“Really! Did she say where she’s been?”
Earlier in the week, he asked me if I had talked to her, and I said no. He looked offended for me—hell, I was offended for myself—and then said, “Maybe she’s just giving you some space and running interference with the parentals. I’m sure she’ll call soon.” But that’s how Clare is: everything is always on her schedule and never on mine.
“No.” I shake my head, swallowing. “But I’m used to it. She’s very evasive.”
He lets out an unhappy grunt as he takes our glasses and refills them with water. I had been hoping to find some type of clarity once I did talk to her, but that didn’t happen. I was so happy just to hear from her, I yelled, startling even myself.
“Where have you been?”
She laughs, and the sound instantly lowers the anxiety that’s been building within me for days. “Here and there.”
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“Does it matter?”
I can just see her shrugging one of her shoulders and tossing her gorgeous hair over the other as if abandoning me for days isn’t a big deal.
“Of course it matters! Everything about my life is in complete chaos and I need you.”
“You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Camille, you don’t need me. I have eyes. I was there and saw the guy you married. The only part of your life that should be chaotic and messy is his bedroom.”
I can hear the humor and the teasing in her tone. I scoff and start pacing the room. “It isn’t like that.”
“Well, why not? You are married, and he is hot.” She accentuates the last word, and deep down I realize I don’t want her looking at Reid that way. Between the two of us, Clare always got everything she wanted, and even though I know she and Reid are not a possibility, the thought of it still makes me ruffled. He’s the one thing in what feels like my entire life that’s mine, only mine.
“It just isn’t.”
Clare starts laughing again, and I swear if she were here I might just kick her. “Seems to me things might make a little more sense to you if it was like that.”
“Will you please stop? I need your help. You’re the sensible one between the two of us. Tell me what to do.”
“No way. It’s time for you to stop listening to everyone else and decide for yourself. What do you want to do?”
I hated that statement, I hated her question, and I also hated how we left things.
“Well, at least she finally called.” Reid’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Feel free to invite her down. I know you told Jack she wasn’t coming, but as long as you’re here, this is your home too. You can invite whoever you want.” His brows draw down and he frowns. “Well, except for other guys. I don’t think that would be a good idea, even if you were discrete about it.”
“Reid, we are married. It may be a rather unconventional marriage, but I would never bring another guy back to your home. I would never bring another guy anywhere. For as long as we are a we, I’m yours.” I roll my lips between my teeth and watch him. His eyes widen just a little, but they never break from mine.
“I’m yours, too,” he says, letting out a deep breath.
Eight days—that’s how long I’ve known him, and in that time, he’s been kinder than anyone has been to me in the last five years. My eyes scan over the details of his face, a face I’ve come to revere, and I’m so grateful.
“So, I picked this up for you today,” he says, leaning to the side to pull a folded magazine from his pocket. “I saw it and thought you might like to see what’s going on around town. Maybe if you knew where you were going, that might help you get out for a bit.”
He slides it across the bar so it sits in front of me. I don’t say anything, because I know he’s right. I need to get out.
“Did you leave at all this week?” He walks back to his seat, sits down, and lays his forearms on the bar in front of him.
I pick up the local magazine and thumb through it to avoid seeing any form of disappointment on his face. “I went out on the porch—does that count?”
“Camille.” The tender way he says my name has heat climbing up my cheeks.
“I know, I know,” I say, letting out a sigh. “I just needed a few days.”
A few days have now come and gone, and with this push from him, it seems time is up.
“A couple of blocks over, there’s a park on the water, and most weekends they have some type of fair or festival. Maybe you’ll want to check it out. Next weekend is the Gasparilla Festival of the Arts, and I’ve heard it’s amazing. I think we should go.”
“We?” My eyes dart up to his.
“Yeah, why not? I think it will be fun.” He flips the magazine open to the schedule of events, and then it hits me: he wants to go out with me. With me. I don’t know why this gets me so excited, but it does.
“Okay.” I smile at him and look back at the festival list. “Wait! Tomorrow there’s one called the Vintage Flea—can we go to that?”
The corner of his lips twitch and he leans back in his chair. “Yep.”
“You knew about this.” My eyes narrow.
He shrugs his shoulders but can’t help the lopsided smile that slides onto his face.
“Why didn’t you lead with this? The arts festival sounds great, and I’d love to go to that, too, but this . . .” I flip through the magazine to find the advertisement for the flea market: A unique upscale vintage market focused on antique-inspired indoor and outdoor goods and furnishings. I’m so excited, I run my finger over the page. I even love the logo.
“I didn’t want to push you if you weren’t ready, but Billy was talking about taking his wife, and it kind of reminded me of your workshop.”
Just thinking about my workshop has my hands itching to create something one of a kind and beautiful. Maybe we’ll find something tomorrow.
A grin splits my face from ear to ear. “I’m ready.”
