Tempt Our Fate (Sutten Mountain, #2)(24)

My cheeks puff out in frustration because I’ve been caught in a lie. Worse, in front of Camden, who beams so wide I might actually find it charming if I didn’t know the smile was at my expense.

Miss Mary gets us all packaged up, and Camden listens to her talk about her five grandchildren. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who does small talk with strangers. In fact, his harsh, rude personality strikes me as quite the opposite. I always thought he came off as entitled, meaning he thought he was better than everyone else. Instead, he’s showing little glimpses of himself that make me question what I really do and don’t know about him.

I reach to grab the little bag from his hand as we walk by a few more additional booths, but he pulls it from my reach. “I’ll carry it.” His tone makes it seem like there’s no further room for discussion.

“I can carry my own bag.”

He stops in his tracks, disrupting the flow of traffic for a minute. Shoppers funnel around us as Camden looks down at me. “You can do a lot of things. It doesn’t mean you should have to.” And with that, he begins to lead the way toward something that’s caught his eye.





15





CAMDEN





I’ve come to the conclusion that all the stereotypes about small towns are true. Starting with the idea that everyone knows everyone.

Pippa is the perfect example of that. We can’t walk a few steps without someone stopping to talk to her. Whether it’s someone begging for her to finally share her buttercream icing recipe or someone asking how her family is doing, she’s always talking with somebody else about something. Some people ask who I am, some of them don’t. Most of them don’t seem to care who I am; they just want to speak with her.

I don’t know if Pippa realizes it or not, but the people in this town love her. Their faces get brighter, their smiles get wider, and they seem captivated by every word she says to them. I was put off by the idea of coming here when she first told me what we were doing, but now I’m almost grateful she brought me. I’m fascinated by how much everyone seems to love her in this town. I’m really just fascinated by her.

She talks to every single person like she genuinely cares what they’re saying. There was the woman who was telling her that her four-month-old was going through a sleep regression and she felt like she hadn’t slept for days, so Pippa offered to come watch the baby sometime so the mom could sleep. Or the old lady who complained about her printer not working, so Pippa offered to come over and fix it. There are countless different instances of this, and as she speaks with yet another person, I focus on one of the questions that keeps being asked.

In one way or another, she keeps getting asked how her family is doing. But it doesn’t seem like a polite question in passing conversation. They all seem concerned while asking it. Or that the question is taboo. And her answers give me no clues on what they could be talking about.

And I want to know. I wish I knew. I’ve never cared about being an outsider, but for the first time, I just wish I knew what everyone else knows when it comes to her.

“Yay!” Pippa claps her hands together before she pulls me to a booth with black draping and the words “Tommy Does Art” on a banner across the front of the table. “Camden, you have to meet Tommy.”

The guy sitting at the table looks like he hasn’t even graduated high school yet. Or if he has, it wasn’t too long ago. He’s got brown hair that’s buzzed to the scalp, and he watches me with brown eyes almost the same color as his hair. “Did you bring a friend or something today?” the kid asks, his voice confirming my first thought that he may not even be out of high school yet.

“Or something,” Pippa begins, pulling me closer to the table so I stand right next to her. “Tommy, I’d like for you to meet Camden Hunter.”

His chair falls backward and hits the gym floor with a loud thump. He wipes his hands on the front of his paint-stained jeans. “Camden Hunter,” he rushes out, his words jumbling together making my full name sound like one long name. “Like the Camden Hunter?” His tone goes up an octave as he repeatedly wipes his hands on his clothes.

“I don’t know how many Camden Hunters there are, but it is my name.” I hold out my hand to shake his, but he just stares at my waiting hand in awe.

I freeze, not knowing what I’m supposed to do in this situation. Do I stop the handshake? Wait for this kid to get it together and just look awkward while doing it?

Lucky for me, the kid finally puts his hand in mine and shakes it. “I can’t believe I’m meeting Camden Hunter,” he breathes.

“I promise you he’s not that cool,” Pippa pipes up.

Tommy looks at her in disbelief. As if she’d just told him men never walked on the moon or that George Clooney had just retired from acting. “Not that cool?” He looks from Pippa to me. “You’re a legend.” His eyes bounce around the art displayed around him. “And your eyeballs have landed on my art. Holy shit.”

I follow his gaze, looking at the pieces hanging in the booth. “Are these yours?”

“Yes,” he squeaks.

“Can I get closer?” I ask, already taking a step around the table to walk behind it.

“You can do anything you want,” the kid—Tommy—answers, backing away as if I need that much space to get behind the table.