Page 16 of Playing it Safe

I look at this man — this huge, quiet, battered man on my sister's front steps at midnight, checking on his unaffectionate cat — and something in my stomach turns over. Not butterflies. Something heavier.

My ex never came to this house. In four years, he saw Deen only on outings. And he was always making comments about how it must be so hard, such an obligation. Like Deen was a chore I hadn’t figured out how to delegate.

Cameron has known me for only a few days and is already thinking in terms of my sister’s comfort.

I think about the club. The way his hands dropped to my hips when the song changed, heavy and warm. The way he stepped back when my body pressed against his. And the reason for his step back — the hard, unmistakable ridge I felt against my ass for exactly two seconds before he put distance between us. My face heats in the dark.

I steal another look at his forearms. The rolled cuffs, the tendons, the ink. His watch face catches the porch light. He scrolls past Puck, and I see a text from Spinner — three fire emojis and nothing else — that Cameron ignores.

I want to unwrap him. I want to unbutton the rest of his shirt and follow the tattoos wherever they lead. I want to know what his chest looks like. I want to know what that ridge feels like under my fingers.

God.

"She okay?" he asks, pocketing the phone.

"Fine. Asleep. Wearing a cat eye mask."

He smiles. “I bet Puck would love her.”

“You haven’t even met her. And I haven’t met Puck. But you’re probably right.” I stand up and brush off the back of my pants. "Walk me home?"

"Of course."

It's six blocks from Deen's house to mine, and we walk them in the kind of quiet that doesn't need filling. The air bites through my tank top, and I cross my arms over my chest. Cameron walks close to me, and I can feel the heat radiating from him.

When we reach my steps, I climb toward the blue door with the keypad entry. I’m aware he’s standing a few steps below me. This is the part where he should say goodnight. Turn. Walk away into the night…

He says nothing. He just waits, hands in his pockets, looking up at me.

My heart knocks against my ribs. Nobody is watching. No teammates to perform for, no Spinner documenting everything for the group chat, no convenient excuse. It's just us, the porch light, and his breath making clouds in the cold air.

I can't take the anticipation.

I lean down from the step above him and rest both palms on his face. His jaw is rough under my hands, and his skin is warm. I kiss him.

Not a peck like at Gianna's.

My mouth meets his, my lips brushing the stubble above his mouth. His lips are soft. He doesn’t grab me or pull me closer, but stands with his hands in his pockets. The restraint makes the whole thing worse. Or better?

I break the kiss, and my lips buzz like I just touched a live wire. I fumble the door open behind me without looking.

Cameron smiles. A crooked line in the dark. "Goodnight, Briar."

I step inside. "Goodnight."

I close the door and press my back against it, staring at my dark hallway.

Yeah. It was.

Chapter 9

Cameron

I wake to Puck perched on my chest, staring at me with an expression that suggests I've failed him. Again. His orange face is three inches from mine. One paw rests on my collarbone as if he's checking for a pulse.

"Good morning," I tell him.

He blinks slowly, which I interpret as tolerance. Then he steps off me — directly onto my bruised ribs — and drops to the floor with a thud that seems too heavy for a twelve-pound animal.