The Dare Collection July 2019. Nicola Marsh
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Cameron was too busy casting a worried eye over her to answer. She didn’t look injured. No blood or protruding bones. Maybe she fell and hit her head? He stepped into the apartment and slipped his fingers through her tangled blond curls, gingerly feeling for a goose egg that might indicate a concussion.
Trish frowned. “What’s going on?” She swatted at his hands. “What are you doing?”
“What did you fall from this time?”
She blinked and then backed up a few steps. “What are you talking about?”
She was definitely concussed if she didn’t realize what the hell was going on. Cameron pointed at his watch. “It’s nine.”
Horror dawned across her face. “Oh God, I’m late.” She looked down at herself and then at him, which was right around the time he noticed that she wore flannel pajamas with little cats frolicking across the bright blue background. It should have made her look childish, but Trish in pajamas led to thoughts of Trish in bed and Cameron turned to survey the apartment before he could follow that to its inevitable conclusion.
Small place, which was to be expected. A little studio apartment with a door on the other side of the room that must lead to the bathroom. Her bed was made—the comforter printed with brightly colored flowers—and she’d managed to imprint herself on the space in a limited amount of time. Flowerpots perched on either side of the kitchen sink, soaking up what little sunlight they could get this time of year. She’d even managed to find time to hang art on the walls—more florals, though they were strangely moody in black-and-white photography instead of bright oil like he would have expected. The only thing out of place was a container of what appeared to be Chinese takeout sitting on the coffee table.
Trish cleared her throat. “Cameron. You’re in my apartment.”
“You were late.” He spoke almost absently, his gaze going back to the paintings. Black-and-white with the faintest hint of color in each. Compelling, though something about the close-ups of the different kinds of flower petals made him a little sad. Or maybe melancholy. One of those less than happy emotions that he wouldn’t have thought to associate with the peppy woman in front of him.
Cameron wouldn’t have said he was without layers—he was human and humans had layers of personality—but he tended to set aside the bullshit and call things like he saw them. It didn’t always work out in his favor, but at least there wasn’t room for misinterpretation or confusion.
The more time he spent around Trish, the more he realized this woman was nothing but layers. The bright woman who smiled her way through every situation. The flares of irritation and anger on occasion. The pride. And now this new revelation that he couldn’t quite place within the puzzle that was Trish Livingston.
He cleared his throat. “I thought you’d fallen off something and hurt yourself.”
“Cameron.” Her exasperation drew his attention back to her. Trish crossed her arms over her chest. “You know I don’t actually fall off things often, right? I’m not particularly injury-prone and just because I took a tumble off a ladder and you caught me like some kind of romance hero doesn’t mean you need to get all anxious about my health.”
She sounded perfectly reasonable, but perfectly reasonable people read the instructions on ladders and didn’t step on the top step and lean precariously while painting. He mirrored her pose. “You’re an hour late. What else was I supposed to think?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She rolled her eyes. “That I fell asleep on my couch and forgot to set my alarm and overslept. That’s a very normal thing to do.” She made a face. “Wait, I take that back. I don’t make a habit of being late, and I’m sorry I am, but you’re acting like I’m an accident waiting to happen.”
He started to argue, but the bottom line was that she was right. He shouldn’t be here any more than he should have done half the shit he’d pulled with Trish up to this point. If he was smart, he’d make some excuse to leave and put this whole awkward encounter behind him.
At least until she showed up at the office to work.
Instead, Cameron stalked around her couch and used a single finger to pry open the Chinese-food container. Full. Not even a bite missing. “You skipped dinner.”
“Not on purpose.”
He glanced over, but she’d set her mouth in a firm line that told him no more information would be forthcoming. All evidence pointed to her sitting down to eat dinner and then falling asleep on the couch. Missing dinner. Missing breakfast. If he turned around and left now, no doubt she’d get ready and rush straight to the office and not eat until lunch, which put a full twenty-four hours between meals.
Unacceptable.
He sat on the couch and pointed at the bathroom. “Get ready. We’re going to have a late breakfast before we go back to the office.” Since there were no paint cans in evidence, she’d actually listened to his order, which was something at least. “We’ll get the paint you want on the way. After you eat.”
Trish’s eyes sparked, but she got it under control almost immediately. She gave him a sweet smile that did nothing to mask the anger written in every line of her body. “Sure thing. I’ll do my best not to slip on a bar of soap and bash my head against the tile. You know, because I’m so klutzy.” She stalked to the bathroom and shut the door with a resounding snick.
Only then did Cameron relax back into the couch. They’d gone past the point of should this morning. He’d crossed the line coming here, but he wasn’t sorry. Trish was okay, and that was all that mattered. She wouldn’t be late again, and even if she wouldn’t tell him what really happened last night, he had to be satisfied with that.
In the bathroom, the water turned on and Cameron groaned. Maybe leaving Trish to her own devices was the smarter option. Because, right now, all he could do was imagine her stepping beneath the spray, to mentally follow the cascade of water down her shoulders, her breasts, to her stomach and then lower yet. He wanted to follow that path with his mouth, to taste her and tease her and bring her to the edge over and over again until he finally tipped her into oblivion.
He just flat-out wanted her.
TRISH REALIZED HER mistake the second she stepped out of the shower. In her huff to get out of the room before she said something truly unkind to Cameron, she hadn’t grabbed clothes. She wrapped a towel around herself and considered her options. Screaming at Cameron to close his eyes was tempting, but her stubborn streak kicked in and wouldn’t let her.
He’d decided to burst into her apartment and then command her to have breakfast with him. Oh, she knew he’d only shown up because he was worried, and he’d decided on breakfast for the same reason. It didn’t matter. The man didn’t have a subtle bone in his body, but he should damn well try to talk to her like she had a brain in her head.
Or, rather, like she wasn’t about to trip over some piece of furniture like she was starring in some old-school slapstick comedy.
Trish wiped down the foggy mirror and stared at her reflection. You know why you’re pissed, and it’s not because Cameron was worried about you. It might even have been kind of nice to bask in his concern if it wasn’t attached to so many conflicting emotions.
Cameron saw her as Aaron’s little sister. Emphasis on little.
He wanted her—she hadn’t missed those signals—but he’d just as obviously written her off as untouchable. That should be a good thing. He was her boss, as she had to keep reminding herself. He was off-limits.
That didn’t stop her from wanting to force him to acknowledge that he wanted her.