I’m deep into reorganizing my email inbox when Pippa finally stirs against me. I look down, finding her eyes still closed as she gets more comfortable, draping a leg over me.
We’ve been in this same position for two hours. I’ve watched two complete episodes of Supermarket Stakeout and am well into a third episode, and she’s barely moved a muscle during all of it.
My arm tingles, needing to move to get some blood flow, but I don’t want to risk waking her up. Her body clearly needs rest, and I’d sit here all day feeling like my arm might fall off if it meant she’d stay sound asleep.
I don’t know if I’ve ever held still for so long. It isn’t in my nature to sit on my phone and do nothing. Every now and then, my gaze drifts to her as I allowed my eyes to drink her in without her knowing.
She’s breathtaking, in a way that’s both quiet and loud. She doesn’t have any makeup on, yet her features are striking. The upturned nose, full, slightly parted lips. Her eyelashes dance along the apples of her cheeks. Every time I look, I want to run my thumb along her cheekbone, but I fight the urge so I don’t wake her.
She’s stunningly beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt. I want to capture her features forever so I can carve them into stone later. People would stare in awe at it, marveling at how the closer they get, the more she’ll steal the air from their lungs.
I keep lying to myself that I’m here because it’s the decent thing to do. But I’m not a decent man. I’ve done ruthless things in my life if it worked out best for me. But when it comes to her, I can’t stay away. It isn’t because I’m a nice guy. It’s because she has a magnetic pull that I can’t deny, not that I’ve been any good at attempting to fight it.
It’s a catastrophic thought to think that the pull I feel toward Pippa isn’t just surface level. I’d love to blame it on the way it felt to have my cock down her throat, my fingers buried in her pussy, the anticipation of finally sliding into her and pushing her body’s limits.
But it’s much more dangerous than that.
Pippa Jennings—the woman I yelled at the moment we met—is stealing pieces of my cold, black heart. She’s breathing life back into it, and I don’t have it in me to fight, even when I know it can’t end well. I didn’t come here today because I wanted something from her. I wanted to be around her. I wanted to take care of her. And I can’t think too deeply into what all of that means.
My phone vibrates in my hand. I look down to find a text from Beck.
BECK
Call me
CAMDEN
Can’t. I’m busy.
BECK
Are you on another call?
CAMDEN
No.
BECK
In a meeting?
CAMDEN
No.
BECK
When have you ever declined a business call? What could you possibly be doing?
His caller ID pops up on my phone. I decline it immediately, not wanting to wake Pippa up. My phone vibrates immediately with another new text.
BECK
You’re being weird. I’m trying to talk business. Answer your phone.
CAMDEN
I’ll call later. Busy.
BECK
I need proof of life. Is this even you?
I snap a picture of my middle finger against the sheets to not give myself away and send it to him.
BECK
I know cheap sheets when I see them. I know the place you’re renting doesn’t have those sheets, or if they did, Trisha’s replaced them.
CAMDEN
I’m living like a local.
BECK
I call bullshit.
He calls again. The fucker is relentless. I don’t remember prying so much into his life when he disappeared into a bubble when Margo first moved in with him.
CAMDEN
Leave me alone.
BECK
We’ll talk about this later. I have to know what townie has lured you into their bed.
Are you cuddling at two in the afternoon on a weekday?
CAMDEN
Fuck off. Shouldn’t you be galavanting with your new wife?
BECK
She’s ignoring me, busy painting shit for your gallery. I’m lonely and wanted to talk about a new business venture.
CAMDEN
Tell her she can have an extension if you’ll leave me the hell alone.
BECK
Can’t wait to get all the juicy details later.
I roll my eyes, placing my phone next to me so I’m not tempted to respond back to my nosy friend. I glance at Pippa, not expecting to see her eyes fluttering open.
“Did I wake you up?” I whisper, pushing pieces of hair from her face.
She gives me a sleepy smile, and fuck, it disarms me. I almost push her off my chest, not wanting her to feel my rapid heartbeat against her cheek, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I just pray that she doesn’t feel the way my pulse spikes at the sheer beauty of her sleepy smile.
“I’m sorry if I did,” I add as she stretches her legs underneath the blankets. Her foot brushes against my leg. I want to tangle my limbs with hers, to hold her against my chest as we both get lost in sleep.
“I should probably get up anyway.” Her voice is throatier than normal as she tries to wake up.
My thumb traces over her cheekbone, over the same place I wanted to caress while she slept peacefully on my chest. “Go back to sleep for a bit. I’m going to go make some food for when you wake up.”
She doesn’t argue, the medicine getting the best of her as her eyes flutter closed once again. I take a few moments to watch her again before I carefully slide out from underneath her. I miss her body the moment we’re no longer connected, but I want her to have more to eat than just the pastry I bought from the cafe, so I break the connection and walk in the direction I think her kitchen is.
My stomach growls. Watching episode after episode on the Food Network is making me hungry as well.
