Starting Over (12 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M
y buzzing phone wakes me up bright and early the next morning. My alarm hasn’t even gone off yet, so naturally, I think it’s an emergency.

I don’t look at whose calling and swipe the screen to answer it frantically. “Hello?!”

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Cameron says.

Relief washes over me once I realize that it’s not some cataclysmic event. I fall back onto the pillows with a sigh but am completely confused why he’s calling me this early, like ridiculously early, like inhuman early. “You did wake me up, yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” I say with a small laugh. I check the clock on my nightstand and see it’s almost five o’clock in the morning, when my alarm is supposed to go off. Leaning over, I switch it off and prop myself up on the pillows. “And it’s okay, my alarm was going to ring in about five minutes anyway.”

“I remember you told me that you like to exercise really early during the week, I do as well, and . . .”

“And?” I ask, smiling into the phone.

“And I was thinking about you when I woke up this morning so I was hoping to catch you before your day got too busy.”

“Are you always this nice?” I ask, genuinely curious. Because if he keeps this up, I may be spoiled rotten in whatever future we may have together.

His soft chuckle precedes his answer. “I don’t know about that. I can be mean and get angry just like anyone else.”

“Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

“Well, just the other day . . . you know what, never mind.”

“No, no, no. Now you’re going to have to tell me.”

He sighs into the phone. “I was going to say that a few weeks ago, I went to a comic book store and they had recently sold a copy of an old comic book I have been searching for, for a while, to another collector. Needless to say, I was a little upset.”

Even he’s laughing at the ridiculousness of that statement. But even as ridiculous and trivial as it sounds, I still don’t blame him. I mean, some of the artwork in comic books is amazing and they are worth quite a bit of money to the right collector.

“Anyway, I didn’t call you to discuss my comic book collection, or my lack thereof.” Cameron takes a moment and then adds with total earnestness in his voice, “I called to make sure we were still on for this weekend.
And
because I truly was thinking about you . . . I have been ever since Saturday night.”

“I have too,” I admit quietly. “And yes, we’re still on for this weekend.”

“Good. I was thinking that I’d make you dinner this time around.”

“You’re a cook too?”

“I’m not too bad, if I follow the recipe,” he says. “So then it’s settled. How about you come over to my place on Friday night and I’ll make you dinner?”

“Okay, that sounds good. But I feel like I should be doing something too, Cameron.”

“You don’t have to lift a finger, but if it makes you feel better, you’re more than welcome to bring the wine.”

When we say our good-byes a moment later, the magnitude of what I agreed to hits me like a ton of bricks. I am going to his house . . . where his bed is . . . just the two of us . . . for several hours. And I have no idea if this falls under the category of second base or a home run, third base or a strikeout, or whatever stupid baseball euphemism Julia uses to describe sex.

Damn that crazy woman. Now she has my head swimming with this garbage and it’s not even daylight.

On Thursday night after dinner, Josie asks if she can spend the next night at Carrie’s mom’s house.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. And the fact that I don’t have to get a babysitter for Josie since I have plans on that same night with Cameron is kind of a relief.

One less thing I have to worry about.

But it has the reverse effect on me. Because now in the back of my mind, where it’s already overcrowded with baseball stuff for no good reason, I’m going to know that I won’t have anyone that I have to come home to. And being the adult that I am, I don’t have to come home if I don’t want to.

Does that make me irresponsible?

On top of that, it makes me feel incredibly guilty that I’m happy my daughter won’t be around to worry about. I feel like the world’s worst parent just thinking it. But there it is. It’s the truth. Well, maybe the semi-truth.

The more I think about it, the more I resolve that this is the very first time ever since Josie was born that I have even contemplated something even remotely selfish or close to what my life was like before her. So I should be feeling excited and happy, not guilty.

This is what Julia has been telling me the entire time we spoke about it earlier today. Actually, what she really said was this: “Are you effing kidding me?! You’re like mother of the year and need to shut the eff up and have sex and like it, dammit!”

I assume she was censoring herself only slightly because her daughter was somewhere in the vicinity when we were talking. So thank God for tiny miracles.

