My sarcasm might have chased a less determined man away, but Camden stayed put and smiled at me.
And I liked that he did.
Ugh.
Now I felt bad for being snarky when he was at least pretending to be polite. “Do you have a question for me?”
“What?”
“Whenever you see me you have a million questions.” I wanted him to know that he wasn’t being nearly as smooth as he thought he was, and I’d noticed his pointed questions from the beginning, even before I knew that he suspected me of planning some nefarious scheme.
He looked slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t you, though?”
He didn’t refute my statement. He couldn’t, because it was true.
Part of me wondered if I should tell him that I knew exactly what he was up to and bring all of this to a screeching halt.
Or if I should keep letting him dangle on this hook.
CHAPTER SIX
I didn’t confront him because I didn’t know if it was the right thing to do. Sadie hadn’t said one way or another if she was okay with me telling him what she had shared with me. It was my job at weddings to avoid scenes, not create them.
Instead I stayed quiet and he seemed to take this as some sort of permission to forge ahead and ask those questions I knew he had rattling around inside his brain.
“Okay then . . . how old are you?” he asked, and I didn’t know if it was because it was the first question that occurred to him or if it was part of the background check he was trying to conduct on me.
Sadie was a couple of years younger than me, which made our “we’re friends from camp” story a little more unbelievable.
I’d learned early on in my job that one of the best ways to deflect questions you didn’t want to answer was to ask a question in return. “How old do I look?”
“Oh no, Dan’s dad taught me that when a woman asks you that, it’s always a trap.”
Dan’s dad? I wondered why not his own father. Would he tell me what that meant if I asked? I got the feeling he wouldn’t. Maybe I could skirt around the subject and get him to reveal more. “You said your dad ran track?”
If he noticed my change of subject, he didn’t acknowledge it. “Yes, he did. That’s why I used to run.”
Camden certainly had an athlete’s build. “Used to?”
“Long story short, I was training for the Olympics and stopped when I hurt my knee.”
He tugged the hem of his shorts up slightly, and he had multiple scars across the surface. It looked like he’d taken shrapnel in a war zone or something. I found myself wanting to ask about it. He had been training for the Olympics? That took some serious talent and dedication. How had he hurt himself?
I couldn’t stop my curiosity, the desire I had to know more about him. I wondered whether under different circumstances his feigned interest in me might have been real.
Irene exited the bathroom and for a moment my heart lifted, like she was going to come back and save me from Camden.
But not in the “I need to get away from this guy because he’s annoying me” kind of way. More of a “I’m liking him more than I should and want to know things about him and this obviously spells eternal doom so please, Irene, save me from the madness before I do something really stupid” way.
Camden followed my gaze and announced, “Irene likes you. I can tell.”
I tried not to preen under the approval in his voice. “Still watching me, Mr. Stalker?”
His lazy grin told me he could hear how my question lacked conviction. “It was sweet. The way you wanted to help her stand up.”
“How would you even know that?”
“From the way you were sitting, perched on the edge of your seat, leaning toward her, your hands folded tightly in your lap.” Now he was the one leaning in, and every single cell in my body tingled in response to his closeness. “I happen to be fluent in body language.”
“I just bet you are.” I sighed, the words escaping before I could stop them. There was a fiery intensity that looked like desire in his eyes, as if he wanted something more. Something real.
It died out quickly and he angled himself away, trying not to be obvious about it. Which was a good thing. Because he was trying to trick me.
A pang of regret did hit me hard, though.
Which was probably what prompted me to blurt out, “You told Irene I’m beautiful.”
Even if I hadn’t meant to say it, I did want to see his reaction. Would he deny it? Brush it off? Try to use it to his advantage?