ALL WEEK LONG I watched her. I mean, how could I not? This beautiful girl moved into my space, and surprisingly, things went smoother than I expected. I haven’t had a roommate in years and have never had a girlfriend who stayed longer than twelve hours, but Camille was quiet, kept to herself, and didn’t try to bother me at all.
During the day, I noticed she moved the furniture around a bit, and I think she was using the floor space to exercise or dance. She has to miss it, right? That’s what she did for so long. Then, every night, she cooked dinner for us. The conversations were always light and easy, and afterward we would watch a movie.
If I’m being honest with myself, however, even though she was here, it felt like she wasn’t, and that bothered me. I know she’s not really my responsibility—after all, she’s an adult—but I did disrupt her life, marry her, and bring her here. Frequently, I watched her just stare outside. The back wall of the condo has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out toward the water, and yes, the view is nice, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t looking at anything.
She’s lost.
I can’t say I blame her—she did just flip her entire life upside down and now needs to figure out what’s happening next—but by Friday, I was starting to worry about her. At first she was a zombie, and then she transitioned to anxious, almost like a domesticated animal that’s about to be set free in the wild. She knows it’s coming but is uncertain about exactly when.
I’ve never had a serious girlfriend. I’ve never wanted one, and now that I’m here, in this situation with her, I don’t know what to do. To make things worse, she isn’t even just some girl; she’s a senator’s daughter—high society, a true Southern belle.
The complete opposite of me.
For so long, my life was worrying about my family and pushing myself to get into the NFL. I was certain if I finally made it, my mother would take a step back and enjoy her life more, but she didn’t.
Every month I deposit money into her account and Nate’s, bu
t she rarely touches it, and he’s just as conservative, using it only for practical expenses outside of his scholarship. Part of me sometimes feels like I don’t know what I’m doing all this for, but if I wasn’t doing this, feeling the need to always take care of them, what would I be doing?
It’s this thought that makes me somewhat understand how she’s feeling. Change is hard, especially when it’s sudden, even if it was wanted.
Speaking of change . . .
On Monday, when I headed into the training facility, the dynamic with my teammates had changed, too. The guys fell into one of two camps: happy for me—this came from those currently in a relationship of some kind—and wary of me, almost like I have some kind of plague. The latter came from the uncommitted guys, who just a few days earlier I was one of, and proud of it. Technically, I still am one of them. I stand by the fact that I never want to get married. It’s not something I see for myself.
No one was curious or asked for an explanation, but then again, I’m certain they all saw the social media coverage of the wedding. Reporters went crazy over what they are calling one of the biggest Southern scandals of the century. The Whitley family, being one of the oldest and most prominent families in the region, was shocked along with the community that their precious daughter would jilt such a beloved close friend of the family and an aspiring political candidate for an NFL player from the Bronx. Yes, I’m well-known in the football industry, but outside of that, I’m a nobody. Of course they played up Patrick as the victim in these stories and knocked me down, but that’s okay. I already knew we weren’t in the same league; it just sucks to be reminded of that, and in front of all my friends, too.
Needing some advice on what to do with Camille, I sought out Billy, one of our team captains and an all-around good guy. Without giving him too much detail, I mentioned that I needed to get her out of the condo for some fresh air and to do some sightseeing, and he suggested the festivals. She’d get to see some of downtown while staying close enough to the condo that she could go home if she wanted to. So, I stopped and picked up the city magazine from the small grocer downstairs and hoped for the best. It was time to push the baby bird out of the nest.
“That’s a big hat,” I state as she wanders out from her bedroom.
Her face lights up as she pats it tighter onto her head.
“You brought me to Florida.” She laughs.
I think this is the first time I’ve heard her laugh since the wedding, and my chest tightens.
“Look at my skin.” She holds out her arm. “I’m so pale you could call me Casper.”
I glance at her arm and then my eyes trail down to take in the rest of her. She’s wearing a denim button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a little yellow skirt, and flip-flops. The only skin that jumps out at me is on her bare legs, which are rock-solid. Every bit of this girl is gorgeous.
My eyes climb back to hers. “Well, we certainly don’t want you getting burned.”
“No, we do not. I brighten up like a tomato. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about that.” She glances at my olive-toned skin. “And look, you’re wearing a hat, too.” She walks over and wiggles the brim of it. Coconut wafts over me. She smells so good.
“It’s my disguise.”
She laughs again. “You do realize there’s no disguising you, right?” Her cheeks tinge pink as she waves her hand from my head to my feet. I know I stand out in a crowd because of my size. It is what it is, but maybe the hat will help.
“Maybe not, but the hat and sunglasses are better than nothing.” I tap the aviators tucked into the neck of my shirt.
“Are we meeting your friends there?” She walks into the kitchen and picks up a clutch handbag.
“No. I told them we might wander over, but I wanted to leave that up to you. I can text him to meet us, or we can just do our own thing.”
“Do our own thing,” she says, more to herself, but then her eyes light up. “Kind of like a date? Friends can go on dates, right?” She meets me at the door, which I hold open for her.