When Friday does come, and after I’ve dropped Josie off at school, gone to work for a full day, and am sitting on my bed after a long, hot shower wrapped in my robe, contemplating what to wear to Cameron’s house in a little while, it dawns on me that I don’t have to have sex with him.

I feel like an idiot even worrying about it in those terms. But I think I needed to remind myself that if I do or don’t, it doesn’t matter. I can take things as slow as I like or as fast as I like. And better yet, I’m pretty sure that Cameron will be okay with whatever I decide.

Not that I wouldn’t want to have sex with him after that kiss the other night and the whole sleepwalk sex thing that happened already between us. I’m not a completely clueless person. It’s just too much pressure, and what with everything else going on in my life, I shouldn’t be adding any more stress and complications right now.

So I’ll go for a nice, home cooked meal, have some wine but not too much, and have a sex-free evening with Cameron . . . and then I’ll come home to my own bed, alone.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T
he best laid plans . . .

That’s what I’m thinking as I plug Cameron’s address in to my GPS and drive over to his house. I’m semi-familiar with the area, seeing as how I’ve lived in Miami all my life, but it never ceases to amaze me all the little nook and cranny neighborhoods in some of the smaller enclaves that I discover the longer I live here.

His modest little bungalow is at the end of a street that is lined with fruit trees, ficus trees, and lots and lots of palm trees. There is a wooden privacy fence with a gate on his property, and it’s overgrown with beautiful shrubs and ivy that make it look like it’s been there for ages. It makes me think that Cameron’s picked the perfect house for himself since it’s simple and understated, yet gorgeous and classic . . . much like the man who lives inside of it.

After parking my car in his driveway, I grab the chilled bottle of white wine, get out, and with equal amounts of fear of the unknown and anticipation, I make it up the stone path to his front door and knock.

Cameron opens the door, and immediately I’m in over my head, because he’s just so damn handsome and there is no way in the world I’ll be able to stop from throwing myself at him. He’s wearing beat-up blue jeans with canvas-colored Converse sneakers and an unbuttoned blue and white checkered shirt over a plain white T-shirt that says in dark blue lettering: “Don’t trust atoms, they make up everything.”

“Hi,” he says with a welcoming smile and holds the door wider for me to step inside. “Did you find the place okay?”

“I never knew this road existed, to be honest. But the navigation on my phone got me here in one piece, as you can see.” I hand him the chilled bottle of wine, and he thanks me.

“Please, come on in,” he says and steps aside to let me pass.

When I cross the threshold and take another step inside, he takes hold of my hand and pulls me closer. Without saying one more word, he presses a light kiss on my lips.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, a little out of breath from the unexpected kiss so early in the evening’s activities. Not that there is a rule that states there can only be kissing after nine p.m., and only if it’s a starry night, or whatever stupid rule I’m imagining. Nevertheless, it sets me at ease that it’s out of the way, breaking the ice and the mounting tension inside of me. How he knew that I needed that, I don’t know. But I’m glad he did it.

Cameron then lets me go and closes the door behind us.

“Dinner is almost done,” he says. “I hope you like shrimp.”

“I do and it smells delicious.”

We’re standing in a small foyer that opens up to his living room, which is decorated with a simple, long, dark brown upholstered couch and a big coffee table with matching end tables. The walls are plain white, but the ceiling has the original wood beams from when the house was built, and it’s gorgeous.

“Cameron, those beams . . . I love them.” I take a step farther into his living room to really inspect the room. “Did you have to restore them or did the house already come with them done like that?”

“Actually, that was the only part that was done. Everything else, from the walls to the hardwood floors, I did myself.”

For some reason, this really surprises me. I have him pegged as . . .
a nerd. But like the most handsome nerd known to mankind. And
defi
nitely not the kind of guy who knows how to restore a house.

I like it.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he says with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not all about geeky stuff.”

He says this as we walk past his mounted television on the wall, which from this angle, I can see has framed artwork all around it that is
Star Wars
inspired.

I laugh hysterically, because really, this is exactly what I pictured and expected from him. “You were saying?”

He turns to look at what has captured my attention, and the poor guy’s face goes a little red. Rubbing the back of his neck, he admits, “Yeah, I might have a little thing for
Star Wars
memorabilia.”

