Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Cam

Her hair is a crazy mess of curls, and her eyes are tired, but she's smiling widely as I rush into the kitchen.

"Cam," she says happily, turning in her chair.

"What the fuck, cupcake?" I snap.

She blinks, her smile fading and though a thread of guilt slides through me, I can't let it go that easily.

"I called at least five times, sent a dozen texts," I grit out, trying to calm my temper, my worry. She's here. She's okay. The house didn't burn down. She didn't get in an accident. She didn't pull up stakes and move back to the East Coast.

"I'm sorry," she says, moving a pile of papers to the side and then another and another, repeating the process until she unearths her phone. She holds it up with a chagrined smile. "I didn't hear it. I was so focused on the fact that the case finally makes sense and—" She lifts her hands, indicating the mess that's taken over her island. "Well, I got the pieces to make sense and…I need to move fast."

"That's great, cupcake." I move toward her and kiss the top of her head. "I'm sorry I came in like an asshole." I pull back. "But you scared the shit out of me."

She winces. "I didn't mean to." Then her gaze flies to the clock in the microwave. "Shit, I missed all of Game Night, didn't I?"

I nod. "You would have loved it. It was a corgi and kitten fest. Cookie would have fit right in."

"Dang." She wrinkles her nose. "I really am sorry. I just…well, I didn't put the pieces together until Jean-Michel gave me the lead."

I still.

"In fact, we thought he might be in on it at first. All that power. The money. The connections. It would be so easy for him to hide criminal activity?—"

My lungs seize.

"I was convinced it was him for a time," she says. "But I researched for months, and we cleared him, moved on to other targets, so when he gave me the files?—"

"Files?" I croak.

She freezes, guilt sliding across her face. "I know it wasn't right, but he gave me access and I needed to help?—"

"With what?"

"The Eagles," she says, nodding at the papers, at the photos of the coaches and many of the back office staff. "And I needed the help with my case?—"

" Your case?"

More guilt on that beautiful face.

Her case. Tommy. Trying to right a wrong.

No.

Doing anything to right a wrong.

And suddenly, it all makes sense—never looking at me twice even after she moved here, not getting involved until things were going wrong with Jean-Michel and the team. I know that work has always been the most important thing in the world to her and more than that, I know this case has bordered on obsession with her.

You're not good enough.

Hurt washes over me.

"Tell me," I say carefully.

"Tell me what?" A hesitant question.

"Tell me that you're only with me because of the case."

Her eyes go wide, but I don't miss the sliver of guilt in the deep brown depths. It has those words— you're not good enough —slicing through me again, sinking their claws deep into my heart and tearing it wide open.

"Cam," she whispers. "I can't believe you'd think that." A shake of her head. "It's not— It's not like that at all."

"Don't lie to me," I whisper, head pounding, heart hurting.

"I wouldn't. I love you."

I grind my teeth together.

"And if anything," she says, "being with you, falling for you when you play for someone my team was actively investigating would have made things more complicated between us."

"Gee, thanks," I mutter.

"I don't mean it like that."

She reaches for me but I step back. "Then how do you mean it?"

"I mean "—she nibbles at her bottom lip—"that the case doesn't factor into my feelings for you."

I want to believe that. I do. I just…

You're not good enough.

"I can't do this right now," I whisper.

She takes another step toward me, hands extended as though to touch me, to hold me. God, I want that, but…

I can't, not when my head is spinning and my heart is sliced to ribbons and nothing makes sense.

I skitter back, hating that the hurt on her face tears through me.

"Cam, honey"—another rip when she halts, when she doesn't touch me, when that endearment hangs in the air between us—"I didn't even know about your coach until you told me. And I didn't know of his connection to my work until tonight—something that couldn't happen unless Jean-Michel was cleared and felt comfortable enough to give me some files and ask me to investigate."

"When?"

She opens her mouth, closes it. Then opens it again. "When what?"

" When did Jean-Michel give you the files?"

"A couple of weeks ago. After we talked that day at the rink. I mentioned to him that your coach was giving you a hard time and?—"

Rip!

Jesus Christ.

She'd mentioned my insecure, whiny bullshit to the owner of the team.

Who then had swept in to solve all of my problems and recruited my girlfriend to help along the way.

Shame rises up and sweeps over me.

Not good enough. Never going to be good enough.

Can't even deal with my own fucking job.

"I can't do this." The words are torn out of me, but it's what they do to her face that kills me.

And yet, it doesn't stop me from repeating them when she asks, "What?"

"I. Can't. Do . This."

A long, horrible silence.

"Can't do what exactly?" she asks quietly.

"This. Us . I need some space," I add desperately when her expression locks down, becomes ringed with ice and the fear of losing her overrides the panic in my mind. "You said if I needed space, I could ask for it and you wouldn't hold it against me."

Quiet again, the lack of any words, any sounds other than our breathing just as horrible as the previous silence.

"You're right," she murmurs. "I did say that."

"Well, I need that space now," I say, knowing I sound like a pathetic asshole, but unable to stop as the chant of You're not good enough ricochets through my brain.

"Because you think what exactly?" she asks. "That I'm with you because of my case? Even though Jean-Michel and I didn't talk until after what happened between us at the cabin? Until after I'd fallen for you? Until after I realized I love you?"

I want to believe that. All of it.

So badly.

But…I can't.

I inhale, my brain shouting at me, but not loudly enough to be heard over that incantation.

You're not good enough. You're not good enough.

"I need to go," I rasp. "I fucking need to go."

Silence, long enough this time to slice down to the marrow of my soul.

Then she turns back to her laptop and says quietly, "Then go, Cam."

I hear it in her voice, the resignation, the acceptance, the knowledge that this day would come, and I fucking hate all of that.

But I can't stop myself from spinning away from her.

From striding into the hall, passing Cookie—and the accusations in his gaze—on the way out.

Same as I can't stop myself from driving away, from going home to my empty house, from shutting off my phone and losing myself in a bottle of whisky.

But even that doesn't make the chant go away.