A chuckle escapes me. “Sure, we can call this a date.”
She presses her lips together to fight smiling, but her expression tells me this makes her happy. I like seeing her happy.
“I haven’t been on a date in a really long time,” she states, passing by me and heading for the elevator.
“Technically, that’s false—our first date was at the reception.” I lock the door and we walk into the elevator.
She turns to look at me, and I’m wondering if she remembers how we started that date—a kiss at the beginning versus at the end. I liked it. “You know what I mean.” She spins so she’s facing forward. The doors close and we start our descent.
“Yes, I do, and for the record, it’s also been a long time for me, princess.”
Outside, the weather is perfect. The skies are blue, not a cloud in sight, and the breeze is cool coming up off the water. We stop at the coffee shop across the street to grab a drink then wander down to the park.
Jack and I have come over here a few times in the last year, but those festivals were more night events: a margarita festival, rib fest, and a couple of concerts. I’ve never come to anything like this, and without Camille, I doubt I ever would. Just walking up, I can feel the excitement pouring off her.
White tented booths are lined up one after another, making rows, and these rows fill up the entire park. It’s crowded—really crowded.
“What do you think?” I ask her.
She turns to look up at me from under her hat and smiles from ear to ear. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Here looks as good as any.” I point to the first one, which is filled with old dishes, teacups, and teapots. Why anyone would want this stuff, I have no idea, but she’s happy, and that was the goal.
Together we walk through the aisles, and she examines everything. Some things she picks up to check the price, and others, I think she’s just looking at the fine details.
“The furniture in your workshop—where did it come from?” I ask, curious to know more about her.
“Most of the pieces I find are from estate sales, yard sales, or flea markets.” She picks up a plate that looks like china, flips it over to look at the back, and then replaces it.
“No antique shops?”
“No. Things are overpriced there and have usually been touched up in one way or another. At estate sales and yard sales, most of the time people are just looking to get rid of things.”
We move on to the next booth, and it’s filled with grandfather clocks. “Makes sense to me. What are you doing with the furniture once you have it?”
She walks around each one and looks it over from top to bottom. “Restoration. Over time, pieces inevitably get scratched, nicked, or dinged. See right here.” She points to a large gouge on the side of one clock. It looks like something fell on it or hit it. I nod. “Hinges become loose, legs wobble, and oftentimes there are water rings or burns. I repair or replace these things, and more often than not, I modernize the pieces, make them look more current while keeping their authenticity of looking worn, used, loved.”
“You want them to look used and not new?”
“Yes. Ever heard of shabby chic?”
“No, thank God.”
She giggles. “Basically, it’s a style of furniture that looks new and used at the same time. People who like that look will have several pieces in their home as statement pieces, but none of them will match. With so many beach houses up and down the coast, the style sells really well. Beach houses are meant to be relaxed, not formal, and mixing the right pieces together makes the houses feel cozy and complete without the high price associated with furnishing a home. Every piece tells a story, you just have to listen.”
“Yep, not something I’ve ever thought of—not once.”
Instead of responding to me, she’s stopped in front of a booth called Through the Looking Glass and is staring at a large floor mirror propped against the
back wall. Walking into the booth, she tilts her head as she runs her fingers down the wooden frame.
“It’s a beautiful piece, don’t you think?” a man asks as he steps up next to her.
“I do. Where did you get it?”
“Flea market in Virginia. The guy said he found it at a church roundup. They were looking for donations for the furniture, and as the saying goes, one man’s trash is another’s treasure. He bought it and cleaned it up.”
“A treasure indeed,” she says sincerely.
Personally, I don’t see anything special about it. Sure, it has a wide wooden frame, but one corner is damaged, it’s all scratched up, and it’s awkwardly big.
“Are you local?” she asks him.
“We have a storefront over in Dunedin, but I spend most of my time on the road.”
“I think I need to go check out your store.” She’s intrigued and looks around the tent at the other items he has.
“Well, we’d love to have you. If you’re interested in the mirror, I’m open to offers.”
Camille is quiet as she again peruses it. She walks around to check out both sides then wanders out the back of the tent so she can pull up the wall and examine the back. Part of me has the sudden urge to just jump in and buy it for her—it’s clear that she loves it—but another part of me is enjoying watching her in her element. Her wheels are turning; she sees something in this item.
Another customer requires the shopkeeper’s assistance, and Camille comes back to me.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I have no opinion. This is all you, so whatever you want.”
“I think I want it.” She takes off her hat and pushes all of the loose pieces of hair back.
“What would you do with it?”
A slow smile tips her lips up. “Oh, I have an idea.” She puts her hat back on and goes to speak to the guy.
After negotiating on a price, he agrees to sell her the mirror for an amount that, to me, seems like way more than it’s worth. She, however, is beaming, so I can’t help but hand my credit card over.
Chasing Clouds Page 11