“They’re quite beautiful,” I say to him and take a step to inspect them more closely. “Your sister mentioned something about your obsession with all things
Star Wars
that day at the art fair.”

They’re blueprints of the Death Star, the
Millennium Falcon
, an X-wing fighter, and an AT-AT walker. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” I remember something else. “Speaking of which, where is . . .”

“
True Love’s Kiss
?” he asks, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets. “Follow me,” he says.

He leads me out of the living room, which opens up to his kitchen in the back of the house. He walks over to the refrigerator, where he puts the bottle of wine I brought. Looking around his kitchen, I notice that it’s not too big and looks to have been updated recently with modern stainless steel appliances. It has a good-sized island with an eating area for two, which I can see he already set up for us.

Past the kitchen, there is a hallway that I assume leads to the other rooms in the house. I panic for a second, thinking no way are we going to his bedroom, but he stops me in the middle of the hall and points to the wall behind me.

I see my sketch that he purchased at the art fair, framed and hanging on the wall by itself. I’m at a loss for words, because other than my own family, I’ve never been in the house of someone who has bought my work and actually seen it being shown like this.

It makes me a little emotional and proud, because this is
my
hard work on
his
wall, which he deemed worthy enough to present to anyone who may come in here.

“So now that it’s just you and me, can you tell what inspired this?” he asks, then leans against the wall next to the framed sketch.

One can barely make out the faint wisps of two faces: a man and a woman. I created all these swirls around them in black charcoal so that if you were looking at it from any angle, you wouldn’t be able to identify many, if any, of their facial features. The woman’s long hair covers most of their faces, but their lips are connected. Hers are fire engine red, so that it almost looks like a blaze of fire is set in between them from just that one kiss.

I explain all of this to Cameron, who watches me carefully and then tilts his head to look at the drawing again, then I add, “Promise you won’t laugh when I tell you what inspired it?”

He nods and says, “Of course.”

“You know the story of Sleeping Beauty, right?” He nods again. “I had just watched that recent movie they made about her, and something about that phrase just stuck with me.”

“What about it?”

I lean against the opposite wall, staring at the drawing. “True love’s kiss . . . it seems pretty inconceivable to me. But the
idea
of it is something else entirely. And whether it could ever happen in real life kept nagging at me. Not to me or anything, just in general. Anyway, the artist in me wanted to believe it, so I started fleshing it out on paper. This is what I came up with. That’s it.”

“I think that’s the most fascinating explanation you could have ever come up with,” he says appreciatively. “Seriously, I don’t have one creative bone in my body, so I envy those who do.”

I’ve never been one to be able take praise too well; it makes me a bit uncomfortable. So I try to lighten things up by saying, “Well, if you play your cards right, I’ll sketch you some
Star Wars
stuff to hang up beside it. Deal?”

Cameron chuckles and puts out his hand for me to shake. “How can I say no to that? Of course you’ve got a deal.”

He leads me back into the kitchen, where I sit and watch him finish preparing dinner. From the looks of it, we’re having shrimp scampi over rice and some mixed steamed vegetables. And I’m not lying when I say it smells so good that I can’t wait to dig in.

When he’s done, he prepares my plate and then his. Then he gets two wineglasses from the cabinet and takes out the bottle of wine. Luckily, I picked white without even knowing it would be a good match for the meal he cooked. So yay for me.

Once he pours our glasses, he picks his up and says, “Here’s to playing my cards right,” which makes me laugh. “Wait, I’m so sorry, that’s not what I meant, Vanessa,” he says quickly. “What I mean to say is here’s—”

“To playing your cards right,” I finish for him with a big grin. “I know how you meant to say it, Cameron. It’s okay.”

Relief washes over his face as we clink our glasses together, each take a sip, and then dig in.

Cameron can cook. Well. Really, really well.

“This is
sooo
good,” I say in between bites of food. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“I told you, if I follow a recipe, there’s no way I can screw up.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Plus, my parents have in their retirement turned into those foodie type people. You know, the type who are always trying new stuff out at home and at restaurants then posting pictures of whatever they’re eating on Instagram. Whenever they come across a good recipe, they’ll e-mail it to my sister and me. I don’t have a lot of time to cook during the week since I’m either working on lesson plans or grading papers. But on the weekends, I try some of their recipes out . . . the easy ones though.”

