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“Yep. Looks great, Dad. Thanks for cooking.” I spin toward the counter, gesturing at the grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Anything to avoid eye contact with my dad. Cam stays silent, racing to the table to grab his glass and get as far away from me as possible.
Maybe he didn’t see anything.
I can’t read my dad’s expression, his face blank as he stalks across the tile floor. He brushes past me and plucks the plate of chicken breasts off the beige Formica.
“Guess you’re gonna be busy at the library all summer, huh?” The chicken breasts bounce as the plate thunks down on the table.
“Sort of. The job’s only part-time, in the afternoon and evenings. But it gives me something to do.”
“Good.” My dad’s lips set in a thin, tight line and I swallow hard, throat dry as toast. The air in the kitchen’s heavy, and I don’t dare look at Cam.
“This summer’s shaping up to be real hot. I might have to move practice up earlier. Don’t want the boys getting heat stroke out there.” Dad stabs a piece of chicken, sliding it onto his plate before sawing into the meat. The knife slices back and forth methodically and I try not to squirm.
He knows.
No way. He can’t possibly know about anything that went down this afternoon.
Unless nosy Mrs. Humperdink saw us in the pool andsquealed on me, an action that wouldn’t be totally out of character for her.
Play it cool. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.
“Besides the quarterbacks, are there any other positions up for grabs?” I ask.
The question has the desired effect, Dad launching into a long diatribe about all the openings on the team. I tune him out, happy to have diverted the spotlight from me and my summer plans—especially where Cam’s concerned.
Luckily, Cam engages in the conversation and I eat my food without any further interrogation. I’m content to sit back and listen, watch as the two men discuss the high school football team and the prospects for next season. Both of them light up, their voices louder, eyes brighter as they discuss potential plays and who should take which spot. Cam’s more relaxed than I’ve seen him, shoulders loose and his brow smooth.
Dad sets his fork down, pushing his plate away and balling up his napkin.
“I’ve got clean-up, Coach. Thanks for dinner.” Cam stands, stacking all the plates.
“Thanks, son. I’m going to hit the hay, but I’ll see you at practice tomorrow afternoon, if I don’t catch you in the morning.” He yawns, then drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Night, baby. See you tomorrow after work.”
“Night, Daddy.” I smile up at him, trying to look innocent even as my heart hammers at the thought of being alone with Cam again.
“Don’t stay up too late. Cam has a tough practice ahead of him tomorrow.” He wags a finger in our direction and I nod.
“Of course. I’m tucking in as soon as we clear the kitchen.”
“Okay then.” My dad retreats to his room and breath seeps from my lungs. I stand still for a long minute, listening. But there’s nothing but quiet and I think my dad actually went to bed.
Cam watches me for a second, then turns on the sink faucet and starts rinsing dishes before loading them into the dishwasher.
“Another close call,” I whisper, our arms brushing as I join him at the sink.
He nods. “I know.”
His jaw tenses and a wave of anxiety washes over me, warring with the fiery desire already licking my insides.
I want to move behind Cam, wrap my arms around his broad back and rub and down his flat stomach. Feel the strength in his body, the heat. The arousal when I move my hands lower, dropping down to his hard cock. I want him to spin around, pressing his hips against mine, nuzzle his nose into the soft skin of my neck. Want him to pepper the tender spot with hot kisses, his hand finding my breast, sending ripples of pleasure rolling through me.
Instead, we do the dishes in tense silence. My mind whirs with all the things I should say, how I need to tell him what I want.
But I don’t.
Water splashes in the sink, then gurgles down the drain, silverware clinking into the plastic baskets of the dishwasher as I deposit each fork, each knife, one by one into their slots. Being this close to Cam—knowing how his body feels on mine but not being able to touch him, kiss him—is an exquisite form of torture.
He cuts the water off and dries his hands on the checked dishtowel, his lips a tight line. A shuddery breathrattles his chest and my nerves thrum like the cicadas outside the window, long, low, insistent.
