11. Daphne

Chapter 11

Daphne

Cameron

I’ll be there at three on the dot.

Daphne

Cool. :)

A series of tap-tap-tap s comes from my front door. I pause, not wanting Cameron to think I’ve been pacing by the door waiting for him like a lovelorn heroine in a cheesy rom-com.

Because I haven’t—at least, not for more than fifteen minutes.

The day whirled by as I penned a rough agenda for my knitting retreat, created a shiny new page on my website for sign-ups, and planned out my content for the month.

I know better than to believe the grumpy, brooding man haunting our apartment complex is gone for good, but everyone deserves a second chance. Being friends with someone I’ve seen naked…that’ll be a feat in itself. Sure, this might be one of those mistakes I told Juni I needed to make, but maybe that’s okay. I’ll learn, grow, and clean up any mess that comes my way.

Another knock comes. Be cool, Daphne. Be cool.

I open the door. Cameron occupies the entire frame. His black leather jacket conceals a dark sweater that matches the rest of his grim outfit. The small golden hoop dangles from his left ear. Despite his solemn appearance, he’s dreamy.

I swallow. Be fucking chill, girl.

“Oh, it’s you,” I say in a breathy voice, casually leaning against the door. My socks slide across the floor as my body slowly slithers toward the floor. I readjust.

“Like I promised.”

“Cool, I just finished shooting.”

He glances into my apartment, which is a carefully curated chaotic display of outfits tossed everywhere, surrounded by props and lightboxes. In the corner, my tripod stands ready, my phone still clinging to it, capturing the aftermath of the day.

“Good.”

“Are we making a stop at a funeral?” I tease. “Or is the all-black outfit for an emo concert you’re taking me to?”

“This is charcoal .” He shoots me a playfully disappointed look.

“My sincerest apologies.”

“Did you make your outfit?” He gestures to my striped, cable-knit sweater woven in hues of pink, yellow, and orange yarn with a matching skirt.

“I did. It’s the second skirt I ever had fit me properly after blocking it.”

“Blocking?”

“It’s like giving your finished piece a spa day. You soak it until it’s sopping wet, or, you know, steam it. Then you use your hands to stretch it nice and taut, and then you let it dry!”

“That’s—uh,” he stutters, palming the back of his neck in that cute, boyish way. His pupils swallow the brown of his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps. Did I say something? “Guess you could say we both block balls.”

“Was that an actual joke?” I snort, playfully nudging his shoulder. “We must really be friends.”

“Well, give it a spin,” he says.

“A spin?”

“So I can see your skirt. I have a very sudden interest in knitting.”

“Oh!” I blush.

“Come on.” He tips his head at me. “The full three-sixty.”

I swallow and twirl. He makes a noncommittal sound. Has the hallway suddenly gotten warmer? I never feel particularly sexy, but as his gaze trails over my legs, the confidence he roused in me returns full force.

“Since you’re suddenly interested in knitting, I’ll have to give you a real lesson soon.” I smirk, and he nods. “So, can you tell me where we’re going? I hate surprises.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for someone who hates surprises.”

“There you go again with the assumptions,” I say, needling.

“I’ll need to cut it out or you’ll have me on the ground doing push-ups again.”

I let out a noise between a gasp and a laugh. “I’m glad you’re finally understanding how this relationship is going to work.”

“We’re going to a garden. Just wear comfortable shoes.” The gentle firmness in his voice shoots a shiver up my spine.

“Yes, sir.”

A little harmless flirting is okay between friends, right? I slip on the boots beside my “Knit Happens” welcome mat.

“Did you get the apology gift I left for you?” Cameron asks from above me.

The day after we were trapped together, a soft-serve ice cream maker showed up at my door. At first, I didn’t know if I should accept it, but who am I kidding? I like nice things, and if Mr. Grumpy Pants wants to max out his credit card trying to make up for how he acted, I won’t stop him.

“I did, but you can’t buy your way into an apology.”

