“Hey Emma, come help me with this!” Camille called.
Emma came into the kitchen. “What, Mom?”
“I need you to help me tie these ribbons on the party favors we’re giving out.” She’d found little tea sets at the Dollar Store that she’d bought up, and she’d wrapped them in pirate wrapping paper. “Come sit and let me use your finger.”
Emma sighed a little, but she did as she was told. She held out her finger, and Camille used it to press down the ribbon and then tie the ribbon around the boxes. Using scissors to make the ribbon curly, the pile of boxes grew steadily as the afternoon passed.
“I got an RSVP from Isabella today,” Camille said.
Isabella and Emma had been fighting—over what, exactly, she had yet to figure out—but she’d been glad to see that Isabella would still be attending Emma’s party.
Her daughter, though, sniffed like she’d encountered something disgusting. “I don’t want her to come.”
“Why not, honey?”
“She tattled on me to Mrs. Travers when I used the glitter without asking. She was just mad that Ethan asked me to be his girlfriend and not her.”
Camille hid a smile at Emma’s serious tone. To be a kid again, worrying about the teacher scolding you for using glitter! Mrs. Travers had already told Camille the part about the glitter, but she hadn’t known Isabella had tattled. But she also knew Emma took things rather seriously, so she didn’t laugh at her. Instead, she said, “Isabella didn’t do a nice thing, you’re right. But you also disobeyed your teacher. So I’m thinking you were both in the wrong.”
Emma didn’t reply, which generally meant she knew her mom was right and didn’t want to admit it.
“I know you’re mad, but life’s too short to stay mad at a friend. I hope you’ll forgive her.”
Wrinkling her nose, Emma replied, “I guess.”
After finishing up the tea set boxes, Camille heard her phone sound. She really hoped it wasn’t Sheila with another text that linked to some social media post about Heath, but to her surprise, it was Heath himself. Anger filled her—he sure had some gall, to contact her after hooking up with some other woman!
What are you doing?
Making dinner.
Great, what time should I be there?
You’re not invited, Dawson.
She waited for his response, and even began to feel guilty, imagining hurt in his silence. But that was ridiculous. Like Heath Dawson didn’t have better things to do than have dinner with her and Emma.
You pissed at me for some reason, Watergirl?
Not at all. Just stating a fact. Besides, it looks like you’re not hurting for company.
Ugh, why had she texted that? It virtually declared her jealousy. But when Heath’s text came, it wasn’t a response she’d expected.
You shouldn’t believe everything you see, Watergirl. But I understand.
Lord, if it was possible for a text to communicate disappointment and weariness, his did.
Was it possible he actually wanted to spend time with her and her daughter over the kind of women he was photographed with. Since they’d been reunited, he’d been cocky and funny and infuriating, but he’d been sweet and kind and generous, too, even outside of bed.
What would it hurt to invite him over for dinner?
It wasn’t like anything would happen between them with Emma here.
I was just kidding before, about you not being invited. If you’d like to join us for DINNER, I’m sure Emma would be thrilled.
There, even if he didn’t buy that she was extending the invitation on Emma’s behalf only, at least she’d emphasized that dinner was all she was offering.
Dinner sounds great. What’s your address?
With shaky hands, Camille texted it to him.
See you ladies soon.
Chapter 15
Heath made a quick stop before driving to Camille’s place. When he drove up to the neat little two-story house two hours after hanging up with Camille, Heath rang the doorbell and waited, hands behind his back with his surprise. Finally, Camille opened the door—her dark hair in a neat top-knot on top of her head and wearing jeans and a t-shirt—and his heart pounded. God, she was beautiful. She wore little makeup, but her peaches and cream complexion shone regardless. He wanted to lick her and taste her and consume her. He shifted, trying not to be too obvious. Especially when a little girl pushed her way through, her face one of awe and excitement.
“It’s you! It’s really you!” She bounced, a ball of energy. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
Camille looked at her daughter and then back at Heath. “Heath, this is Emma, my daughter. Emma, this is Heath. Can you shake his hand?”
The girl shook his hand enthusiastically. Camille then lightly maneuvered her daughter so Heath could enter, and that’s when she noticed his hands were still behind his back. “Have something for me?”
He winked at Camille before turning to Emma. “Nope, not for you. For you.” He held out the football to the girl, who became even bouncier. He hadn’t known a small child could contain so much movement. When she didn’t respond, though, he added awkwardly, “I know you already had my autograph, but I figured you might want a signed ball.”
Emma took it, her eyes wide. “I can’t believe it. An autographed football from Heath Dawson.” She looked up at him before screaming, “I have to tell Madison!” And before anyone could say another word, she scampered off.
“What she meant to say was ‘thank you.’” Camille rolled her eyes.
“She looks just like you.” And she did—a little miniature Camille, all dark hair and green eyes.
“I think she looks more like my ex, but sometimes I see me in her.” She paused before laughing. “Thank you for bringing the gift.”
“You’re welcome.”
She seemed softer. The gift had definitely given him an edge, and he thanked Alec for the prime advice. “So, what’s for dinner?”
