Page 8 of The Real

“That’s because you’re scary,” she said with a grin, back to her playful self. I curled my lip at her. “You are. Your resting bitch face is pretty but scary. And in the last year, it’s gotten worse. Your bitch face reads ‘Abandon all hope. You can’t stick your penis here.’ But, by the way, he just looked at you. I think it’s safe to say he gives no shits. He wants to put his penis into your vagina.”

“Bree,” I scolded through gritted teeth.

“It’s been a year. A year,” she stressed in a whisper. “That’s too long, Abbie. I know what happened with Luke freaked you out, but you can’t let him win.”

; I shook my head to keep the conversation short. It was the last thing I wanted to think about right now.

“I’m good. I promise. I even told him—Cameron,” I whispered, “that I was sorry for turning him down.”

She looked up at the ceiling—her version of an eye roll.

“Well, I guess that’s a start. And he’s not deterred. He must be new to the neighborhood. If I weren’t madly in love and set on forever with Anthony, I’d rock the shit out of that.”

“You can’t do things like that anymore,” I said in a sing-song voice as I lifted my drink and wrinkled my nose.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been dying to say that.”

Shrugging, I glanced Cameron’s way, and his eyes were already fixed on me. A spark ignited flames that began to race through my veins, my whole body gravitating in his direction. I mouthed a “Hi” and he winked.

How long had he been there?

“Damn, girl, he looks good on you,” Bree said with enthusiasm, picking up her drink and twisting back to speak to Cameron.

Oh, my God. My body tensed with dread, although I should’ve expected nothing less from her.

“She likes caramel lattes, men who know the clitoris isn’t a fictional character, and real Christmas trees,” she informed him as if he was suffering from hearing loss.

Cameron’s hot gaze remained on me, his grin lifting with each word she spoke.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, unfazed by her directness, his stare lingering before he gave her his full attention. “Congrats, I’ve always wanted to go to the fairy pools.”

“Thanks,” Bree said as my breath hitched. Had he heard every word? Probably not, but I was sure that he’d heard Bree’s words because she didn’t know how to talk without yelling. I’d grown used to it over the years, but The Violet Hour wasn’t the best place to catch up with a tone-deaf southerner. My face flooded with embarrassment as more drinks were delivered and our waitress leaned in.

“The gentlemen wanted me to ask about not having coffee on Saturday?”

“Did he?” Bree mused slyly before she turned back to Cameron. “She’ll be there at eleven. The girl is a night owl and is fond of her sleep.”

Cameron’s lips twitched in amusement at Bree’s candor. “Noted, and thank you . . .”

“I’m Bree,” she said, tipping her cup his way.

“Thank you, Bree.”

He stood, shaking hands with his tablemate, just as a tall brunette approached him. I continued to stare as she took Cameron’s hand in greeting and then let out another breath of relief when she made herself comfortable in his newly abandoned seat.

Not with her. He’s not with her.

And neither was his attention. He made it a point to catch my eyes before he disappeared behind the curtain.

“That was some serious eye fucking,” Bree said. “He’s huge, like . . . damn. I bet he played football or something sexier. Ooohhh, rugby.” She waggled her brows as I sank into my chair. “Bree,” I hissed. “Why, woman? Why would you do that? I just told you I turned him down.”

“Now listen here, heifer,” she said, as I rubbed my temples in an attempt to keep my hands from circling her neck. Bree loved calling me a cow when she had a point to make. She claimed it was a southern thing. “That horse there is the one you are going to climb on to get back into the big parade. Call it what you will, ‘Abbie got her groove back’ or ‘Abbie got her back broke.’ I don’t care. But you will be at the coffee shop this Saturday, and you will be receptive to that fine-ass man. Do you hear me?”

A collective “yes” was hissed in all directions at us. I had no choice but to brush it off because it was the norm. Bree had been told to quiet down at a concert. Who in the hell gets told to quiet down at a concert? Bree, that was who. She sat back, satisfied with her spectacle, as she pitched her voice toward the chairs around us. “Good, then you can each buy me a drink to celebrate my upcoming nuptials.”

“Hey, Abbie, how was your weekend?” Kat called out as I walked past her office door and set down my soaked tote next to my desk. I went to greet her and found her thumbing through a folder. I looked like a wet mutt, but she didn’t have a hair out of place. I studied her carefully to test the waters. Kat was beautiful, very Snow White in appearance with dark hair, pale skin, and red lips, but at times she had an odd temperament. She was one of those women whose mood you had to gauge to decide if she was having one of those days.