“That’s not what—”

“Also, I like milkshakes, not soft serve,” I deadpan.

He frowns. “I—”

“I’m messing with you, Goose. It was one of the sweetest gifts I’ve ever received, thank you. If today goes well, I may even invite you over for a special treat.”

That look blooms over his features again, but it extinguishes when I finally stand. “I don’t do sugar, remember?”

“You didn’t do friends either, but look at us!” He cocks his head, and I piece together the insinuation. “I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that you may change your mind. If you don’t, then you can do your push-ups, and I’ll be horizontal on the couch, enjoying my dessert.”

“Sounds like you’d enjoy that.”

“I might!” I chirp, shrugging on my coat. “Lead the way.”

We make like birds and swoop down the stairs, bypassing the ghost town that is the common room. Only a couple more episodes of Lust Island are left this season, but the guys and I are set on maintaining our Wednesday night knitting circle and reality TV tradition. Next up on the docket is The Great British Bake Off . There’s still a month and a half until the auction for Femi, and with only Sven having an auction-worthy scarf ready, the rest of the guys need to catch up.

Maybe Cameron will cave and join us eventually. He’d probably see a kindred spirit in Paul Hollywood’s stern and serious demeanor. Actually, he and Paul are two peas in a pod. Both are equipped with a hard exterior and a soft, warm center.

Like an éclair.

Aw! Cameron is just a grumpy éclair.

The early October air bites at my skin as I step outside. The scent of fallen leaves, damp earth, and smoke hangs heavy in the air. I trail after him down the sidewalk until Cameron circles around a car, one that could more accurately be described as a metallic panther, and gallantly opens the passenger door for me.

“Get in.” He tosses his head toward the seat.

“This is your car?” I stand frozen with shock.

The shiny black exterior gleams even beneath the overcast sky. It’s low to the ground and has headlights that resemble a predator’s eyeballs. In so many ways, it’s the only car a brooding guy like him could have.

“I don’t do the Tube,” he says.

“This thing must’ve cost a fortune.”

“My baby sister, Frankie, designed it. She’s a junior driver this year.”

“Huh?”

“F1. Motorsport.”

“That’s so cool.” I bet everyone in the Hastings family is as impressive as Cameron. “Growing up, my sister and I shared a Prius, but I haven’t driven much since moving to San Francisco eight years ago.”

“Want to take it for a ride?” He shoots me an unfairly charming smirk.

My mind, traitorous thing that it is, screams, YES PLEASE!

“Not even an hour into our little rendezvous, and already you’re giving me the chance to say yes. Kudos to you, sir. Kudos.”

With a grace that’s utterly infuriating in its elegance, he slides into the passenger seat, leaning over to pop open the driver’s door for me. “Get in the car, Daphne.”

The car’s interior exudes luxury, with plush black leather seats and gleaming surfaces. The driver’s seat is set too far back for my small frame, and he reaches over to adjust it. His earthy scent overwhelms me. I have to resist the urge to lean in for another sniff.

“All right, this is nothing like a Prius,” I admit.

“You’re going to start the engine.” He points to the button on the steering wheel, and I press it. I wrap my hand around the black leather steering wheel. Between us, there are switches with lettering on them, and he toggles a few. “Now, you’re going to want to—”

“I got this.” I cut him off, swatting his hand away. I can handle this. I buckle up, check my mirrors, and awkwardly crane my neck to scope out the road from my left. This can’t be that hard. I press my foot on the gas, and the car roars to life. A deep growl morphs into a high-pitched scream. The steering wheel shudders under my hands. The scent of gasoline fills the air. “ Ahhh! ” I yell, startled by the explosion of noise and movement. I snap my gaze over to Cameron, who’s biting back a grin. “What was that?”

“You didn’t take it out of park,” he says and flips another switch.

“I knew that.”

“Sure.”

I do a final sweep behind me, making sure I won’t run over a squirrel, and then gently hit the gas. The car lurches forward, and I jolt back. Adrenaline floods my veins like an overflowing river. I try tapping the pedal again, but again, my head slams onto the headrest, causing me to shriek.

