Bringing Home Mr. Wrong (Bringing Home Trouble)

Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

Camila

The delicate scent of gingerbread and pine fills the air as I descend the stairs, my heart fluttering like the lights on the tree. John stands by the fireplace, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. The distance between us feels electric, yet uncrossable.

"Merry Christmas, Camila," he says, his voice low and warm like honey.

"Merry Christmas," I manage, my words nearly catching in my throat. I ache to go to him, to lose myself in his embrace, but Dad's footsteps behind me tether me in place.

"Camila, can I talk to you for a sec?" Dad asks, his brow furrowed with concern.

Reluctantly, I tear my eyes from John and follow Dad into the kitchen. He studies me, his expression a mix of confusion and worry.

"Is everything okay, sweetie? You seem...distracted lately."

"I'm fine, Dad. Just stressed about school, that's all." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I hate deceiving him, but the truth is too terrifying to voice.

Dad nods slowly, unconvinced. "You know you can always talk to me, right? About anything."

"I know. Thanks, Dad." I force a smile, guilt twisting like a knife in my gut.

As Dad leaves to check on the turkey, John appears in the doorway, his presence filling the room. He steps closer, his fingertips grazing my arm, igniting a fire beneath my skin.

"Come over later," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. "I have something for you."

I nod, yearning and apprehension warring within me. This secret is becoming too heavy to bear, but the thought of losing John is unbearable.

Hours later, I find myself on John's doorstep, my heart in my throat. He welcomes me inside, the house aglow with soft light and unspoken promises.

We settle on the couch, thighs brushing, the air between us thick with longing. John reaches beneath the tree and retrieves a small, wrapped box.

"Open it," he urges gently, eyes shimmering with emotion.

With trembling fingers, I tear away the paper to reveal a delicate silver locket. Inside, a tiny sketch of us together, rendered in exquisite detail.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. "I love it."

"And I love you," John murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "More than I ever thought possible."

I lean into his touch, my heart swelling with certainty.

"I'm ready," I breathe, my forehead resting against his. "I want to tell my dad about us. I don't want to hide anymore."

John's eyes search mine, a mixture of hope and hesitation swirling in their depths. "Are you sure, Camila? I don't want you to do anything you're not ready for."

"I've never been more sure of anything," I say, my voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach. "You're what I want, John. You're my future."

A slow smile spreads across John's face, his hand cupping my cheek with infinite tenderness. "You're my everything," he whispers, his lips brushing against mine.

The kiss starts soft and sweet, a gentle exploration of love long denied. But as John's arms tighten around me, the heat between us ignites into a fiery blaze. I melt into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still. The locket dangles between us, a symbol of our unbreakable bond.

John lowers me onto the couch, his body covering mine, our limbs intertwined like vines seeking sunlight. His mouth trails scorching kisses down my neck as his hands skim over my curves, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I arch into his touch, a breathy moan escaping my lips.

Lost in a haze of sensation, we almost don't hear the sound of the front door opening. But the sharp intake of breath that follows snaps us back to reality with dizzying speed.

"What the hell is going on here?" My father's voice cracks like a whip, fury and disbelief etched into every line of his face.

John and I spring apart, but it's too late. The damning evidence of our passion is written plainly across our swollen lips and rumpled clothing.

"Dad, I can explain," I begin, my voice shaking as I rise on unsteady feet.

"Explain? Explain how my daughter is wrapped around my best friend on his couch? How long has this been going on?" Dad demands, his face mottled red with anger.

John stands beside me, his hand finding mine, anchoring me. "Frank, please, just let us?—"

"No!" Dad cuts him off. "I trusted you, John. I trusted you with my little girl, and this is how you repay me?"

"It's not like that," I protest, tears stinging my eyes. "We didn't plan this, it just...happened. But it's real, Dad. I love him."

Dad reels back as if I've slapped him, pain and betrayal flickering across his features. "Love? You're just a child, Camila. You don't know what love is."

"I'm not a child anymore," I say softly, my heart breaking at the hurt in his eyes. "And I do know what love is.”

I move closer to John, reaffirming my stance as I square my shoulders. “I’m an adult, Dad, and you can’t stop me. I’m going to be with John.”

My dad turns his angry gaze to John. “Over my dead body.”

Uh-oh.