Into You Series: The Complete Collection

6. Cameron

CHAPTER 6

CAMERON

B eer Fridays normally go like this: Chat with Ian, drink a bit, play beer pong, drink a bit, play darts, drink a bit, rinse and repeat. But it seems like the next two Fridays will consist of drinking only a little and then working behind the bar pouring said drinks. And unfortunately, I didn’t even get time to play beer pong or darts before coming back to volunteer, since I was interrupted by Grace Holmes.

The new girl is a little firecracker and probably the last person I need under me as a new manager. I can tell we’re going to have issues and, even if I’m ready for the challenge, I’m a bit irritated that it exists this soon into the game. Even those combat boots of hers really add to the whole “watch out I’ll take you down” vibe.

I might find it cute if it didn’t irritate me.

There’s no way I’m letting some junior designer undermine my first month as a manager. But, judging by Grace’s response, I doubt she’ll get any better. It’s fine. She’ll be in for a rude awakening soon enough. All bright-eyed designers do.

I’ll get right on that.

The sass, I swear.

I spend the rest of Beer Friday slinging drinks and trying not to think of Grace’s attitude. But once that leaves my mind, all I have left are thoughts of Abby. After five years, I’m tired of late-night fights over who did the dishes, or why I don’t pursue my dream of architecture design, or who took Buddy on a walk most recently. The poor dog doesn’t need to see fighting parents that often.

I bet she went out tonight. I bet she’s wearing that top that drives me bananas—or maybe the other one that shows most of her toned back. God, I miss looking at that back from behind.

Our bedroom has been drier than the desert for months.

I try to remember the last time Abby came to Beer Friday with me, and frown. It’s been about a year. I miss seeing her hanging around the warehouse—walking around in that top, beer in hand, smiling at me from across the room …

Tonight has gotten me far more worked up than I need to be. Unfortunately for me, volunteers work until the company stops partying at around ten o’clock, and then they help clean up. By the time I get back home, she’ll be in pajamas and passed out.

After this week’s fight, I want to make it up to her. I want to show her I can be the Cameron she fell in love with. I don’t know who she thinks I am now, but I’m still me. And I love her.

I wave over Ian at around eight o’clock and convince him to take over for me for the rest of the night. This may have taken some bribing and promises that I’ll pay for lunch next week, but by the time I head out, it’s nine o’clock. I should be able to make it home just in time to set up a candle or two before Abby gets back from hanging out with her friends. Maybe she’ll think it’s sweet and I’ll see her smile. Not sure the last time I saw something shot in my direction that wasn’t a scowl from her, but it’s worth a shot.

I drop by the convenience store, pick up some candles, and hurry home.

When I pull up to the driveway, Abby’s little black Audi is already there. Dang, she must be intending to drink a lot tonight if she’s getting a DD to take her out. But when I open the front door and hear the unmistakable sound of Kitchen Nightmares , confusion sets in.

Is she home?

I hop up the stairs, realizing that even the thought of my girlfriend in her little sheep pajamas is getting me excited. But there’s no sexy girlfriend sitting in her animal print pjs on the sofa. Only a man.

A naked man.

A naked man with his bush-covered balls on my leather couch. In his hand is a glass Abby got me for our anniversary last year—the one that says “#1 Boyfriend.”

Is that my scotch in there?

My stomach drops down into my balls and then plummets even farther into my legs. There’s buzzing in my ears, my temperature rises; I’m having trouble thinking words—let alone saying them.

“Who the hell are you?” the stranger demands, a thick French accent obscuring his words so that I almost can’t understand him.

I don’t know what’s worse: The fact that he doesn’t know this is my house, or that he’s so confident in himself he doesn’t even consider covering his privates.

“Frank, it’s your turn to walk the dog,” Abby calls. “He keeps barking.”

She walks in, just as naked as I was imagining her. Toned, beautiful … and definitely not in her birthday suit for my pleasure. She stops and her jaw drops.

“Oh no.”

I’ll take the honest reaction. At least she didn’t come up with an excuse; the evidence is damning enough.

I grimace. “Yeah. ‘ Oh no .’”

The French guy starts yelling, “Abby, who is this guy?”

I say nothing as Abby bites her lip in response. She looks up at the ceiling and her eyelashes flutter. Is she fighting back tears?

Around the corner comes Buddy, my golden retriever and best friend. He rushes toward me, tongue lolling out of his mouth happy as can be, unaware of the situation. I want to take him and run, but with a small yelp, Frank the French man yanks Buddy by the collar.

“No. Bad dog.”

Bad dog? Bad dog?!

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, and I sure hope Frank can look back on his life with regret. Blood pumps through my veins like fire and every step I take toward him only fuels my rage. I can’t see anything around me through my tunnel vision except his hook-nosed, tiny mustached, weasel face.

So, I do what any semi-logical pet-owner would do: I punch the guy that yanked my dog.