Her dog—named Kitty, which is such a Pippa thing to do—follows closely behind me. It isn’t hard to find the kitchen in her small one-story house. I like how homey it feels here. Even with the limited amount of space on the quiet, small-town street, she’s made the space she has feel like a home, not a house. As I look around, making my way to the kitchen, I realize how cold and empty my penthouse in Manhattan must feel.
I stop on pictures that line the wall in her living room. There are so many of them, and I can’t help but look closely at each photograph. There’s some with Pippa and who I now know as her brother and who must be their parents. I look at the woman who has to be her mother because of the resemblance between the two. My heart feels heavy when I look at Pippa’s arm wrapped around her. I haven’t had to mourn a parent—not that mine were really ever parents at all—but I can’t imagine what it’d feel like to lose one who was as amazing as Pippa made her mom out to be.
I continue to look at all the photos, marveling at the life Pippa’s lived. There are pictures of her on horses, at her bakery, and some with a blonde that seem to be from college. I fight the urge to want to know everything about her. I want to know the backstory for every photo. It isn’t lost on me that I searched for men in them, wondering if a man has ever stolen her heart or what her past must look like.
Moving from the photos on her wall, I look around her living room. She has a large white sectional that covers an entire wall and cuts across the open floor plan. There are throw pillows on almost every inch of the couch. They’re bright and fun colors, something I appreciate. I paid thousands upon thousands of dollars to have my place decorated back in Manhattan, and the most color there is the little bit of navy in certain rooms.
I finally walk into her kitchen, laughing because, like everything else about her, it’s a little messy. There are cups lined by the sink and a few dishes in it. It isn’t dirty, but the keys and mail strewn about the counter are far more disorganized than my own space. I like that about her, which is something I never imagined myself saying. I like that she’s always moving to the beat of her own drum, moving from one thing to the next without ever taking things too seriously.
I open her fridge to find it relatively empty. Trisha has made sure my fridge at my rental stays stocked, so even if I wanted to leave Pippa’s to get her some groceries—which I don’t—I wouldn’t even know what to get.
She has one pack of chicken in there. I check the expiration date, finding that it still has a few days until it goes bad. Pulling the chicken out, I set it on the counter and continue to rifle through the contents of the fridge until I feel like I have enough to make her some soup.
As the skillet heats, I pull my phone out and call Trisha to ask her to send some groceries. I might not be able to run out and get Pippa some, but I want her to have options without having to worry about going grocery shopping. Trisha doesn’t ask any questions, even when I give an address for the delivery she knows isn’t my rental.
I’m busy adding some last-minute salt and pepper to the simmering pot of chicken noodle soup when Pippa ambles into the kitchen. The entire right side of her face is red, imprints from the sheets pressed into her skin.
I look up, trying to fight a smile at the way her hair sticks out in every direction. It’s cute as hell. An unwelcome thought creeps into my mind. I think I could get used to being here when Pippa wakes up. I wouldn’t complain about being on the receiving end of many more sleepy smiles from her.
“Good morning,” I tease, looking out her kitchen window. “Or should I say afternoon?”
She stops next to me, peeking inside the pot. “Did you make this?”
I give it one more stir before I place the lid over the pot. My hip rests against the counter as I lazily cross my arms across my chest. “I did.”
“You cook?”
“If I want to.”
“It smells edible.”
I reach out and grab her by the hips, pulling her body against mine before I can think too deeply about it. She smiles at me, the color back in her face after being pale and clammy when I first arrived.
“I can’t believe you made me homemade soup.” She sounds shocked, rising to her tiptoes to loop her arms around my neck.
It feels natural to be in this position with her. It feels like something we’ve been doing for years and not some new foreign thing to the both of us.
“I actually made it for myself,” I joke. “You can fend for yourself.”
Her bottom lip juts out in a pout. “But it smells delicious.”
My head rears back. “Did you just give me a compliment, shortcake?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“But it felt good.”
“You’ll have to earn them.”
“I think I’ll have fun earning more from you.”
Red tinges her cheeks, spreading down the skin of her neck before the flush disappears into the fabric of her hoodie. “You could’ve had a lot more of them if you weren’t a humongous dick to me the first time we met.”
“I’ll just have to make up for lost time.” I fight a smirk, remembering the insults she threw at me the second time we met. “At least now you know I wasn’t an asshole to compensate for my cock,” I add.
Her eyes get wide. She reaches up and holds a hand over her mouth, trying to hide a smile.
“You’ve got me there.”
I cup her face in my hands, fighting every instinct of mine to lean down and kiss her. I know I shouldn’t do it. She’s sick, and I have no idea what the hell is happening between us. But there isn’t a part of me that doesn’t want to claim her mouth with mine. To kiss along her cheeks and down her neck.
Groaning, I let my forehead fall against hers. I take a deep breath to calm myself before I pull away and turn back to the stove. “Let’s get you some food.”
She doesn’t move for a moment, her gaze hot on me.
Did she want me to kiss her? Is her mind reeling from thoughts of all the tempting potential for us, or am I alone in this?
“Let’s see if you can actually cook,” she quips, reaching around me to grab a bowl.
