Whitney didn’t seem to.

He wanted to show her that as well.

And, yes, he wanted to be one of those things that mattered more to her than work.

This was complicated.

But complicated was something he was used to. It was something he was good at. He was the lead attorney for a multimillion-dollar company. He loved a good fight. He loved going toe to toe with people who could stand there and argue back and make him work at it.

That was Whitney.

She knew what she wanted. She’d fight him on it. He just needed to have his arguments ready.

Feeling better about everything, he tucked his clothes into the drawers in the dresser in the bedroom. He checked out the bathroom, felt the mattress, and looked at his view out the window.

It was all nice. Very nice. Five-star hotel-level nice.

He still really mostly cared about where Whitney’s bedroom was from here.

He left the room, heading back for the kitchen. He thought for one second—maybe two—about opening doors along the hallway to find her room.

But he didn’t.

He wanted to be invited into that room. He wanted her opening that door for him.

And she would.

Eventually.

Probably.

Cam slipped back inside from the back patio. He’d given Aiden a call to let him and Zoe know he wouldn’t be home tonight. He’d left a message, feeling a little relieved that Aiden hadn’t picked up. He wasn’t sure what his best friend’s reaction would be to him living with Whitney and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about what a dumb idea it was at the moment. There would be time for that later.

There was a single light glowing over the sink. The rest of the first floor was dark. And quiet.

Uh-huh. Whitney had taken advantage of him being outside to slip upstairs.

Cam had cooked. Pasta primavera with grilled chicken. They’d had a nice meal, during which Didi had told stories about her and Letty growing up. Stories he’d never heard before and loved. They’d been like sisters from the time they’d met as little girls. He and Aiden had been like that.

He’d snuck glances at Whitney as they talked. She’d seemed happy. Didi had been downright delighted. Maybe it was because she had a bigger audience than usual for her stories. Or maybe the two women didn’t actually spend their mealtimes talking and sharing stories. He could imagine Whitney reading files or working on her laptop while she ate.

Well, that ended now. If he had anything to say about it.

Which he probably didn’t.

At least he could listen to Didi’s stories. He enjoyed hearing about his grandmother as a little girl.

But he couldn’t help but wonder if Whitney had a friend like he and Aiden had been or like Didi and Letty had been? She’d had friends in high school, but they hadn’t been close like he and Aiden had. She’d been amazed by how close he and Aiden were and often commented on how nice it would be to have someone like that. What about now? Did she have people—even one—that she could truly confide in and be herself with?

Well, she did now.

He was going to be that friend. Even if that’s all she would let him be.

Of course, she had to stay up past 9 p.m. if they were going to talk and share and get to know each other.

He debated his move here. He didn’t know which room was hers and he wasn’t about to go knocking on doors when one of them was Didi’s. Also, he should give Whitney space. He knew that spending time together on more neutral territory—where there weren’t beds a few feet away or a tub big enough for two—was probably a good idea.

Then again, he thought maybe just kissing the hell out of her, getting her naked, and showing her some other ways he’d gotten better over the past ten years might not be a terrible idea. They could talk after. After he made her face, very directly and intimately, the chemistry that was still alive and well.

Or he could play it cool. Be patient. Do what he’d come here to do, hang out with Didi, make Whitney’s life easier and wait for her to come to him.

He wanted to do that.

But he was really afraid that the kissing the hell out of her and getting her naked part would take a lot longer with that approach. And he wasn’t sure how long he could wait on that.

He’d liked talking dirty to her that first night. He’d loved watching her respond.

He pulled out his phone and texted her.

I’m making chocolate chip cookie dough. You should come down.

He set the phone on the counter and moved around the kitchen, checking the cabinets and pulling out ingredients. He was a great baker, taught by one of the best ever. But chocolate chip cookies were his specialty. He knew that the sound of that didn’t impress most people. How special could chocolate chip cookies really be anyway? But that’s because they’d never had his. He was the best. Even better than his grandmother.

And, yes, she’d even admitted it to him. Though only to him. And only when they were alone.

It was several minutes later, but finally Whitney replied.

I’m already in bed.

Cam grinned. That was almost too easy. Okay, I’ll bring it up to you. The horizontal surfaces up there are probably softer than the ones down here.

He started measuring and mixing, knowing that it would be a bit before she responded again.

But he’d only gotten the flour and baking powder combined before his phone chimed.

He looked over, wiping a hand on a dish towel.

I don’t want to have to shower tonight. I’m a morning showerer.

He grinned. Yes, this had the potential to get sticky.

I promise to be sure to remove all traces of cookie dough from your nipples. And elsewhere. I’ll be very thorough.

He waited, just in case she got right back to him.

She didn’t.

He went back to mixing. He got everything but the chocolate chips mixed in before he heard anything from her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. That was a jerk move, Cam.”

He turned toward the kitchen doorway.

And nearly dropped the bowl he was holding.

10

She’d apparently come straight down, without bothering to change her clothes.

Her hair was up in a high ponytail on the top of her head, the long strands falling around her freshly washed face. She had a bed sheet wrapped around her body and tucked under her arms but he could see the spaghetti straps of the pale green nightgown she wore underneath. He really wanted to know how far down that nightgown hit on her thighs. And if she was wearing panties.

She looked just-out-of-bed, adorably mussed, and… a little pissed. Her cheeks were flushed and she was not smiling.

Still, he couldn’t stop staring. Not even when the one, very tiny, part of his brain told him that this was not playing it cool.

Of course, texting her about licking cookie dough off her nipples wasn’t really cool either.

Speaking of her nipples… Surely she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath that nightgown either. Women didn’t wear bras to bed. He knew that much. His entire body reacted to the thought, the way the sheet molded to her breasts and the smooth pale bare skin of her shoulders.

She didn’t cross her arms. She didn’t move closer so that the breakfast bar on the other side of the kitchen island would block his view. She didn’t even fidget. She just let him look.