***
Camille led him into the kitchen, where she had a lasagna baking. It was just about time to take it out of the oven; she began preparing a salad, but Heath took over without her even asking.
“So…I know I’m here just for dinner, but now that I’ve seen you, you have to know all I can think about is how much I want to break my record,” he said with a sly grin. He dumped the chopped Romaine into a glass bowl.
“Your record? Which one?” She stepped near him, and he snaked an arm around her, pulling her close.
“Getting you to come in five minutes,” he whispered in her ear.
She shivered. “Is that all you can think about, Dawson? Sex?” She didn’t say it with any rancor, but she wondered. Was she really just about sex for him? But then why would he bring a gift for her daughter? He didn’t have to be sweet to Emma to get into Camille’s pants, as she’d already shown him.
“It’s definitely at the top of my list.”
“Hmm. If that’s so, I’m surprised you’re here. Because rumor is you got lucky last night…”
Heath sighed. “I told you, don’t believe everything you see. Those Instagram photos are just another example of the hazards of the job.”
Camille leaned her hip against the counter and raised a brow. “It didn’t look like you were trying to get away too terribly hard.”
“I was out for drinks with my dad and he invited a couple of women to join us. Believe me, I’d rather have been anywhere else. I’d rather have been with you. Hence, the reason I’m here. Now, will you let me finish making dinner, woman?”
She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and rolled her eyes, hiding the fact that his words pleased her so much. “Please. You can’t know how nice it is to have someone else cook for a change.”
“I’m just doing the salad, but next time I’ll cook the entire meal.”
Emma soon entered the kitchen, and although normally Camille had them sit at the kitchen table to eat, Emma was still talking to her friends about Heath comin
g over and bringing her a gift. Camille let her go back into the living room as a result.
She might also have wanted some alone time with Heath, but she refused to admit it. Even when he looked over at her with an eyebrow raise as her daughter bounced off with her plate of food.
She served herself before giving Heath a heaping pile of food. They ate in the kitchen, Heath commenting that the lasagna was really good. She smiled, glad that he liked her food. They heard the TV in the background coupled with Emma’s voice—how many girls was she calling? Camille wondered.
Eventually, Emma joined them in the kitchen, and she and Heath talked football for a while. Mostly she asked him questions, and he answered as best as he could. Camille had to admit that he was surprisingly good with her: she had assumed he’d be uncomfortable around small children, not know what to say or how to act. Even Sheila sometimes didn’t know what to say to Emma, but Heath was a natural. Her heart warmed watching them, and she let herself dream a little as a result.
At 8:00, she shooed Emma upstairs, telling her to wash her face and brush her teeth before she went to bed. Her daughter rolled her eyes, telling her mom that she knew already and she didn’t need to be told every night. Then she yelled good night to Heath.
“‘Night,” he called back. He shook his head. “Quite a character you have there.”
“That’s one way to put it. I love her, but she tires me out.” Camille listened and heard Emma close her bedroom door. She’d probably fall asleep in the next hour, if she didn’t stay up reading. Since it was the weekend, Camille wasn’t as stringent about bedtime.
Heath had left the kitchen for a moment, and she found him in the hallway, holding a framed picture of her father.
“Your dad was an incredible man. You must miss him a lot.”
“I do. I was looking in a box earlier. One with some stuff from when he coached…”
“Really? Can I take a look?”
She hesitated, but the genuine interest in his expression prompted her to go into the garage. When she came back inside, she set the box of her dad’s things on a console table.
Heath immediately began looking through it. Lifting out a photo, he laughed. “I can’t believe you kept this stuff! Look, there I am. I was probably ten or eleven here. Definitely not as irresistible then as I am now.” He winked at her.
She looked at the photo, this one a candid action shot. She smiled at the look on young Heath’s face: determined, was how she’d describe it. Determined to be the best and to work as hard as he could. What young kid had that kind of determination in him? She reached inside the box and pulled out some old lanyards, other photos, and a few whistles, too.
As she was gazing at them, Heath asked, “How old were you when he died?”
“I’d just turned nineteen. It was pancreatic cancer, so once they diagnosed him, he only had a few months to live.”
Heath winced. “I knew it was cancer, but not that it happened that quickly. I’m sorry.”
She shrugged and fumbled with some of the whistles. “These are newer ones: he bought them right before he was diagnosed. He actually had one from Superbowl XX that was a good luck charm. I loved that whistle, and I’d carry it around with me if he didn’t. But then he gave it away to one of his Little League kids, and I cried and cried.” She smiled sadly at the memory. “I guess he hadn’t realized how much I loved that whistle.”
Heath stared at her, his brows furrowed, before he took one of the newer whistles, handling it like it was a special treasure. “I’m sure he would never have given it away if he’d known.”
“Probably not. Although when he caught me crying later, I lied to him and said I was crying because I had my period. He left me alone after that.”
Heath barked out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s usually a good way to send a guy running.” He continued to look around in the box, gazing at old photos. “So are you going to tell me what you wanted to be when you grew up?”
