wrapper in a trash bin. “I still think of all the parts,” I say, over my shoulder.
He freezes momentarily before following and throwing his wrapper away.
“So.” His voice cracks in an adorably familiar way. “There’s a recycled barn-wood vendor in the next aisle I wanted to check out.”
“Lead on.”
He grabs my hand again, hiding his grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
Cam drops me off at my B&B room door hours later. We were notified a second room opened up this afternoon and I (graciously) offered to keep the twin beds and allow him the queen in the opposite suite.
Let the record show, I deserve a Presidential Medal of Restraint and Second Virginity for letting him walk away.
Especially after he wrapped my body in the cocoon of his strong arms and his delicious smell and his thoughtful gaze. For a full minute. And then he whispered that he “had a good time today.” And then, when he tightened his embrace, I felt him press against me everywhere but especially right there, and he didn’t shy away but let me feel it all the way in my bone marrow and—holy hell can you come to completion from a hug?
(Maybe we could call it dry humping? Maybe that would be somehow less pathetic?)
(Is dry humping less pathetic, though? In what universe?)
I close my door and immediately start an ice-cold shower before giving it up for lost, turning the nozzle to hot and closing my eyes, imagining his tongue.
Before I fall asleep that night, he texts me a single line orchestrated to ensure I never sleep again.
CAMERON: I still think of all the parts, too.
* * *
The following morning, we get an early start. The drive will be slower on the way home, due to our extra cargo, and we have to be back to film bright and early tomorrow at the Caroline Street house. Besides, I was up at sunrise, coffee in hand and belly full of the most delicious mini eggy pancakes called Dutch babies with lemon curd and fresh berries. It’s going to be so sad returning to my own cooking. After we’re settled in the truck, Cameron passes me his phone since I forgot to charge mine. My dad’s truck is too old to have a charger, but it does have a lighter/adapter.
“I can’t handle another five hours of Eddie Money. Can you find a podcast or something? I don’t care what you pick, but please no more classic rock,” Cameron says, pulling out on to the highway. Apparently, he slept better last night (wonder why?) so he’s back to driving.
“You got it.” He tells me his password is his birthdate and I type it in easily.
“Crap.”
His brows raise, but he doesn’t remove his eyes from the road. “What? It’s not charged either?”
“No, it is. It’s Lyle. He’s been texting. All caps and everything. Should I open it?”
He sighs. I know exactly what he’s thinking. The bubble has officially popped on our weekend away from reality.