“Okay!” I hit the brake, put it in park, and burst out of the car. “I’ve driven a sports car. It’s all yours now.”

Cameron slips past me by the hood. “You’ll get it next time,” he says, and an image of his rough hands pushing me up against this beast of a car flashes in my mind. I cough, attempting to tame my filthy thoughts.

He slinks into the driver’s seat, adjusting the seat to accommodate his long legs. A vein twitches at the top of his tanned hand as he clutches the steering wheel. My mouth dries at the sight of his thumb digging into the leather, the rest of his rough knuckles turning white as he adjusts the mirrors.

“We’ll go to the countryside next time,” he says, “so you can edge more than a couple of inches off the road.”

Trust me, I’ve been edged plenty from this entire interaction. “Yep, we’ll save that for another day.”

“Counting on it,” he murmurs in that tantalizing growl that sends shivers down my spine. Before I can react, he leans over me, and in one smooth, deliberate motion, he buckles me in. His fingers graze my hip just enough to send my pulse into applause. “Safety first.” He winks, lips curling into that infuriating and belly-warming smirk.

My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it.

“Those grandparent dates sure did make you an honorable gentleman.” I laugh awkwardly. This is starting to feel dangerous. It’s only outing number one, and I’m already wishing he’d thrust himself right into me like one of those steamy vampire TV show stars Juni is obsessed with. Maybe without the bloodsucking.

Or, I don’t know, he might like that. Maybe I would as well.

Where is my mind?

We’re supposed to be just friends, but the incidental touches and lingering looks remind me that we started as more. His brooding charm makes it hard to remember why we chose to stay platonic.

As he rolls out into the street, he flashes me a look that tells me he’s wondering the same thing.

Half an hour later, we’re strolling through opulent hedges toward an expansive conservatory fit for royalty. Cameron may have made me feel like a princess when he asked me to twirl, but I’m definitely underdressed for a place like this.

“Is this yours?” I stammer as he retrieves a wrought-iron key from his pocket. There’s no denying that Cameron is extra wealthy. But the idea of him casually owning an estate-sized garden is beyond my understanding.

“No.” He unlocks the gate and holds it open for me. “I’ve never been here before. My very-well-connected brother recommended it.”

“You’re going to need to give me a full family debrief.” I laugh.

We step inside, and my mouth falls open. Despite the dreary sky, the garden is vibrant and alive. The breeze makes the greenery dance, and the air is thick with sweet perfume. In the distance, an archway is illuminated by twinkling fairy lights, casting a magical glow over everything. This is Narnia-level transportation to a different world.

“My parents named us in alphabetical order, so that usually helps people keep track,” he explains, walking ahead of me. “Alec, Brooklyn, me, Dante, who’s responsible for all of this, Ezra, and Francesca. We’re each a year apart from one another.”

I crane my neck, taking in this magical place. “Must’ve been great having so many built-in best friends growing up.”

“Yeah,” he says apathetically. “Do you hear that?”

In the distance, the low hum of bass reverberates.

“Music?”

We follow the noise through a bend deep in the garden until we’re met with a crowd of people dressed in glitter and glam. They’re dancing around a grand marble gazebo, which serves as a DJ booth. The loud music pulsates through the very heart of the garden, making the plants sway in rhythm and the flowers bloom in time with the beat.

“I’m going to kill Dante.”

“A secret garden party?” we say at the same time.

“I didn’t realize this would be a full-on rave.” He rubs his temples. “My brother likes to pull stunts like this. Unlike you, he doesn’t hate surprises. We can leave.”

“Are you out of your mind? This is exactly the sort of surprise I can rally behind.” I squeal, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “I tried to go clubbing when I first got here, but it just didn’t work out. There are certain Yes Year moments that don’t work solo.”

“You went to a club alone?”

