“You’re funny,” I finally manage, aiming for a nonchalant tone. “Can we get back to strategy, please?”
I swear Cam’s smile could be seen from outer space. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed. Those pink cheeks.”
I stand and go to the oven, peering in like I might find a cure for my mortification inside. But there’s only the shepherd’s pie, which I imagine is laughing at me.
Cam takes pity on me and lets me off the hook. “All right, movin’ on. Rule number one—we’ll call it the golden rule—is make him chase you. The longer, the better. But there are lots of subrules to this one. They all involve the art of parsin’ yourself out.”
“That sounds disturbingly prostitutional.”
“Think of it like you’re leavin’ a trail of crumbs. Small, delicious Joellen crumbs. A little bit here, a little bit there, just enough to heighten his hunger but never enough to satisfy it.”
I go back to the table and sit, starting to feel dejected. “This is all very complicated.”
“It’s the easiest thing in the world, darlin’. It’s called seduction, and it’s a game where everyone wins.” After a moment, he adds, “What was that wistful sigh for?”
“Everything would be so much easier if it could just be like it is with us.”
Cam is silent for a while. He finishes his beer, then says roughly, “You mean if you could just be friends.”
I’m not sure what I mean, because I’ve surprised myself with that statement. It was unplanned, but I have to admit it’s true. I don’t have to think when I’m with Cam. I can just be myself because I’m not trying to impress him.
“Oh!” Dazzled by a flash of inspiration, I sit up straight.
“What?”
I look at Cam, convinced I’m a genius. “I’ll pretend he’s you!”
Cam stares at me. His jaw works. He shifts his weight in his chair, and the cat jumps off his lap, unsettled. “Come again?”
“Like you told me to do when we kissed—pretend you were him!”
“And did you?” he challenges quietly, his gaze steady on mine.
I open my mouth to answer the obvious yes. But the word dies on my lips because the obvious answer isn’t the real answer. It isn’t the truth.
Both times I kissed Cam, I never once thought of Michael.
Immediately, I start to panic, my pulse skyrocketing and my hands beginning to shake. “Um . . .”
“Go ahead,” says Cam softly. “Lie to me.”
We stare at each other, and my heart decides it’s had enough of this beating nonsense and stops dead in my chest. When the phone rings, I almost faint.
Cam moves first. He strides over to the phone, picks up the receiver, then brings it to me, holding it out silently and watching as I lift it to my ear.
I know he sees how my hand shakes. I know he sees the color in my cheeks. I know he sees how irregular my breathing has become, because he’s taking all of it in, his gaze roving over my face as I squeak into the phone, “Hello?”
“Joellen. It’s Michael.”
Of course it is. The universe is having way too much fun at my expense.
“Oh. Hello, Michael.”
Cam and I stand a foot apart, our eyes locked. My blood feels like fire.
“Is now a good time for us to talk?”
“Actually, Michael”—I swallow—“I have company.”
Cam moves closer, infinitesimally, a slight lean toward me that doesn’t involve his feet.
“Company?” Michael’s voice is sharp in my ear. Too sharp.
In a turn of events I never would have predicted, and would have scoffed at anyone who dared to suggest, I’m irritated with Michael Maddox.
“Yes,” I say firmly, straightening my shoulders. “Company. I’ll have to call you back.”
Michael sounds irritated with me, too, but tries to cover it with polite words. “Of course. I’m free for the rest of the night. Call me anytime.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
“Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
Wordlessly, I hold the phone out to Cam. He takes it from my hand, stares at me for a beat, then returns the phone to its cradle on the wall, his entire body radiating tension.
I don’t know what’s happening, but it feels momentous.
“That was good,” he says to the wall. “Sounded very natural. When you call him back, don’t talk for more than ten minutes, and make sure you end the call first.”
“I’m not going to call him back.”
Cam turns around slowly. Our eyes meet with a click. “No?”
“I have a dinner guest. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
There’s a muscle in Cam’s jaw that’s getting an incredible workout. “You’ve been waitin’ on him for ten years, lassie.”
“So one more day won’t hurt. Besides, I need practice with the golden rule. I’m dropping crumbs, right?”
“I dunno, Joellen. Is that what you’re doin’?”
His voice is gravelly, as rough as my breathing . . . and he has a point.
What am I doing?
As if on cue, the timer on the oven dings. Saved by the bell! I swallow the hysterical laugh rising from my throat and trip over to the oven. Before I can make it there, I’m grabbed by a big pair of hands.
Then I’m backed flat against the wall, staring up into Cam’s face. His dark, dangerously intense face.
Holding me by the shoulders and gazing into my eyes, he says softly, “Whatever it is you’re doin’, you better be sure. Take your time. Figure it out. But be sure. You owe it to yourself.”
He releases me and strolls back to the kitchen table. He sits, props his feet up on another chair, laces his fingers together over his stomach, and smiles. “Now gimme that goddamn pie, woman. I’m starvin’.”
His expression and voice are nonchalant, but his eyes. Oh, his eyes.
How hotly they burn.
TWENTY-FOUR
Nowhere girl
Such long-standing dysfunction
Heart unfurled
Pain like heavyweight punches
Chaos of wings
Inside my head
Bittersweet things
Sleep beside me in bed
Ten years, one hope, an impossible dream
And then he spoke, but how can it be
The words he said weren’t right but wrong
But perhaps after all the problem is me?
My hunger has grown too impossibly huge
I’m a woman with no one and nothing to lose.
It’s Wednesday. I’m at my desk at work, doing what I do best.
Obsessing.
I title the sonnet I’ve just composed “Hunger,” save it to the computer’s hard drive, and close out of the word processing program. Then I do the thing I’ve been wrestling with my conscience about for the past several hours and google Cameron McGregor.
I’m staggered when the search produces more than forty-five million results.
There’s his Wikipedia page, his social media feeds, countless news articles, interviews, and photos. It’s jarring seeing the photos of him in action on the rugby field because he looks nothing like the man I’ve come to know.
He looks feral. Ferocious. Frightening. Like he’s released from a maximum security prison on short-term leave only for his games. There isn’t a single photograph of him smiling.
Off the field, or pitch, as I learn it’s called, the situation is even worse. He must be followed relentlessly by paparazzi when he’s in Europe, because his every move has been documented on film. He scowls into the camera from all angles, whether staggering out of a pub or swaggering into an expensive car.