Riley: Depends.
Cam: On?
Riley: Which friend are you asking for?
Cam: Which friend are you interested in?
I take my wine glass back to the couch and consider what to say. I don't know his friends. I don't know what he does around Savannah. I don't know who he hangs out with. And come to think of it, I don't really know a single thing about him other than what I learned growing up next him.
Riley: Hard to say, I guess. I doubt any of them are as brash as you.
Cam: Or as hot? You said hard, by the way. Which is what you made me the other day when I was thinking about how I almost went down on you on your couch.
Reading his text, I feel my cheeks flush. Looking down, I'm in the exact same spot I was when he was nearly tongue-deep inside me. Before anything actually happened. The fact that he's able to talk about it so openly is almost as embarrassing as the aftermath of the whole situation— the coffee non-date, the cupcake delivery, the fact that Becca thinks something more is going on than what actually is.
But then I remember what Becca had told me. To flirt a little. Keep things cordial… meaning fun and frisky, maybe? Maybe I want to keep him guessing. My next text message makes me blush hardcore before I can even send it.
Riley: I like when you get hard thinking about me.
Cam: You serious, Pratt?
Riley: I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it.
I get no new text message for twenty minutes. For a second, I worry if I've said too much. Maybe he’s won the game. I’ve put him off from wanting to play because he’s finally gotten what he’s wanted from me— validation. Maybe it’s true that he only likes the chase, and once he's the one being sought, he moves on to the next. But as soon as I see unfamiliar headlights tracing through the sheer curtains of my living room, I freeze and my stomach turns to mush. My phone rings, and it's Cameron.
“Hello?” I say, my voice scratchy from the sweet wine.
He sighs, and some sort of a soul tune bounces through his speakers in the background. “I missed your voice. Grab your things, and come outside. I want to take you somewhere.”
My breath grows shaky as I stand and peer out the window. Cameron's silver Lexus idles in my driveway, the sun just setting to the west of him, throwing a pink and red watercolor reflection in the side of his ride.
“Okay,” I relent not even having the energy to put up a fight. He is, after all, the only man I've been able to think about over the past few days. “I'll be out in a minute.”
Hanging up on him, I immediately panic. I glance around the room for my bra, remembering I hung it on the doorknob as soon as I got home. Racing over, I slip my dress up to put it back on, the lace catching on my single pearl-drop necklace. In my moment of madness, I consider how great this will go if I end being stuck in a tangle of hair, bra, necklace, and dress before having to face Cameron. I slide on the closest pair of shoes I can find that aren't heels, which happen to not be shoes at all— my tan Minnetonka slippers. At least they're cozy, I think to myself as I grab the gray cardigan sweater that hangs on the back of one of my dining room chairs. Throwing it around me, I quickly glance at myself in the mirror of my foyer. My curls have long lost their bounce and are frizzy from my sweater. And though I feel severely underdressed for whatever outing is about to take place, I reason that Cameron should’ve given me more notice.
When I make it down the stairs of my porch, I see Cameron climb from the driver's seat and open the passenger side door for me. Trundling through the gravel in my moccasins, I smile at him as he leans in for a hug.
Brushing my hair back, he kisses my cheek, his stubble tickly against my face, and I immediately smell the dark amber of his cologne. Standing there hugging him, I don't want to let him go. Dramatic as it sounds, I want his scent to surround me for the rest of my days. If only I could bottle him up and take him home with me for good.
"Riley?” He says my name like a lullaby, the sound of the creek running back behind my house a chorus to his plea. With a lopsided grin, he searches for my face in the shadowy night.
“Hm?” I say, pulling away from him, not realizing what he’s wanting from me.
“What old man did you steal this sweater from?"
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes. Because for a second, I thought he was about to ask me something in earnest. "It's called a freaking cardigan. Worn by all cold people alike. Not just old men. You probably wouldn't know anything about that," I say, surveying his choice of outfit. He's wearing a dark pair of chinos and a gray button-up shirt, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled to his forearms. He tucks me into the front seat, and I hear his boots crunch against the gravel as he shuts the car door behind me and heads back to the driver’s side.