I arch a curious brow at him. “Yes.” My body instantly shimmies to the music. “Come on, let’s go dance.” He hesitates. “You told me you like house and techno music; don’t pretend you don’t like dancing to it!” I ensnare his hand in mine. A warm shock flies through me. The deep caramel of his eyes lights up. There’s something there, but neither of us spends too long investigating it before we break into the crowd.

Electronic vibrations wrap around me, sinking into my bones. I surrender to them, my body swaying however feels right. Time turns liquid. Cameron sways his shoulders alongside mine, bouncing on his feet. He doesn’t invade the friendly distance between us, but he also makes no effort to drop his gaze from me the entire time. The little wrinkle that usually camps between his brows has vanished, replaced by tiny beads of sweat. It’s tragically unfair how good-looking he is when he lets loose a little.

My head buzzes like I’ve been dusted with fairy powder and I am floating in a sky of cotton candy, my feet kicking up fluffs of sugary sweetness.

I didn’t plan on bringing out my inner child today, especially not around Cameron, but here she is. She’s the girl I usually keep under wraps—the one from before the bullying, before I had to relearn how to love myself. She’s loud, laughs obnoxiously, and moves however she wants without worrying about who’s watching. And when she looks at Cameron, she sees the boy he may have once been. A boy who makes it okay to be my kid self. She wants to grab his hand, spin him around, and shake all the brooding right out of him.

The beat drops.

The crowd erupts before a human wave crashes back to earth and makes the ground tremble. Suddenly, a girl dressed like a glittering fairy tumbles into me, sending my entire body straight into Cameron’s chest.

The heady scent of fresh grass clings to his skin, more potent than the actual garden we’re in.

“Woah,” I gasp, feeling the firmness of his muscles under my fingertips as I cling to him for balance. Our breaths mingle, his warm and slightly ragged, mine caught between a gasp and a sigh.

“I’m finding it hard to believe that you don’t like it when I catch you.” His laugh is low. Maybe I do like it when he’s there to catch me. Just a little. But I’m certainly not doing it on purpose. Unless my subconscious is sabotaging me.

I steal a glance upward, craning my neck to meet his gaze head-on. A hushed conversation flits between us. Goose bumps march across my skin. His hand moves from my waist to the small of my back, tugging me flush against him.

My palm slides up his chest, feeling the hard planes of his body. The contact is dizzying, making my head spin and my pulse quicken. Our bodies move together to the rhythm of the music, each beat drawing us closer, each sway making the world around us fade into the background. My mind flies in and out of the present and back to the night we spent together.

Gosh, I want to kiss him again, taste his sweat on my tongue. Instead of showing me the stars, maybe he can show me the sky above us, the vines of ivy trailing up the walls.

But I can’t. I know I can’t. If we share even a fraction of what we did the night we were together, I’ll turn into a mushy, feelings-infused mess.

Why must I be such a softie? Women with dazzling brilliance and bucketloads of self-esteem don’t fall for their one-night stands. Or do they?

He leans down, whispering in my ear, “Having fun?”

“Yes!” I shout back, reluctantly removing myself from him. I think he’s having fun, too. He just needs a little fun foreplay. A slow burner, as they’d say on Lust Island . “Let’s get some water. It’s hot!”

He laces his fingers into mine and leads me to a colorful, flower-adorned bar, pulling out an empty stool for me.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“Okay!”

Cameron approaches a bartender adorned with giant blue butterfly wings.

A gorgeous merman appears at my side, his bare chest glittering beneath the lights. “Is this Missoni?” He tugs at my sweater.

“No. I made it.” I smile.

“Can I buy one?” His head bobs with the music.

“Only the pattern.”

He retrieves his phone from his glistening tail pocket, opens Instagram, and hands it to me. I enter my username, and he clicks follow, leaning in close. “What do I have to do to get you to make me one?”

I laugh. “Show me how you did your hair.” I run a finger over his blue seashell braid.

He scrolls through his account. He’s a hairdresser, a very prominent one at that.

