“No way, Reid.”
“Yes way, Camille. You’re with me, and you said this is a date, so this is how it is.”
She scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. “But it’s too much—I can’t ask you to pay for this.”
“Too late.”
The man takes my card and tries to diffuse the tension by changing the subject. “Do you want to take the mirror now, or can we hold it until the end of the weekend and have it delivered to your home?”
The mirror is a really big piece of his booth, so I can see why he wants to hold on to it. “You can deliver it Monday or Tuesday, that works for us,” I tell him. She’ll be home to receive it, so there won’t be any logistical problems. I give him my address, and the guy smiles as he thanks us for our business. Camille squeezes my arm with excitement. She’s touching me, and I can’t help but look down at her fingers wrapped around my bicep.
“Thank you, Reid.” Large blue eyes shine up at me.
“Haven’t we talked about you not saying that to me anymore?” I step another inch closer to her, run my free hand down her arm, and slide my hand into hers.
“This is different.” She laces her fingers with mine and squeezes then doesn’t let go.
Bending down, I tip her hat to the side, kiss her cheek, and whisper, “You’re welcome, princess.”
We keep exploring for the next couple of hours. She doesn’t find anything else she wants to buy, but we stay hand in hand as we walk from booth to booth. She continues looking through the different items, whereas I continue looking at her. There’s original art, clothing, jewelry, home decor, homemade items, quilts, indoor furnishings, outdoor furnishings, plants, perishables—you name it, someone’s got it for sale—and it isn’t until we’re down one of the last rows that I spot a long camera lens directed straight at us.
Shit.
I drop her hand, wrap my arm around her shoulders, pull her close, and spin us around to go in the opposite direction.
“What are we doing?” She looks up at me.
“Photographer.” My protective instincts have taken over and I want to put as much distance as I can between us and him.
She glances back quickly and stiffens. “Do you think he saw us?” She wraps her arm around my waist and we pick up the pace.
“Yes.”
“Do you think he knows who we are?” Our steps fall in sync as we round a corner to move out of sight.
“I don’t know. My guess is probably.”
She stops us and looks up at me as I look down at her. “Do you think we should go home?” She’s frowning, and I hate that her happiness from earlier is gone.
Looking around at the people wandering by us, she puts her free hand on my chest and steps closer. She’s so small tucked up next to me I can’t help but put my hands on her waist and bring her flush against me. Her hat flattens as she lays her head against my chest.
“That’s up to you,” I answer her.
Nothing would make me happier than to have the world see us out and together. I have nothing to hide, but I know she does—herself. The whole point of coming to Tampa was to try to stay low-key. We both knew eventually the media would catch up to us, but as this is her first outing and she’s still adjusting, a little reprieve would have been nice.
“Well, I’m not ready to go home yet.” She tilts her head back. “Maybe we go out for lunch somewhere quiet?” Her eyebrows are raised above her sunglasses.
It occurs to me that I like her thinking of my condo as home.
It also occurs to me that I’m liking all of this just a little too much, things I’ve never liked with anyone: her in my home, her sharing meals with me, her out in public with me, her touching me, her on my arm for others to see—her, her, her. It’s here and now that I remind myself all of this is temporary. I can like it all I want, even savor it, and for now that’s okay, because in the end I’ll still be me, she’ll be someone who lives a completely different lifestyle from me, and we’ll each go on our way. Dust in the wind.
Knowing this, I block the sudden assault of feelings and decide not to stress over what it all might mean. I can live in the present, and I can enjoy my time with her.
“Lunch sounds great, and I know just the place.”
“HOW DID YOU find this place?” I ask, removing my hat and laying it under my chair. Reid stands and lifts his arms to adjust the umbrella over our table, angling it to keep us shaded, and his T-shirt rises a bit, giving me a nice peek of his smooth, muscular stomach. I imagine my fingers tracing over each muscle, dipping up and down. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about what he would look and feel like with that shirt off, but I can’t help it. He is incredibly handsome.
“Billy brought me after I joined the team.” He sits back down in his chair and runs his hand over his hat to pull it down a little then picks up his menu. “He said it’s the best place in town to get served fresh fish, and he’s right. The menu changes daily based on what they caught earlier that morning.”
“That’s so great. Savannah has a few places that serve fresh-off-the-dock food, too. I’ll have to show you my secret places next time we’re there.”
From behind his sunglasses, his eyes jump to mine. Feeling a little like a deer caught in headlights, I realize how that sounded and start backtracking.
“Not that you’ll be in Savannah with me. I wasn’t implying that we’d still be together longer than the two months, just that the food is good there and I think you’d like it. Gah, you know what I mean.” Embarrassment climbs up my neck and heats my cheeks. I dig my sunglasses out of my bag. He’s wearing his, so I’ll wear mine too and hide behind them.
He chuckles and one side of his mouth tips up. “Deal. Next time I’m in Savannah, we’ll eat at your favorite places.” Reaching over, he tucks a few strands of hair behind my ear, runs his thumb down the column of my neck, and then squeezes my shoulder.
“Okay,” I mutter. I can’t seem to make any other words form.