Alone in here, I smile at the radio playing the oldies station, complete with the syrupy crooning of Sam Cooke swimming through the speakers. When Cameron climbs in and closes his door and turns the radio knob down, the silence of the outside world puts us in a universe of our own. No chirping crickets. No trickling of the creek. Not a single cry from the mourning doves that live in the line of oak trees beside my property. All I hear is the sound of Cameron breathing, rhythmic and calm over the radio.
"Where are we going?" I ask, pushing my hair behind my ears out of nervousness. The inside of his car smells of his cologne and new leather.
He throws the SUV in reverse, and without flinching, backs us out of my driveway using the rear reverse display monitor on his dashboard. "It's a surprise."
Settling into the seat, I turn sideways so I can study him in the dark. His profile makes his facial features strong and angular, a stark portrait of confidence, masculinity, and seriousness against the fading and inky night sky as we move through the backroads. "I don't like surprises."
"Why not?" he asks, turning toward me. "I thought you would’ve grown out of that by now."
"Grown out of what?" I reach over and ruffle his hair to be annoying. "Knowing what I'm doing, when I'm doing it, and how it's being done?"
Cameron chuckles, his dimples becoming apparent in the murky night. "You forgot who you're doing," he grins.
He can't see me, but I roll my eyes again. And yes. They might actually get stuck this way. In a constant state of roll. "Do you charm the skirts off of all your ladies like this? With your stupid little innuendos?"
"You don't like them?" His smile slides off his lips.
"I didn't say that," I breathe, looking over and out the window to my right. Pine trees dart by us in a speed chase of nighttime greenery. "I just mean you're probably not lacking in the casual nights spent wooing ladies arena."
He scoffs and holds up an indignant hand. "Are you calling me a Casual Lady-Wooer?"
I can't help but laugh at his mock-offense. "No. Well, yes. But I'm also saying—"
"When's the last time you had sex?" he asks, monotone.
His question catching me off guard, I slam my back into the seat and look over at him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You think I'm such a ladies man, but when was the last time you had sex?"
"I don't have to answer that," I say, my voice on the verge of some kind of disheveled emotion. In the dark, I can feel my cheeks go hot with an unexpected anger. Is that really any of his business? Why does he care, anyway? Stewing in the uncomfortable, soulful ballad of some bygone voice I don’t recognize, I pull my sweater tighter around me and duck my chin down to my chest.
"Your silence tells me one of two things," he says, his tone arrogant and full to the brim with assurance. "You either haven't been laid in a while, or if you were laid, it wasn't very —"
"Five nights ago," I interrupt, wanting to shut him up. I should be worried that he'll explode with anger, but I’m not. In fact, I kind of hope it upsets him. So he can feel the fresh guilt of some other hot man being with me. I press the back of my hand to my face to cool me down.
"Whoa," he sings as if he's surprised. "That wasn't the answer I was expecting."
&n
bsp; A little offended, I cross my arms over my seatbelt and huff into the darkness. “And what exactly were you expecting?”
“Just—” Hesitant, he clears his throat, lingering on the depth of a thought like he doesn’t want to say what I know he has to be thinking— how in the hell has Riley had sex in the past week, month, even year? He clears his throat again but drops the thought. "How was it for you? The sex."
And this is dangerous territory now. Because all I want to do is tell him what’s really on my mind. How I’ve been thinking about him nonstop for three days straight. “I don’t know,” I say as he turns us from Broad Street onto East President, and it’s in this moment that I know exactly where he's taking me. Unwilling to answer his question for fear of what he might think of me, I sit in silence. Because a Southern lady does not screw and tell.
After a few more minutes of quiet between us save for the sweet and sultry serenade of Jackie Wilson, Cameron finally speaks. "It's clear tonight," he says, bending forward and pointing out the windshield up to the right of me.