“Stop by the salon, and we’ll trade!” he shouts back.

I beam. “Deal.”

My new friend dives back into the crowd, and I look up at Cameron watching the exchange. I wave him over. He sets a colorful cup brimming with ice in front of me, and I down the liquid.

“Thank you! This has been the best afternoon.”

“You make a new friend?”

“Yes! I love people!” I say loudly, leaning into his shoulder. “In a world with social media, I think all of us are starved for human connection.”

He doesn’t respond or lean away. I stretch my neck to see his face, his eyes boring into mine. The garden melts away.

A monarch butterfly floats above us, perching itself on top of Cameron’s head before it flits off in a different direction. Animals always have good instincts about people.

Without thinking, I brush my thumb over the hoop dangling in his ear. “I like this.”

“Brooklyn got her ears pierced a few years back,” he says. “She wouldn’t stop complaining about how bad it hurt. I joked that it couldn’t be that bad.”

“Never underestimate a woman’s pain!”

He throws up his hands in defense. “Learned my lesson. She dared me to do it, and Dante grabbed a lighter, ice, a sewing needle, and an apple before he impaled me.”

“I know a thing or two about getting impaled by a Hastings,” I blurt out with a laugh. That was so inappropriate, but my sense of humor comes out naturally with him. “Regret it?”

“Helped me get girls. Though some say it makes me look like a pirate wannabe.”

“Guess I owe you an apology for that.” I giggle.

“You really don’t.” He brushes me off with another knee-weakening wink. It makes me thankful I’m sitting down, or my swooning would give him another reason to catch me.

Play it cool, Daph. Be friends! “So, does Dante live in London?” I ask, taking another sip.

“No. He does fencing in the States, but he’s a socialite. Loves expensive art, exclusive clubs, anything highbrow.”

“He’s got good taste. It’s dreamy here.” I’m thankful for the little spot of privacy at our corner of the bar. “What about everyone else?”

“We move around a lot because of our careers. Ezra is an Olympic swimmer.” I try my best to keep track of each sibling and their profession, wanting to memorize the little details. “You know about Frankie and Dante, but Alec ice climbs and Brooklyn figure skates.”

“That’s so cool. You must be good at a lot of sports, then! Did they ever play football with you?”

He scans my face as if he’s contemplating the information he’s handing over. I want him to continue.

“When we were kids, my dad would bet that if I could block all of my family’s free kicks, then he would do one of my chores. If I missed one, I was stuck with his. So one night I was feeling lucky, and we went out to our field—”

“You have a field at your house?” I fail to hide the shock in my voice.

He nods. “Along with a karting track for Frankie, a bouldering wall for Alec, and an ice rink for Brooklyn.” There goes my jaw onto the floor again. He laughs at my expression. “I promise, it’s not all that.”

“Sure.” I roll my eyes, softly kicking his shin. “Go on, one night you were feeling lucky.”

“My siblings were easy saves. Mom kicked a curveball that nearly cost me the bet, but I managed it well. Then it was Dad’s turn. He’s never been a professional player, but he’s really into sports. That’s how he met my mom—well, more accurately, he bought her basketball team to get her attention.”

“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard!”

“They’re like two lovestruck teenagers,” he says with a soft expression.

My foot continues bouncing through the space between his legs. I want to touch him—touch the softness inside of him. “Ugh, I’m sorry, I keep interrupting you.”

“It’s fine.” He bumps his knee against mine. “It was Dad’s turn. He always favored left, so I dove, and for the first time, I saved one of his shots. To this day, it was one of the best one-on-ones I’ve ever had.”

His glistening smile melts me into an actual puddle in my seat. Okay, this whole don’t-catch-feelings-for-your-one-night-stand thing is off to a terrible start. Why does he have to be so adorable after all the gruffness these past couple of months? It’s spinning my head right off my shoulders.

“That’s sweet, Goose.” I tap my knuckles against his firm stomach.

Mistake—big mistake. Oh man, is that the opposite of soft.