“Believe it or not, I wanted to play for the NFL. My dream changed to photographing for the NFL after I learned girls don’t play football—at least not professionally.” She shrugged. “I probably would’ve been terrible at it anyway. I was never very sporty to begin with.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that for a second.” He glanced around, then spotted the football he’d brought for Emma on the sofa. “Wanna play catch?”
It was dusk, fireflies dancing in the grass as they tossed the football back and forth in the backyard. Camille hadn’t played catch with anyone except Emma in years, and she found herself enjoying it more than she would’ve thought. Heath threw it short distances at first, but when he realized she wasn’t some rookie, he threw it farther and farther. Soon, it turned into a pseudo-game, with him throwing and then chasing her about the backyard.
“Touchdown!” she yelled as she reached the other side of the yard. She did a victory dance, rather reminiscent of Heath’s, and he laughed.
“Come on, Watergirl, we’re not done yet.”
She threw him the football, and he caught it easily. She chased him, throwing herself at him. He, of course, was too heavy and big for her to tackle, but she could tighten her arms around his neck and slow him down. “Tackle, tackle!” she cried out, holding on as he continued running toward the imaginary goal, dragging her along with him.
“I’m still up, you lightweight.” He then took hold of her arms, moving her to his front.
She pulled, and the combination of her weight and his caused him to tumble down toward the grass. He turned just in time to keep from crushing her, the football lost in the mayhem.
Camille gazed at him as she lay on top of him, both of them puffing out breaths. His body was so hot and firm, and she could feel him growing hard against her hip. Cicadas trilled in the distance. As the sun set completely, Heath pulled her head down to his and kissed her with a passion that melted her very bones.
Chapter 16
As Heath kissed her, he couldn’t help thinking, I can’t stay away from this woman. She had somehow gotten underneath his skin, burrowed inside of him until he couldn’t get away even if he wanted to. Flipping her so she was underneath him, he kissed her harder, opening her mouth and delving his tongue inside. She moaned, and he moaned along with her.
Fireflies danced around them as they kissed in the grass. It was idyllic, magical, unbelievable. Who knew Watergirl could’ve affected him like this? Heath had had his share of women throughout the years, but not one had caused him to lose his mind like Camille did. Not only was she gorgeous—soft curves and dark hair and those green eyes—but she was funny. She refused to let him get one over her. She teased him, rolled her eyes at him, challenged him. Who knew having a woman call him out on his bullshit could be so intoxicating? Plus, her kid was adorable and she was obviously a great mom. She was the entire package.
They kissed for a few more moments as the sun set completely. Cicadas sang in the trees, the fireflies danced around them, and the heat cooled until it was pleasantly warm. Still humid—what Georgia summer wasn’t humid?—but one of the pleasanter nights that Heath could remember. Although that might just be because of the woman underneath him, kissing him as hard as he was kissing her.
Until she pulled away with a squeal. She arched against him, her arm beneath her back. “Okay, something definitely bit me.” She pushed against him, and he obliged by getting off of her.
Laughing, he brushed at her clothes. “Probably not the best idea to make out in the grass, I guess. Hopefully you didn’t get too many chigger bites.”
Continuing to brush at her clothes, twisting and turning, she moaned. “If I got eaten alive, I’ll blame you entirely. I hate chiggers! And ticks, and bugs of all kinds. Death to bugs. What have they ever done for me?”
“Dunno if chiggers or ticks have ever helped mankind, except to make our lives harder.” He lifted up her shirt, and squinted at her back in the fading light. Brushing his fingers across her skin, he felt for any ticks or bumps, but all he fel
t was silk and softness. He traced a finger down her spine, and then she shivered for an entirely different reason.
“Find anything?” Her voice was low, breathy.
Hardening at that voice of hers, he leaned forward and kissed the nape of her neck. “All clear,” he murmured. He couldn’t help but inhale her scent. God, he just wanted to take her inside, strip her down and screw her senseless. He wouldn’t think the words “make love”—not now, not yet, not ever. He couldn’t let himself get in over his head with her. It had to stay fun with no strings attached.
Heath told himself that, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back against him, and it felt so right that his heart cracked despite himself.
Camille sighed. He thought she was going to say something, but she remained silent. Instead, they watched the stars come out with the setting sun. He wished, suddenly, they were out of the city completely, and they could look up at all of the stars together without the lights of the city washing them out. And then he was disgusted at himself for the thought—when did he become such a sap? Next he was going to go shoe shopping with her and carrying her purse as they shopped. He’d be giving her foot rubs and letting her dress him, crying over chick flicks and romance novels.
“We can’t keep doing this, you know,” she said softly.
Instinctually, he hugged her closer. “You mean having fun with each other?” He didn’t want to be serious right now. He didn’t want to talk about what they were doing or what they shouldn’t be doing. He didn’t want to be a responsible, staid adult like Omar Perkins, who’d lost his chance at football greatness because of a woman and a family. “I think we can keep doing what we’re doing as long as we’re having a good time,” he said. “As long as…as long as we don’t take things too seriously.”
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