I follow the direction of his gaze to the nighttime sky, and there’s not a cloud in sight. "Where are we going?"
"We're not going anywhere,” he drawls, enunciating the words. “I'm taking you somewhere."
The noise that slips through my lips is something between a laugh and a grunt at his cockiness. "Why do you feel like you need to be in control all the time?"
He looks over at me for a split second, stealing a glance of my confusion. "We both like control in our own ways. You and me."
Laying my head back against the seat, I take a deep breath. "Yeah, but the difference between us is that I can give it up when I need to."
Cameron chuckles and runs a hand down his face which puts me on high alert.
"What's so funny?" I ask, suddenly offended.
"You just admitted to giving it up when you need to." He laughs at another of his ridiculous innuendos, and the back of my neck goes hot as I realize what I said.
"I meant control, you jerk." My palms burn with embarrassment as we both sit suspended in separate worlds, Cameron's one of obvious delight and anticipation. My world full of nerves and undue adoration for this man cracking joke after sexual joke next to me. Burning up in all the right (and wrong) ways I should be tonight. Good grief.
Chapter 7
The naked trees of mid-October careen by us down Highway 80. The Georgia marshes are muted teal and haunted navy, nearly invisible in the night unless you know where to look for them. In front of us, our headlights race the worn asphalt like ignited lines of a map, and I know exactly where Cameron's taking me— Tybee Island. Because this is the only stretch of roadway that leads you to the island from Savannah.
Orbiting in a lazy silence, the drive to Tybee tonight feels nostalgic next to him. It’s reminiscent of my middle and high school years. The days when I would free-heartedly tag along with Ethan, Cameron, and the rest of their tight-knit crew for surfing on the beach, shopping right off the highway, an occasional and illegal trip for alcoholic slushies, or for evening bonfires spent oceanside as the sea lulled us into a false sense of freedom. I can’t help but grin thinking about the taste of that freedom tonight.
Traffic isn't bad for 9:20 on a Friday night as most tourists have packed up and shipped out for the off-season. As we idle at the first red light on Butler Avenue, I look over at Cameron. His face is washed in a halo of candy red from the light as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. I can’t tell if he’s as nervous as I am, but his overall sense of ease tells me he’s not. I sit up straighter in my seat and peer over at the empty tourist kitschy shops on the corner. "Can you tell me where we’re going yet?"
With a grin, he he turns his head toward me in a melancholy sort of nod. "It's not so much the where as it is the what," he says.
I don't respond. If I had to guess, I'd bet he's taking me to the pavilion or to one of the clubs for live music and drinks. But I'm not really dressed for either of those, so I start to fidget with my hemline.
I'm shocked when Cameron takes a left and turns us into the gravel parking lot of Joe’s Oyster Shack, a restaurant I'd only ever eaten at years ago with my family. The lot is empty, not a single car in sight. And I'm confused as ever when Cameron pulls the SUV to the first row of parking spots overlooking the ocean and turns off the engine.
"Wow," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. "I wasn't quite expecting this."
He fiddles with a button on the dashboard then rolls the windows down, letting in the cool sea air. Salty. Earthy. Somehow a little sweet. The only sliver of moon that hangs in the sky reflects on the distant black water.
"Like I said, sweetheart. It's more of the what we’re doing."
I pull my cardigan tighter around me, now chilled from the outside air. And right before I can ask him what we're doing here, he starts reclining the driver’s seat.
"So," I hum, playing with my hair. "You drove me all the way out here so you can take a nap?" I peer around the lot. “In this abandoned parking lot?"
"On the contrary. Lay back. There's a button on the right side of the seat that should do it."
Reaching down on the leather seat, I feel for a button. I know it's there, because there's a button or two on every single car I've ever been in. But I'm not giving in that easy. "I don't feel a button," I tell him.
