In nothing but one of Cameron’s tees, I tiptoe out into the hallway and softly close the door behind me. Maybe I can whip up another breakfast masterpiece. It would be a good way to apologize to Ryder after the way his dad treated him last night. If he’s even here.
I dig through the kitchen and pull out some bacon, eggs, and a few veggies for omelets. The ones I make are never as pretty as the pictures, but they taste pretty good. As quietly as I can, I find an empty bowl, a cutting board, and a knife.
With the lack of distractions in the quiet house, a vision from last night assaults my mind: Cameron standing in the doorway looking every bit the predator and ready to kill. My insides clench at how his jealousy hit me in very private and personal places. It made my stomach flutter and my skin flush with the excitement.
It’s wrong. So wrong. There’s nothing normal about a woman who gets excited by her boyfriend’s jealousy. I’d never try to make him mad on purpose, but it doesn’t change the fact that it feels good—no, it’s hot as hell—to know I’m important enough to him that he’d get upset at the thought of me with someone else.
A soft knock on the front door shakes me to the present.
I check my phone for the time. “It’s not even eight.” Who the hell would stop by so early on a Sunday?
Seconds pass and I hear the knock again. I better get that before they start ringing the doorbell and waking the whole damn house. I swing open the door, and butterflies flutter in my stomach. Fan-girling still.
“D’lilah Monroe!”
She steps back and almost stumbles. “Oh, you’re here?” Her gaze runs down the length of my torso and back up.
“Yep.” I am, but what the heck is she doing here? I open the door wider. “Come in.”
She moves through the doorway, but she does so with timid steps. “Hey, Eve, right?”
“Yeah, shhh . . . the guys are still sleeping.” I wave her to follow me into the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast. You hungry?”
“Uh . . .”
She doesn’t answer, so I turn and find her face pale, especially in contrast to her hot pink shirt and matching shorts.
“Here.” I pull out a barstool from the island. “Have a seat. You want some coffee?”
She drops to her chair and nods. “Sure, if it’s not too much trouble.”
I busy myself with the coffee while putting pieces of what I know about Cameron’s ex-wife together. My experience with divorcees is limited, but her surprise visits seem to happen more than I’d expect.
The room is heavy with silence and a strange tension I didn’t feel the first time we met. I grab a couple coffee mugs and some milk from the fridge then dig through the pantry for sugar.
“So you’re”—she fidgets with the mug, and her fingers tremble—“spending the night?”
My face gets hot and my palms sweat. Cameron hasn’t talked to her yet. “Yes, I am.” I clear my throat and keep my eyes on cracking eggs. “I’ve spent the night a couple times.” I don’t lift my eyes to see her reaction, but I can feel the shock that charges the air between us.
“That’s um . . . surprising.” Her voice shakes.
This is ridiculous. From what Cameron’s told me, they’ve been divorced for going on ten years. Not that I’d be surprised if she still had feelings for him, but I’d expect her to be a little less obvious.
I take a deep breath and turn toward my childhood idol. “It’s not a big deal, D’lilah. We’re adults and don’t have to clear the status of our relationship with anyone.”
She blanches. “Not a big deal? How can you say that?”
Is she for real? “Um, pretty easily. I mean we’re consenting adults, and frankly, I’m uncomfortable talking to you about this. If you don’t approve, take it up with Cameron.”
“Take what up with me?” Cameron’s booming voice comes from the entryway to the kitchen. He’s wearing workout shorts and a faded blue Tap-Out tee, his hair sticking up in a sexy way that I know is from my hands being buried in it last night. “’Li, what are you doing here?”
I step back from the counter as he pins her with a glare and crosses to his ex-wife.
“It’s Sunday.” She slides her trembling hands off the countertop and into her lap.
“I’m aware of what day it is. What I’m not aware of is why I wake up in my house to find you in my kitchen on a Sunday.”
D’lilah’s back goes rigid. “So you know she’s spending the night?”
“Do I know?” He tilts his head and studies her face. “You fucked up?”
A gasp shoots from her lips. “No, I am not fucked up.”
He runs his gaze over her. “Shit, ’Li, you’re shaking.”
“Don’t change the subject, Cam.”
“How long since your last drink?” There’s a tiny hint of that softness in his voice that I’ve heard before when he speaks to her.
She blinks. “How long since you’ve been allowing this girl to do God-knows-what under your roof?”
It’s official. D’lilah Monroe has lost her damn mind.