Page 55 of Never Bargain with the Boss
“What you said only further proves my point,” I tell him softly in his ear. “We’re two adults, both awesome in our own ways, and our bodies responded to one another. It’s perfectly natural, but we’re not animals who have to act on whatever we feel. We can choose restraint… if we want to.” I let the question of whether that’s what Cameron truly wants bleed into the suggestion, but he doesn’t take the bait even though his hungry eyes are locked onto my mouth.
Though he doesn’t move an inch, I feel him pull away from me. Away from the kiss he wants as desperately as I do. “Keep the focus on Grace. She’s what matters.” He nods like everything’s been decided. And for him, I suppose it has been.Putting all his energy, effort, and mental focus into his daughter is how he operates, his safe space.
“Right, Grace.” I agree because he’s right, but secretly, I know that Cameron matters too. I want to make them both happy.
The silence between us grows, both of us ruminating on what we’ve said and what we’ve decided. It’s the right thing to do, I know that. But if that’s true, why does it feel so wrong? Because it does. With my hip pressed against Cameron’s beneath the warm blanket and his frown looking so adorably cute, it feels so very wrong. And not in the fun, naughty way, but rather in a denying the inevitable sort of way.
“Why did you get out of the car at the pumpkin patch? Grace didn’t want to go and I said it was okay, just a silly little idea, but you got out.” It’s been bugging me all day. I know Cameron would never knowingly and willingly volunteer to do something like we did today, but he did, and I haven’t figured out why.
He stares out over the yard, not meeting my eyes as he admits, “Because you looked so fucking disappointed and it killed me. You wanted to go, so I wanted to take you.”
A thrill shoots through me because that means that whatever Cameron feels for me isn’t solely physical, and that’s an important distinction.
I spend my life making everyone happy, taking care of everyone else, and I love it. It brings me joy and satisfaction in a way I can’t express. But having someone want to do something nice for me because they give a shit about my happiness is a rare occurrence, and I want to bask in it for a moment, really wallow around and relish it fully.
“Thank you,” I say solemnly, not sure I can possibly explain how important what he did for me is. “It was fun, right? You had a good time?” I know I sound needy, but I can’t give a shit about that when I need him to say it. That reassurance will soothesomething deep inside my scarred, fucked-up little heart where I can only be happy if the people I care about are too.
He lays his arm along the back of the couch, effectively wrapping it around me even if he’s not actually touching me, and quietly confesses, “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.” The concession comes with a smile teasing at the corner of his lip, almost begging to be provoked into more. So I poke him in the ribs where he’s made himself vulnerable and he grunts at the rebuke. Rolling his eyes dramatically, he grumbles, “Fine, it was fun, and I had a great time.”
I wiggle like a happy puppy, feeling like I did exactly what I set out to do. Or maybe even more than I hoped to. “Then you’re welcome for dragging you out there,” I declare sassily, and he chuckles at my unexpected response.
“So,” I drawl out, “speaking of Grace, how do you think tomorrow’s gonna go?” I nibble my lip, nervous for her.
“You’d probably know better than me,” he admits, shaking his head. “This tween girl stuff is about a million times more complicated than I thought it’d be.”
I talk Cameron through possible scenarios—some as benign as Hannah says and does nothing, and others as dire as the girls getting into it at school. And it does exactly what I’d hoped it’d do—distracts us until long after our tea mugs are empty, the night has turned downright cold, and we really should go to bed. Separately, of course.
But we sit here, talking about Grace, the pumpkin patch, and whatever else comes up, until I figure out that we’re both stalling and studiously avoiding discussing the desire weaving deeper and deeper through us.
CAMERON
“Get me the updated numbers on the Timmons deal. Now.” I release the button on my phone, turning off the speaker, but the urge to press it again is right there in my hand. I want to press it harder.
Scratch that, I want to punch something. Hard.
I’m not a violent man. I don’t think I’ve ever balled up my fist in anger, but the impulse to do so now is strong. I vaguely wonder if this is what my youngest brother, Kyle, feels like before he unleashes on someone. He doesn’t do it often, especially now, but when he was a mad-at the-world kid? Yeah, he was a nightmare back then, and a few times, I drew the short straw and had to be the unlucky one to promise the local police that he would ‘never do anything like this again’ while knowing full-well it was a lie, all in an attempt to get him out of a cop car without charges.
Is this what he felt like? A vague sense of rage that he didn’t understand, but nonetheless was as real as the beating heart in his chest? If so, I don’t blame him for being such an asshole.
Well, maybe I don’t blame him as much. He doesn’t get a total pass because while I’ve been in a foul mood all day, I haven’t actually punched anyone or anything. Yet.
Instead, I tried to run the anger out on the treadmill this morning, increasing my pace until I couldn’t keep up with the whirring belt’s speed and my breath was fire in my lungs. I tried to jerk it out, fucking my hand hard and fast in the shower and cursing harshly when I came. I sped to the office this morning, wishing all the other cars on the highway would get the hell out of my way.
And now, I’m being short with analysts who’ve done nothing wrong.
The worst part is, I don’t know why.
Yeah, you do. You just don’t want to admit it.
I refuse to agree with myself, but this mood did start last night when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the same old man staring back at me that’s always there. For a while, out on the patio, talking to Riley, I’d forgotten. Both who she was and who I am. We’d talked about everything and nothing, and it’d been exactly what I needed… what I didn’t even know I needed. That connection is something I haven’t had, or allowed myself to have, in a long time.
I’d felt lighter, happier, and yeah, younger. And though I don’t want to admit it, her acting like I’m not some perverted geezer was like a shot of rocket fuel to my ego.
And my dick.
After we’d reluctantly said good night, I’d nearly floated to my room with a smile stretched across my face that I could feel. That high had lasted until I laid eyes on the faint lines on my face—around my eyes, beside my mouth, and across my forehead. And the gray hair that’s starting to sprout on my chest, just one or two strands, but they’re there. Because the mirror doesn’t lie and the truth is… I am old. Way too old to be playing ‘date night’ with someone Riley’s age. And that reminder was a painful, cold dash of truth on the rest of the evening, ruining my sleep last night and my continuing mood today.
When my door opens without a knock, I look up, expecting to see Jeannie because she’s the only one with instant, constant access to me, though she typically knocks before entering. Instead, Kayla closes the door behind her and struts across my office to place a file folder right in the middle of my desk. Trapping it there with one perfectly manicured fingertip, she informs me, “Whatever the fuck is wrong with you, don’t take it out on the analysts. You’ve got them shitting in their suits, thinking someone down there fucked up.”