Dropping the conversation, we both look over the menu, the waitress takes our order, and pretty quickly, our drinks and the food come out.
Reid is very easy to be around. I don’t feel any of the added pressure that comes with constantly being surrounded by people who are just looking for you to make a mistake so there’s fuel for gossip. He’s laid back, quiet, and genuinely seems like the nicest person I’ve ever met.
“Tell me something about you,” I blurt out between bites.
He quirks a grin. “All right. Yeah, I guess we really don’t know much about each other, and that makes this normal date-like conversation. Let’s see . . .” He rubs his chin as he stares across the table at me. “My favorite food is barbeque ribs, but I don’t eat them very often because they’re slathered in brown sugar. My favorite color is green. Growing up in the Bronx, sure we had grass and trees, but not like you see everywhere else. For that reason, I’ve always been enamored by it.”
And here I am thinking green could become my favorite color, too, but because of his eyes.
“I hate the snow. I didn’t even know I hated it until after I moved here and got to experience a winter without it. I’ve never been skiing, so it’s not like I miss the sport side of it, but last year I went home for Christmas and it was miserable. There was dirty slop everywhere. So, unless I change teams and end up back up north, I’m never living in snow again.”
“A Yankee turned Southerner.” I smile at him and watch as the breeze sends the trim around the umbrella waving back and forth. Shadows play across his face, a face I could stare at all day.
“Call me what you want, but I understand now why people move south.” He picks up his drink and takes a sip. His hands are so large they cover the entire glass.
“I didn’t mind the snow so much, maybe because I had never lived in it before, so it was a novelty, but I thought it was pretty.”
Setting the glass back down, he leans back in his chair. “Pretty to look at on my phone while I’m sitting next to the pool.” He grins.
“I am a Yankees fan, and there’s nothing quite like Yankee Stadium in the summer, but now that you mention it, I don’t think I could ever fit the mold of a Southerner. There is always Phoenix, though.”
“What mold is that?”
“People who drive slow, talk slow, eat fried food, and drink sweet tea.”
“That’s a terribly cliché description of Southerners,” I reply, balking at his words.
“You know what I mean.” He smiles. “I’ll never sound the part—darlin’ just isn’t in my vocabulary—and can you imagine the looks on the faces of the stiffs at your father’s country club if I rolled up wearing a bowtie and tried to fit in? It’s never going to happen.”
That’s funny, because I think he’d look quite handsome in a bowtie, and whether he’s in New York or Georgia, I don’t think he’d fit in anywhere. He’s meant to be noticed, and I admire that about him.
“Well, in all fairness, I could never be a true New Yorker, even if most of them are transplants. I never could understand the subway system, my manners ensure that I allow everyone to rush past me, so I’m always late, and I’ll never eat a hotdog or falafel from a street vendor.”
He narrows his eyes. “You never ate a hotdog while wandering through Central Park?”
“Absolutely not. And listen”—I lean forward—“How you doin’? It just doesn’t sound right coming from me.”
He laughs. “No, it sure doesn’t.”
“As for Phoenix, I could never live there—I like living near the water too much.” I look past his shoulder at the marina dock. Lined up on every post is a pelican. Granted, they’re waiting for handouts from the fishermen, but still, pelicans are really cool birds.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, drawing my attention back to him. Lifting his beer to his mouth again, he takes a drink and watches me over the rim of his glass.
“Take your sunglasses off. I don’t like not being able to see what you’re looking at.”
“Only if you take yours off,” he challenges.
We both toss them on the table, his eyes find mine, and my stomach bottoms out. There should be rules against how potent a person’s eyes are. It’s not fair. He could turn me into putty if he wanted to—forest green putty.
“Okay, last one,” he says, shifting in his chair to cross his ankle over his knee. “The first time I ever flew on a plane was my freshman year at Syracuse when we had an away game at Clemson. Of course, I didn’t tell anyone this at the time, but I sat by the window and gave the poor armrests the death grip.”
“You didn’t fly on a plane until college?”
“Nope. Never needed to, but now, with the team, sponsorships, and seeing my mom, Nate, and Tally, I’m on a plane probably two dozen times a year.”
“We have a family plane. I don’t even remember a time when we weren’t flying somewhere.”
“Of course you do.” His lips press together and he shakes his head just as the waitress comes by to clear our plates.
“Would either of you like dessert?” she asks.
He looks at me, and I tell her no. I already know he doesn’t like to eat sugar, so there’s no point in asking him to share.
“Okay, that’s several things about me. Now it’s your turn, and I already know your favorite candy is gummy bears, so don’t start there.”
“I do love gummy bears. Let’s see . . .” I pick up my paper napkin and start messing with it. “I don’t really have one favorite food per se, because I love all breakfast foods: biscuits and gravy, cheesy grits, corned beef hash, pecan waffles—I could go on and on.”
“Every single one of those sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen,” he mocks.
“Listen here, not all of us strive to have the perfect body like you.” I tear a piece of the napkin off, ball it up, and flick it at him. He catches it easily with one hand. Stupid football hands.
“You were a dancer, so your diet was probably more strict than mine—wait, you think my body’s perfect?” His face has taken on an expression like he’s just been told the secrets of the universe, and my cheeks flush.