He folds his arms behind his head. "It's there. Try lower."
Suppressing a laugh, I feel the button. But if he thinks I'm going to press it to give in to his crazy ideas tonight, he is dead wrong. "I still can't find it," I sigh, lilting my voice to sound frustrated. I'm really playing this one up.
Sitting back up, Cameron reaches over me. He has to lean so far over me, he might as well be in my lap. And his musky cologne overrules my common sense brain again as I continue to fake-fiddle with the button that I supposedly cannot find. All in a day's work.
Turning toward me as he leans, he chuckles. “Was this your plan all along? Con me into driving you out to some dark parking lot in the middle of Tybee just so you can get me on top of you?”
My cheeks blaze under his accusations. And I want to tell him he only got part of that right. But I can’t let myself do it. “If that was the plan, I’d probably be kissing you right now. Don’t you think?”
As if I’m challenging him, he moves his face inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating off of him. And right as he finds the button on my seat, he kisses my cheek, the stubble from his beard tickling my face like it had earlier. “Like that?“ he asks, being a pure tease.
Huffing in annoyance, I turn my face away from him. I want him so bad tonight, but he’s treating this like it’s some joke. When he reclines my seat with the press of the button, I feel like a little kid. A warm, moldable piece of clay in his stable hands. And once again, I feel like the tagalong, the friend’s baby sister, resident nuisance, the one who nobody invited to the party but who showed up anyway. And it occurs to me, as my seat is automatically laying back, that the moon roof is open. The realization hits me.
Cameron points upward. “This is stargazing in October. What do you think?”
Suddenly, my heart feels like it’s doing seventy miles per hour in a thirty-five. “I think this is weird,” I whisper. “But awesome.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cameron shrug laid back in his seat. “I just thought since you won’t let me spend money on you, I ought to take you to do one of your favorite things.”
“What’s that?” I ask, nearly wanting to melt into him over his thoughtfulness.
“Make out on some leather seats. With your childhood crush, of course.”
My heart sputters in my chest. Not at how hot that sounds, and yes… with him, that could very well be a favorite thing if I wanted it to be. But at how pretentious he is about the whole thing. Is it not enough for him to know that I used to be obsessed with him? He feels the need to rub it in my face every time we meet. “When did you get so cocky? I mean, I understand you thi
nking you know everything. But you don’t.” I sigh out into the space between, my voice dropping. “Besides, we could’ve done that back at my house.”
“There aren’t stars like these in Savannah.”
“Cameron, they’re the same stars no matter where you look at them.”
“True.” I hear him scrub a hand over his jaw. “Less light pollution here though. And don’t you remember that constellation contraption in your bedroom? I thought you’d remember.” He sighs as if I missed the entire point of me taking him up to my bedroom back in high school. As if I hadn’t done it on purpose. “And this parking lot. This is the first place you and I got locked out of my jeep after the cookout on the beach that night before your high school graduation.”
And then it hits me. He brought me here on purpose. Because he knows I love stars. Because this place is familiar to us. I feel my stomach go weak with nerves again lying next to him. So close yet not even touching. Like our bodies are off-limits tonight.
Suddenly, he snaps his fingers. “What day is it?“ he asks, tucking his arm back behind his head.
I close my eyes, sleepy from the workday. In the distance, I hear kids shouting, I assume from somewhere down on the beach. The tense sound of ocean waves crash over the sand, and you can almost hear how cold it is. The radio is still putting out southern lullabies as we lie next to each other, soaking in the horns and the soul-quenching chords of each tune.
“Riley,” he says in almost a purr. The way he drawls my name puts a knot low in my stomach.
“Hm?” I say, trying to not let myself drift off too far.
“What day is it?”
Opening my eyes, I squint to focus on the stars. And Cameron’s right. They’re a lot brighter, more white out here on Tybee somehow. “Friday. Why?”
Whiskey Heart: An Alpha Billionaire Friends to Lovers Romance Page 6