Let it out for me? Who did he think he was?
“You.” I stabbed his chest with my finger. Anger swirling up my throat. “You are so exasperating that I can’t.” Another jab. “I can’t with you, you stubborn, know-it-all, curmudgeon of a man!”
My words hung in the air as Cameron looked at me with a face I didn’t understand. A face that wasn’t frustrated or angry or even remotely unhappy. In fact, it was the opposite.
“What’s a curmudgeon?” María said. “Is it the thing that Grandpa Moe got on his butt?”
I turned my head slowly, confirming María and Tony had returned. The nine-year-old was holding a grease-stained brown box and the teen was looking down at his sister with an expression of pure horror.
“Shut up, María,” Tony whispered loudly. But then he turned toward us. And his eyes landed on Cameron. They widened.
“Why?” she continued, glancing up at her brother. “They were talking about asses, and Coach Kisscam always looks like he’s angry about something.”
Tony remained silent, his face etched in a mix of shock and awe that I recognized well. He was starstruck. The kid had to know exactly who Cameron was and it looked a lot like he was finding out for the first time. “Don’t call him that,” he murmured, coming into himself. “He’s Cameron—”
“He’s just Cameron,” I stepped forward. Meeting the teenager’s eyes. My voice had been a little harsh. I cleared my throat. “Or Coach Cam.” I stepped back. “And we should really head home.”
There was a beat of silence.
María sighed. “Honestly, I would be angry, too, if I had a giant thing on my bu—”
Tony pinched her side. “Clip it, stinky monster.”
“Hey!” María complained. “I’m not a monster! And one day I’m going to be a boss-lady like Miss Adalyn. And I’ll kick your ass with my high heels like I know she does to anyone that calls her stinky.”
My chest felt like it had been filled with concrete and I… God.
All the fight escaped me.
I couldn’t believe how or why someone would say that when I was nothing but a trainwreck who apparently called infuriating men names with minimal provocation, ripped mascot heads off costumes, was the face of an energy drink that praised entertainment over dignity, and fell into goat poo.
I’d never been liked or admired by anyone that fiercely. Like María seemed to do.
A hand fell on the small of my back, and when I was told, almost too softly, “Let’s go get your things, darling. I’ll walk you to your car,” I went. Not even questioning when that very same hand dropped and brushed the back of mine as we walked away.
I was beginning to understand just how exhausted I was from questioning every single thing in life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Adalyn
We were at the Vasquez farm again.
Only this time, there weren’t any yoga mats or fluffy farm animals jumping and bleating around. It was a Friday evening, the sun had already set, and I was holding my right limited-edition Manolo Blahnik in my hands.
Cameron killed the engine of his truck and got out of the vehicle. He wordlessly pointed at the shoe and shot me a questioning glance.
“The heel snapped,” I explained in an unamused tone. Because how would I be amused? In one hand I lifted the beautiful, lavish stiletto I’d been stupid enough to wear, the heel in the other hand. “While I was waiting for you.”
The truth was I’d been pacing. On pebbled and clearly dangerous terrain. But he was late and I… Well, I hadn’t wanted to venture alone into the barn where tonight’s activity was taking place. Cameron Caldani wasn’t good company, but he was the lesser evil.
Cameron frowned. He frowned. Like he didn’t understand. The last thing I needed was attitude. “Don’t look at me like that,” I deadpanned.
“Like what?” He finally crossed the distance between us and stopped in front of me. His gaze dipped and stopped at my naked foot. He sighed. “Maybe if you weren’t parading around in those bloody things. But that’s nothing I haven’t told you before.”
“？‘In those bloody things’？” I was outraged on behalf of my shoes. “These are Manolo Blahniks.” His lips bent downward, as if the name didn’t ring any bell. I pushed the loose heel into my pocket and returned the remainder of the shoe to my foot. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how much these are worth. You lived in L.A. for years,” I told him, turning around. “And you even dated Jasmine Hill.” I started marching forward. “No one dates a fashion brand ambassador and comes out of that relationship unchanged. Not even someone who dresses in moss-green or boulder-gray technical pants most of the time.”