“Um, you know it is, so quit it.”
He laughs and the waitress comes over with fresh drinks. I reach for my wine, and he watches as I take a sip then lick my lips. He looks so calm sitting there, whereas I want to squirm under his perusal—squirm my way right over onto his lap. I let out a deep breath, put the glass down, and his brows rise just a little, urging me to keep going.
“So, I don’t have a favorite color. As a kid I tried really hard to pick one, but when I did, I felt bad for the other colors. If I have to pick one, I always say orange, because no one picks orange.”
“You’re right, no one picks orange.” He smirks.
“See! But every time I say orange, I immediately feel bad for yellow. No one picks yellow either, but you see it out and about more than orange. Poor orange, the unwanted child of red and yellow.”
“Do you always root for the underdog?” He tilts his head to the side.
This question hits a little too close to home. I’ve felt like the underdog my whole life.
“Yes, I think I do.” I shift in my chair and cross my legs.
He leans forward and rolls the stem of my wine glass between his fingers. “Good, I like underdogs, too.”
My heart twirls in my chest.
“I’ve never been to Disney World, although I’ve always wanted to go, and my favorite childhood memories are of running with Clare through the field behind our house.”
“What were you running from?”
“Usually each other, but mostly me from her, because she was mad about something I did and wanted to hit me. We would fly kites, chase the clouds, I don’t know . . . that field was our place of freedom.”
“Chase the clouds,” he repeats as he thinks about my words.
“Yeah, the weather changes a lot and quickly here in the south. Not sure about up north, but being coastal, during the summer we’d have daily afternoon thunderstorms from the humidity buildup, and the dark clouds would chase away the white ones. The coastal breeze makes them move swiftly. I know it’s silly, but it was fun for us. It was like the only place where we could be loud, wild, uninhibited, just us.”
“I’m glad you two had that place.”
I want to say I’m glad, too, but I can’t. As much as I love the good childhood memories we made there, it’s the backdrop of some of my worst, too.
“Don’t look now, but they’ve found us,” he mumbles, slipping his sunglasses back on and lifting his drink to his lips.
“Who found us?” Panic washes over me thinking Patrick and my father have somehow followed me here and will force me to leave. I mean, technically I know I’m an adult and they can’t force me to do anything, but they just have this way about them that fills me with dread and jumbled nerves.
“Paparazzi.”
Paparazzi.
Groaning, I drop my head forward, and pieces of my hair swing in front of my face, alerting me to the fact that I look disheveled and not put together.
“How do you think he found us?” I whisper.
I close my eyes and fight the urge to freak out, trying to compose myself. Needing to sort out my thoughts, I realize they fall into one of three categories: succumbing to the feeling of propriety that’s been instilled in me since birth, rebelling because I should be able to live my life like I want without worrying if pieces of my hair are blowing in the wind, and deciding on what I want to do and who I want to be as I’m trying to start living my life for me.
“I’m not sure. He must have trailed us.”
Ultimately, I decide it’s a combination of the first and the third. Yes, I am trying to start a new life, but currently there is someone else in this life, and I should put my best effort forward for him as well.
Taking a deep breath, I sit up straight, smooth my clothes down, and cross my ankles, tucking them under the chair. Next, I undo the loose ponytail my hair is in, gather it, and
wrap it in a tight bun at the base of my head. I reach under the chair, grab my hat, and put it on. Pulling out some lip gloss, I apply it, return my sunglasses to my face, and fold my hands in my lap. Sitting up straight, I smile. Reid is watching me and frowning.
Through the black tint of his sunglasses, he pins me with a narrowed stare. “What are you doing?”
I give him my perfected polite expression and lightly shrug my shoulders to play off my actions as no big deal. Looking around the patio, I take in where I’m sitting and what the background of the photos might entail.
“Don’t you know appearances are everything? I learned a long time ago to always be prepared. I’m actually surprised I slipped like I did by allowing myself to get so casual. Maybe it’s because we’re here and it’s so easy to be with you, I don’t know, but in Savannah, I can’t go anywhere without being recognized. Here it’s probably you. People know you.”
His frown deepens as if I’ve somehow insulted him.
“Reid, one hundred times over, they’d rather have the bad shot instead of the good one. The tabloids and the general public eat that up, which is why I can’t give them an opportunity.” I’m feeling defensive, and I hate that he’s making me feel this way—or is he? Maybe I’m making myself feel this way.
“You know you’re being crazy, right?”
“Am I? Messy hair means I’m stressed. No makeup means I’m letting myself go or I’m depressed. A lot of food on my plate and I’m eating for two. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. You’ll be in these photos, and I am now a reflection of your choices, too.”
“Camille.” At the way he says my name, the tenor of it on his lips, my chest tightens with affection. “Who cares? I certainly don’t care what you look like. I think you’re beautiful whether you’re dressed up for our wedding or climbing out of bed in the morning. It’s all the same to me, because all of it is you. You have to live your life, and you can’t be worried about what others think all the time.”
He said ‘our wedding,’ and I think a piece of my heart broke off and blew his way.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
Chasing Clouds Page 12
