9. The Famous

NINE

THE FAMOUS

BECCA

C am Castillo. Oh my flipping God. Cam. The bad boy who starred in all of freshman-in-high-school-Becca's lusty fantasies. Only he's a man now, with nothing boyish about him.

I don't recall him being this tall, the perfect height for my head to lay on his chest. And those gorgeous dark whiskers? Just the right amount a woman could rake her fingertips over. What about his icy blue eyes? They stare into me a little too hard as he holds open the door for me, looking smug like he thinks he has me figured out. At least one of us has.

The minute we step into the diner, it's a little disconcerting. Heads turn our way like we have a target on our backs. We seat ourselves in a corner booth, opposite each other, and I catch even more glances from all directions. Then I remember—I'm with a professional hockey player, not just someone I used to know.

"Guess you're famous now," I say rather flippantly like it means nothing while I peruse the placemat menu. It's hard to think of him that way when I know so much about the real Cam Castillo. Or at least who he used to be.

"Just wait," Cam responds with a cocky grin. "Hockey fever in Vegas is just beginning. Give it another month or two and I probably will get mauled by fans when I step into a place like this."

I raise a brow with a flatlined smile and crossed arms. "Like your ego stroked much?"

"Hell yeah I do," is his comeback, full of himself, as his eyes rake down the front of me, pausing at my breasts, then fall to the menu. I realize my nipples protrude through my t-shirt in this air conditioned diner. He shifts in his seat and under his breath I hear him mutter, "At least something is getting stroked tonight."

I almost choke and cover it with a cough. Cam Castillo checked me out and made a sexual innuendo. Now all I picture is him naked in this booth across from me, stroking himself under the table. And how much I'd like to get underneath on my knees and watch.

Ugh. Who am I right now? I cross my legs, pressing my thighs together, trying to rid my mind of that image. I think of something quick to turn the tide of the conversation.

"How's your father?"

He clears his throat before he answers. "He, uh, passed away about two years ago. His liver finally crapped out. Only took him fifty years to achieve gold member status in the Death by Alcoholism Club. That has to be a record or something."

I feel awful for bringing it up. "I'm so sorry to hear, Cam." And I say it with kindness because I mean it. No matter how irritating he's been to me in the past or this evening, death is so final. "He always scared me." I bravely admit.

"Me, too, until I hit puberty and grew tall enough and strong enough to take him on if he dared beat the shit out of me again."

My eyes grow wide. "I'd heard stories from my brother about some of the abuse you went through. Gah, you must think I'm a bitch for not caring back then when my own world consumed me. I hardly cared about anyone from—" I stop myself, but he fills in the blanks.

"From the wrong side of the tracks? Funny, but our house only stood three blocks away from yours on the right side ." He smirks like he's annoyed with me.

My throat works. "I guess things like that are ridiculous now that we're adults."

His eyes snap to mine and for a split second, or maybe a few, I'm caught in his trance, neither of us blinking. There's something he does to me, just being in his presence, that's always been there. Who knew I had such a thing for bad boys—and what about the way he came to my rescue at the club tonight?

Flutters rise in my stomach just thinking about it, and all it does is make me grumpy. It's ridiculous to think he'd be into me. He was Hayes' friend, and besides he's God's gift to hockey, and probably to every female fan out there. I'm sure he's had the pleasure of many who have thrown themselves at him.

I picture a scoreboard between us. Cam: 1052 women. Me: zero men.

Not to mention, my parents would freak out if I dated Cam—but they aren't here, are they? Why would I give them a say in my life anyway? And why the hell am I even thinking of him like this? There's no way we'd ever hook up, er, go out, er, whatever. We always hated each other, didn't we?

But the way he's staring right through me…