Whatever my parents’ faults, I always felt safe. Maybe not understood or completely accepted, but safe. Cared for. Wanted. I can’t imagine the kind of demons Cam has had to live with his entire life.

“Spit it out, lass.”

I glance up and find Cam watching me closely.

When I squirm a little under his intense gaze, he says softly, “I already told you, you can ask me anything.”

I busy myself with fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth because it feels too nosy to look at him. Or maybe I’m just a coward. It’s difficult for me to witness other people’s pain, and I think the conversation is about to take a very personal turn.

“I owe you an apology for assuming your life was all butterflies and rainbows. It makes me feel crappy that you probably get that a lot. Assumptions about who you are. Judgments.”

Cam’s fingers drum the tablecloth. “Thank you. But that wasn’t a question.”

How does he know I want to ask him something? Probably the same way he knows most other things: he’s observant.

I want to ask him if he’s happy. I want to ask him if he has any real friends. If that’s what he meant when he said we’d never be friends—because everyone wants something from him, including me.

How can I honestly claim to want to be his friend? A true friendship isn’t based on what you think you can get out of it. It’s based on respecting someone enough to let him be who he really is. A true friend is someone who says “I’m here for you” and proves it.

It dawns on me that Cam is probably the best friend I’ve ever had.

Cam says sharply, “Lass.”

My eyes sting. I shake my head, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to calm my emotions. “Give me a minute,” I croak, and take a long drink from my water glass. After a few moments of rapid eye blinking and air gulping, I find the strength to meet his worried gaze. If only my voice had the decency not to wobble.

“I think you’re an amazing person. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. This whole Michael project . . . it means a lot. I don’t take your help for granted. And I’m sorry for all the stupid things I’ve said to you, all the times I’ve been sarcastic or flippant. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was just . . .”

“You were just bein’ yourself,” Cam finishes quietly when I struggle to find the right words.

When I nod, miserable to admit it, he smiles at me. “You can quit beatin’ yourself up now, lass. I know you appreciate me. And I love that sharp tongue of yours. I love that you feel comfortable enough with me to give me a good dressin’ down. I need that, y’know. Someone to stick a pin in my balloon when it gets too inflated.”

I produce a shaky laugh. “Your balloon must have a lot more pinpricks since you met me.”

He laughs, too, a soft and satisfied sound. “Aye. But a real friend is someone who stabs you in the front.”

“That’s Oscar Wilde.”

“Don’t look so surprised, lass. I’ve read Oscar Wilde. You didn’t think I was just another pretty face, did you?”

We share a smile across the checkered tablecloth. “So, we are friends.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Why is it so important to you this relationship has a title?”

Because the alternative to friends is either enemies or lovers.

I smile tightly but don’t answer, knowing in my heart of hearts that I’d rather die than be enemies with this man.

So if we’re not friends or enemies, that leaves only one other choice.

TWENTY-FIVE

Cam and I enjoy a long lunch, talking nonstop about everything and nothing. He gives me more advice about Michael, I pepper him with questions about Scotland, he informs me we’re moving our workouts from strictly cardio to adding strength training, I tell him I’ve lost another few pounds. We’re at the restaurant for almost two hours.

In the back of my head, I tell myself Portia gave me permission to take a long lunch, but the reality is that I’m reluctant to get back to the office. I’m having too good a time. I keep dragging my feet, asking Cam question after question until he laughs at me and asks if I’m writing an unauthorized biography.

“Yes. I’ll call it Mountain Man Unmasked. It’ll be an instant bestseller.”

“Okay. I’ll approve it. But only if you include the sonnet about my eyes.”

Our gazes catch and hold. I look away first, blushing.

Back at the office building, he asks me if I want him to come up, but I tell him no. I’ve got visions of a mob of salivating females lined up in front of the reception desk, waiting for him to emerge from the elevator so they can pounce.

We hug on the sidewalk, then he’s gone. I stand there waving at his taxi until it turns a corner and disappears. Then I trudge into the building and onto the elevator, bracing myself for whatever might await me on the thirty-third floor.

It’s a bloodbath.

First, I’m accosted by Kim, the receptionist. She leaps up from her desk the instant the elevator doors open and runs up to me, flapping her hands, the tic in her eye going so fast it looks painful.

“Oh my gosh, Joellen, I didn’t know who that was when he came in. I only knew he was big and handsome and oh!” She bites her fist. “So hot! But then Shasta told me who he was and showed me the picture of you guys on TMZ and geez, are you dating him? How long has this been going on?”

“He’s my neighbor,” I say wearily, headed back to my desk. Kim follows beside me, skipping every few feet in excitement.

“So you’re not dating him? Oh gosh, that’s a shame, that man is just”—she fans herself—“scorching! But he’s your neighbor, you say? Maybe I could come over and hang out sometime, you know, like tonight? Are you free?”

Shasta spots me from a distance and bolts from her cubicle like she’s been coughed out. She races down the hallway toward me while I brace myself for impact.

“Joellen!” she shrieks, grabbing my arm. “Holy fucksicles that man is ten times hotter in person than he is in pictures! And he’s huge!”

“Don’t ask me about his ju—”

“You have to tell me what he looks like naked! Please? Pretty please? Just give me a hint how big it is! Like this?” She holds her hands about a foot apart, then adds a few more inches. “This?”

Irritated by her lewd questioning, I scowl at her. “You’re deranged, Shasta. He’s not a piece of meat. Let it go.”

I toss my handbag onto the floor, sit in my chair, and start straightening things on my desk in an attempt to look busy, but I’ve got two females in heat hovering over me who aren’t about to let me off the hook until I tell them more about their newfound stud. Their excited clucking and flapping stirs up all the other chickens in the henhouse, until suddenly I’ve got a crowd of women at my cubicle door, squawking like mad.

Sue Wong, she of the razor-edged bangs and enviable dimples, wants to know how Cam and I met. Another acquisitions editor, Bethany, wants to know if he has a brother. Questions fly at me from every side until my head is spinning.

“You guys!” I shout above the fray. “Chill out! He’s just my neighbor!”

“What’s going on here?”

Portia’s freezing voice cuts through the noise like a samurai sword. The hens scatter in terror until it’s only me and Portia left, looking at each other in silence.