“What’s with the nickname?” He leans another inch closer. Don’t breathe too deeply, Daph, or you will literally pass out. I brush off the tingling in my body and shoot him a quizzical look. “Yours, not mine.”

“Duck?” He nods. “My family gave it to me. When I was a kid, it went through a ton of variations. Daphne to Daffy to Daffy Duck to just Duck. Well, as my moms and sister would say, Duckie.”

“It suits you.”

“Are you saying I look like a duck?”

“No, though you’re friendly and obviously like to migrate.”

“Don’t go whipping out duck jokes now.” Another kick that closes the inches between us. “You’re goose-like also. Strong family, protective, and you mate for life—though in your case, it’s with your balls.”

He cracks into a laugh. I do, too.

Behind him, a man appears like a shadow. “You Cameron Hastings?”

Cameron’s softness shatters. His body goes stiff again. “No,” he says over his shoulder with a cold note in his voice before he glances back at me and stretches out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

I hesitate. Does Cameron know this guy?

“Wait, it fucking is you, Hastings,” the man barks like a bulldog. “Tosser. Watch what you’re doing to Lyndhurst this season.”

I slip off my seat and step in front of Cameron. “What’s your problem?”

“Get back, Daph.”

“This why you can’t keep your head in the game? Got yourself another distraction?” the guy shouts, puffing out his chest.

A few heads turn as his loud voice breaks over the music. My stomach tightens.

Suddenly, the guy lunges around me, grabbing Cameron by the collar of his charcoal sweater and ripping it. Cameron’s eyes widen with shock. The stranger’s face twists in anger, his knuckles white.

“Hey, leave him alone!” I shout, but the guy just scoffs.

Despite being taller than the stranger, Cameron seems frozen. The crowd around us closes in, their faces a blur of concern and curiosity. My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Enough,” Cameron growls, snapping out of his daze and shaking the man off of him. “Daphne, let’s go.” He wraps his fingers around my wrist. I trail behind him, barely able to keep up with the speed of his long legs. We weave through the dancing bodies until we’re outside the iron gate in total darkness.

“What was that about?” I pant, but Cameron keeps walking toward the car. “Cameron.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I yank my arm back, planting myself on the mossy ground below my feet.

“I do,” I declare. “Who was that? Did you know him?”

“No.”

“If there was anyone who should’ve gotten a piece of grumpy Cameron, it’s that guy.”

He sighs, looking wearier than I’ve ever seen him. “Football fans are…they’re passionate about their teams. We had a rough start to the season. I didn’t want to stick around and hear about it.”

“Okay, but—”

“People like that,” he says, gesturing at the conservatory behind us, “are starved for a scandal. They’d call reporters, snap pictures, and feed the tabloids a buffet of steaming shit about me, you, or us.”

I blink, still not fully grasping the severity. “So he was shouting at you for no reason?”

“There’s an aggressive subculture among some football fans. Some don’t just hurl verbal abuse; they thrive on it. They get a kick out of putting people like me on the front page of a gossip column.”

“Oh. It’s not just about the game?” I ask, my naivety evident.

“No,” he says softly. “It’s about everything else too. And while that guy might not have tried to assault me, well, apart from ruining one of my fucking sweaters, he’d definitely yell at me just to get a reaction.”

“That sounds…exhausting.”

“It is,” he admits, his shoulders slumping. “It’s why I don’t want to be seen out in public with you.”

The words hurt more than I expected. I get that we’re not dating, and I don’t exactly want to be on the front page of a gossip column because I went to one botanical garden with my new friend, but the way he says it makes it seem like being seen with me is the worst thing in the world. He’s a regular feature in the news, surely he’s used to the spotlight.

After all, he dated Mal Kelly.

A flurry of questions whirls around my mind. Why else does he not want to be seen out in public? What else is he afraid of? But I’ve never been one for excavating secrets people don’t want to share. That’s a one-way ticket to Codependencyville.

