The Long Game (Long Game, #1)(44)

I stared at the man sitting nothing but a handful of inches away from me, surprised by his choice of words. That was… a loaded question. One that I didn’t know how to answer without giving myself completely away. Because for some bizarre reason, Cameron didn’t know what had brought me to Green Oak. He hadn’t seen the video half the country was mocking. I remembered him asking if I’d had a reason for whatever I’d done and being content with my answer. He didn’t want the whole story. And perhaps I was fine with that.

“I have a life, if that’s what you’re asking,” I told him.

Cameron shook his head, as if that wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

“I have a job and hobbies,” I insisted, even though I was quickly realizing I didn’t have either. “I do home renovation.”

“Darling,” he drawled, a chuckle following that word. The sound made me think of his laughter. My stomach tumbled. I didn’t like it. “You can’t renovate shit clad in a pantsuit and armed with a hammer.”

“I also have a screwdriver,” I countered. “And I’m not wearing a suit.”

“Believe me, I know. I have eyes.”

I frowned. What did that even mean? “I’m not a lonely, sad workaholic,” I felt the need to say. “I have a life,” I repeated. “I listen to podcasts. True crime. I have an impressive memory, too. I can recite the complete roster of the Green Warriors to you right now. Or Green Oak’s activity brochure, point by point. I could even enumerate every—”

Every single thing you’ve accomplished. Award and trophy you’ve won. Championship you’ve played. I can even recite the number of saves you made in the last World Cup you played. That was how good my memory was.

That was also how much I’d read about Cameron by now.

God. I really needed a hobby.

“So that’s what you’re listening to while brandishing that hammer,” Cameron muttered. “Bloody murder.” Another chuckle left him and I—I really hated how distracting that sound was. “Still not a hobby, though.”

“I didn’t know I was talking to the hobby police.”

“Darling—”

“I’d rather you didn’t call me that.”

Amusement entered his expression. “Listening to podcasts is something you do while doing something else, like home renovation—if you were really into that.” He glanced at my hair and gave me an unimpressed look. “And having good memory is a skill, not a hobby.”

“Fine.” I clicked my tongue. “What about you, then? What is a retired pro soccer player doing with all this free time on his hands?”

His eyes roamed around my face slowly, and for a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer. That he would stand up and leave. It wouldn’t be the first time he got skittish after I brought his career up.

But to my surprise, he said, “I hike. Camp. I love the outdoors. And I do yoga, too. Not the kind we did on Sunday.”

And just like that, hundreds of mental images of Cameron were flashing behind my eyes. I’d never had much of an imagination, but it didn’t take one to picture Cameron on any of those instances. All those outdoorsy clothes on him, skin dripping with sweat, lost somewhere on a trail. Or the muscles I’d seen firsthand flexing as he did a plank. I…

“Well,” I breathed out. “It’s hard to picture you doing anything besides grumbling.”

Cameron barked out a laugh, the sound traveling all the way to the bottom of my belly. Ugh. “I meditate, too,” he offered.

More images came, floating freely into my mind. “You meditate?”

“Among other things, yeah.”

I swallowed, now suddenly frustrated by this man who apparently was full of surprises. “If you tell me you also knit, I will stand up, leave, and never believe a word you say.”

“I don’t knit.” He tilted his head in thought. “Although I tried. I’ve tried many different things.” Well, that was just fantastic and not making me feel like a hobby-less person at all. He continued, “It’s said to be good to keep your mind off things. To disconnect. To appease your mind when it gets too loud.” He lifted one of those paw-hands in the air. “But my fingers are too big and battered for it, and I have little patience.”

I could have said that I knew how little patience he had, but I was busy taking the chance to inspect that hand up close. In detail. Without needing an excuse to. Just like I’d glimpsed in the past, he did have long and strong-looking fingers. Rough-looking, too. And his middle one in particular was crooked, like I’d seen the day we’d met, as if he’d broken it and it hadn’t healed right. The signet around his pinky sparkled under the last rays of sun.

“You should try,” he said.

“Knitting?”

“Taking your mind off things. Stop overthinking and overanalyzing every single second of your and everybody else’s life. Stop measuring each word that leaves anyone’s mouth. Yours included.”

I felt myself swallow. “I don’t do that,” I said, but my voice was pitchy. I was whining. I seemed to be constantly doing that and I hated it. “I’m perfectly able to take my mind off things and relax. I could try any hobby I wanted and be excellent at it, too. I could beat you at yoga if…” Your hands hadn’t been all over me. “I practiced enough.”