During the course of the meal, he keeps track of my wineglass, refilling twice without my asking for more. It’s a very small thing, but
it’s appreciated. The smallest of things make the difference. For instance,
the way he makes sure to keep his body partially turned and his eyes on me while I’m speaking and shows genuine interest in whatever I’m
say
ing. It tells me that he’s attentive, which further adds to his appeal.

“That was perfect, thank you so much.”

Cameron clears the plates and I start to get off of my own stool. “No, you sit right there and I’ll take care of all of this. That’s what
dishwashers are for.”

While I’m watching him rinse off the plates and set them inside the
dishwasher, his back is facing me, and I find myself openly staring and appreciating his physical appearance. He’s really, really gorgeous in that
not so obvious way, and I wonder if he even knows how appealing that is to a woman. I mean, I’ve heard through the parent grapevine about
that other woman who is after him, but I’m not sure if he would even
pick up on it. Or if he would even address it openly with her if he did.

“Hey, Cameron?”

He turns off the faucet and then faces me, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel before flinging it over his shoulder. Then he leans back against the counter and crosses his feet at the ankles, waiting for me to say whatever is on my mind.

“This may be a little personal, but I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead,” he says.

“Well, have you ever dated another parent of one of your students before?”

His smile unfurls slowly before he says, “No. Just you.”

“And that cake lady? What about her?”

“Who is the cake lady?”

“Well, you see, the parents talk. A lot. It’s like this horrible little cesspool of gossip and garbage, really. Kind of like being back in high school, you know?” I take a breath before continuing. “Anyway, they have been saying that there is this one woman who brings you cakes and sweets and stuff to get your attention.”

The whole time I’m explaining this information, which yes, is secondhand, he’s grinning from ear to ear. Then he pushes off the counter and walks around the island toward me. When he gets to where I’m sitting, he spins my stool around so that I’m facing him. Then he rests his hands just above my knees, his thumbs rubbing my jean clad legs back and forth.

“Vanessa, there is nothing going on between me and this ‘cake lady,’ and there never will be. I’ve asked her to stop sending me things, because honestly, it kind of creeps me out. And her baking sucks, by the way.”

We both laugh and the tension is diffused as quickly as it appeared.

“The parents talk a lot, don’t they?” he asks in amusement.

I nod in agreement. “Yes, they most certainly do, don’t they?”

“I bet they’re talking about us too.” Cameron leans forward, one of his hands coming up to cup my cheek, and asks, “Does that bother you?”

“They or the cake lady?”

“Both,” he says with a small laugh.

“Yes and . . . yes.”

He leans forward an inch more until there is barely any space between us and I have to open my legs to accommodate him while his mouth trails softly across my jaw and cheek until reaching my ear. He says quietly, “They need to shut up, don’t they?”

“Yes,” I breathe out and close my eyes.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he whispers.

Then he places his finger underneath my chin to tilt my face up a little. My hands grip the side of the stool tighter, waiting impatiently for him to finally kiss me. And when he does, it starts out safe and small . . . but as both of our breathing becomes more labored by the slight contact, it quickly spirals out of control.

My hands let go of the stool and reach out to wrap around his waist and pull him closer. His hands rake through my hair and tug gently until my back is leaning against the kitchen island. And our mouths and tongues are seeking more from the other, deeper and deeper, as if we can’t get enough of each other.

Rational thought is nonexistent in this moment. It’s thrown by the wayside, not to be heard of anytime soon if this keeps up. And the thing is, I’m not sure that I don’t want it to keep up. I want him and he wants me, I can tell by every soft growl that escapes him as he continues to explore my mouth and press his body between my legs.

But with that one movement, the responsible and somewhat panicky side of me comes back to the surface, as if to remind me that I cannot be doing this with him so soon. Can I?

Even if the answer is yes, the fact that I’m asking myself that at this juncture scares me enough to pull away and put a stop to this.