“Are you embarrassed of me?” I let slip, the words propelled by a sudden, irrational fear that’s taken root in my mind.

“No,” he asserts. “It’s not like that. I—” He shakes his head as if he’s trying to properly arrange his thoughts. “Last season, the tabloids were all over me. They spread lies, they twisted stories, they took a painful moment and made sure it hurt me.” There’s pain in his voice.

“What happened?”

Cameron’s gaze drops to the ground. “It’s in the past now. But I don’t want that to happen again. More importantly, I don’t want you to be their next target.” His behavior confounds me, shifting from puzzling to forthright in a matter of seconds. As if he can read my thoughts, he steps closer and says, his voice faltering, “I’m not hiding anything from you. There’s just stuff that isn’t real, stuff that felt humiliating, stuff that—I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.”

Part of me can’t resist this man with sad eyes and a kind heart. “I’m not swayed by gossip, Cameron. I wouldn’t believe something someone twisted and posted for clicks. I do trust you. But is this why you haven’t done anything for fun lately? Because you don’t want to be recognized?”

“Yes,” he confesses.

Well, that can easily be resolved. “Then let me plan our next da—” I pause. “Outing.”

“No. I made a promise. I won’t take my brother’s recommendations next time.”

“Compromise is the key to friendship, right?” I remind him. “I’ll pick the least public place you could imagine. And,” I say, reaching for the collar of his sweater, “let me mend this when we get back home.”

“You don’t have to do that. I have plenty of charcoal sweaters.” He tries to brush me off but doesn’t step back. In fact, his chest presses firmly into my hand, as if he wants to be touched by me.

“Well, I want to,” I say.

“Okay,” he softly utters, his voice nearly a whisper amid our mutual silence. “Now, let’s get you home.”

Yet he stays still, and so do I.

Daphne

Do you know who this is…

@ch1kl100?

The handle belongs to a private Instagram account that’s been hovering at the top of my story views. It’s only been two days since we last saw each other, but I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to Cameron again. And sure, it’s a longshot that this faceless, no-posts account is him—likely impossible. But the random profile has been appearing in my notifications more often than not, hearting posts and lurking in my story views.

The chat bubble groundhogs in and out of the screen.

Cameron

Yes.

Daphne

A friend of yours?

Cameron.

It’s me.

I knew it wasn’t another bot! Considering he once called me a stalker, it’s a little hypocritical on his part to creep on my social media page. But maybe he’s as curious about me as I am about him.

I suddenly feel shy. He’s seen every story, he knows I had two bowls of rainbow cereal for breakfast today.

Daphne

I’ll have to alert the authorities.

Cameron

?

Daphne

You’re stalking me lol!

Cameron

Research.

Daphne

Trying to come up with some more of those knitting jokes?

Cameron

Planning activities for your Yes Year.

Daphne

By keeping an eye on me?

Cameron

You have a nice page.

Daphne

Nice enough for you to use your Finsta to spy on me.

I’m never letting you live this down.

I click back into Instagram and request to follow him. The next message comes instantly.

Cameron

You want to follow me back?

Daphne

That’s what friends do, Cameron.

:)

Cameron

I don’t have any posts.

Daphne

We’ll have to fix that on my next Yes Year activity!!!

Cameron

We have away games the next two weekends.

I’ll be free the 26th.

Daphne

See you then buddy.

“Buddy?” I cringe, locking my phone and tossing it onto the couch. Seriously? Could I have picked a worse word?

Pal? Bestie? Hottie with a rocking body?

He makes me nervous, calm, and excited, all rolled up into one.

My phone pings, and I leap for it, heart racing as I open the message.

Cameron

Looking forward to it.

I let out an excited squeal, then immediately clap my hand over my mouth. Okay, so maybe I like him. How could I not? He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met—a walking contradiction of gruff exterior and hidden softness that makes my heart do somersaults.

Now I have a date to plan. For once, the butterflies in my stomach feel less like anxiety and more like…possibility.