Page 88 of Sand in My Boots

I don’t want to ask, but I need the answer. “And when I have to leave?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when it comes. Why did you only book four nights?” Disappointment settles into his features.

“Elisa did it. She’s the one who stranded me at the airport with a one-way ticket to paradise. Not that I’m mad or anything. Quite the opposite.”

“Remind me to thank her properly the next time you talk to her. What happens after those nights are up?”

“Hadn’t thought that far. Seems silly to waste money on a hotel suite when you live so close . . .” I suck in a breath as my suggestion hangs between us. I don’t know how he’s going to feel about my staying with him. Does he have an extra bedroom? Would he want me “moving” in with him this soon in our relationship?

“My place is nice, but it doesn’t have quite the same amenities as what you have here, but the price tag on this suite is hefty. I agree it seems silly to waste the money on it. Even if it’s Elisa’s money.”

I laugh, the sound making Cameron jump. “As if Elisa has her own money. It’s Daddy’s credit card.”

“Ah. Why the two bedrooms?”

“I haven’t a clue, nor have I had a chance to ask her.”

“Was she planning on joining you?”

Hmm, hadn’t thought of that. “No?” I answer with a question. “Not that she mentioned. Though she’s queen of spur of the moment.” Giving it more thought, it’s something she would totally do.

“So let’s get our use out of the suite while you have it, and you’ll stay with me until you have to go back to the wasteland you call home.”

I chuckle at his use of “wasteland.” “Is that what you kids call anything that’s not paradise?”

He nods, not seeing anything weird about it. “Totes.”

The conversation lulls a bit, the silence not awkward. It’s odd for it to be comfortable, but I guess that’s how my relationship with Cameron has always been—comfortable, easy, casual.

No, not casual. At least not in the sense of a casual “fling.”

A pounding on the door alerts us to our food being delivered.

“Would you judge me for eating dessert first?”

Cameron questions the seriousness with a raised brow. “Feast out. I already did.” His gaze falls to the area between my legs, the location of his feast.

“Super.”

Cameron answers the door, carrying our takeout bag to the balcony. “The fries smell delicious.”

“Good thing we got enough so we don’t have to share.”

“Do you not share well, Juliana?”

“Not steak fries.”

“Noted.”

Over dinner, our conversation drifts to other topics, our “talk” long forgotten. Mostly because the basics have been ironed out, and we have to let the chips fall and things play out before we make life-altering decisions.

He shares stories of people he’s met and demands some rich people have. There was a point when he definitely censored his comments, not wanting to upset me.

I don’t know his exact financial status—neither current nor growing up—but I know his family wasn’t as wealthy as mine. When they were kids, Preston took pity on him for being one of the “scholarship” kids at camp, and why he invited him to our house during the summer, somehow convincing our parents to foot the bill for his visit. He never treated him differently because he wasn’t offered the same luxuries in life our grandparents’ money afforded us. For me, he was always Cameron—Preston’s funny friend who I couldn’t help crushing on. Now, he’s still that guy, in a grown-up’s body, and way more than a crush.

Being able to vacation at a place like Whispering Tide is a perk my money affords me. However, having someone like the man sitting next to me, even if we were eating dinner in a concrete jungle, is more of the path I’m on. Simple, comfortable, loving. That’s the relationship I want. Nothing flashy. A partner, maybe some kids down the road, shooting the shit after work over burgers and steak fries.

Wow, way to get ahead of myself, jumping five to ten years into the future based on one conversation.