“Yeah. You said that. But are you sure you’re right?”
We were never supposed to end up together, Kat said the second time she appeared to me.
I punch the steering wheel so hard the horn blasts as a piece of plastic goes flying. My already bruised skin tears and my knuckles crack, but I don’t care. I hit the wheel again and again and again.
“Look.” Camilla’s voice is unbearably gentle. “I know you’re heartbroken right now—”
“What would you know about heartbreak? You’ve never even been on a date. None of the guys you’ve been with liked you enough.”
She blanches, and I curse, hating myself more now than ever before. Guilt and regret pummel me, leaving bruises deep, deep inside. I don’t like her, but I’m not this guy. I won’t be this guy.
“I’m sorry. I had no right to go there.”
“Don’t worry.” There’s no emotion in her tone, no emotion on her features, either, but she’s rubbing her thumb against the Betrayal tattoo. “I deserve nothing less.”
Anyone else, I would have corrected. No one deserves to be dumped on like this. Her, I just can’t.
We reach the apartment, and she trudges in behind me. I look around and try to see the place through her eyes. Gritty, dingy. As far from a palatial bachelor pad as possible. I’ve hung no pictures. My furniture consists of a couch, a TV and a bed.
She picks up the bag she dropped off during her B & E. “I’m taking a shower.” Without waiting for permission, she shuts herself inside the bathroom and turns on the water.
I pad into a kitchen small enough to fit inside a Barbie playhouse. And yes, I have, in fact, played with one. Kat used to babysit her cousins, and I used to help, allowing the little princesses to “fix” my hair and paint my nails. But I can’t afford to think about the past right now. I’ll have another meltdown.
I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and drain half the contents, the liquid cool against my parched throat.
Thud.
I recognize the sound and know Camilla just dropped the soap...in the shower...where she’s naked and wet.
I hiss in a breath. I did not just go there. But...
I did go there and now I can’t get the picture of her naked and wet out of my head.
Today’s blind date clearly screwed me up. Not to mention losing Kat—again. Doesn’t help that I’m a young, red-blooded male with more testosterone than most, and Camilla is hotter than hell. There’s simply no getting around that fact.
Damn it. She represents everything wrong with my life. Worse, she’s a wild card. Is she for real? Or is she looking for the perfect opportunity to betray my group? To punish us for telling her brother she’d sided with Anima?
If I’m being honest, I don’t actually think that’s the case. She fought hard-core last night, slaying zombies—and tires—without a single moment of hesitation.
My lips twitch at the corners. No one has ever attacked my truck with such adorable menace.
I should not find her adorable.
By the time she emerges, I’ve tamed my wayward thoughts. But a cloud of steam accompanies her, smelling of roses, pecans and my soap, and...hell. My blood heats. In anger, I tell myself. Only anger. Because I don’t like my things on her body. Even my scent. Especially my scent.
Her mass of hair is wet, the ends dripping onto her already-damp tank top, rendering the material transparent. She’s wearing short shorts, her legs a mile long, with black and white roses tattooed down one side but not the other. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted princess pink, a complete surprise. I would have guessed black. On her left foot is a tattoo of—is that a dandelion? Yeah. As the seeds float away, they morph into birds. On her other foot is a tattoo of a pink ribbon crisscrossing all the way to her ankle and culminating in a bow. It’s the only etching with color and I wonder why—also wonder why my blood boils.
Kat has no tattoos. I never thought I’d like them on a girl, but Camilla, she wears them well. Very well.
“This is five seconds past awkward,” she mutters.
Caught sizing up the enemy. I should be flayed alive. “There’s not much in the fridge but feel free to take what you want.” I shut myself in the bathroom and stay in the shower until the hot water is gone and I’m being pelted by shards of ice, my mind finally back in the right place. Admiring Camilla isn’t allowed.
My motions are jerky as I dress in a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. When I step into the hall, the scent of bacon and eggs greets me, and my mouth waters. Camilla is sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of food in front of her and a plate of food in front of the only other chair. Finally, she’s eating. And despite my deplorable treatment of her, she continues to respond to me with little gestures of kindness.
I’m more baffled by her every minute of every day.
My stomach rumbles for the first time in months, and I join her at the table to dig in. After a few bites of the best (and only) bacon pancakes I’ve ever had, I mutter, “Thanks for dinner.”