Cameron Wants to Be a Hero (Love Austen 2)

“Getting closer . . .”

Cameron carefully printed the last of the names, slightly bowed, unwilling to look over. “Nothing romantic happened.”

“You were waltzing. You’re wearing his socks.”

“Men aren’t afraid of dancing with other men anymore. He wants to meet again because he’s curious. He has more questions about the studio, that’s all.”

Lake stared dubiously at him. “I’m not allowed to meddle anymore, but Cameron, you’re testing my resolve.”

A knockity-knock sounded on the open door and Brandon sauntered in. Taller and broader than Cameron, his brother held himself with enviable composure. Five years divided them, and Cameron idolized him. Brandon was smart and accomplished, but also kind, honorable, and generous.

They understood each other.

Both were single, and . . . lonely.

“‘Who are you,’” Cameron said. “‘And why do you seek me?’”

“Oz. The Wonderful Wizard of.”

“Too easy.”

“They always are. Shall we?”

Cameron plucked the cue card and passed it to his brother. “Ready when you are.”

Brandon delivered a flawless speech to an attentive crowd while Cameron listened from an inconspicuous location, twirling the stem of his flute, mentally ticking off everyone his brother thanked. Good, he hadn’t missed anyone—

“Last but not least, to my brother Cameron Morland, without whom we would not be here tonight.”

Brandon raised his glass in Cameron’s direction and the crowd collectively swiveled his way, following suit, creating a halo of sparkling wines as they toasted him.

Cameron shook his head. He wanted to tell them Brandon was exaggerating. Being far too generous. But the crowd drank to the studio’s success and guests started crowding him.

He sweated as he fielded questions and compliments, and the moment the opportunity presented itself, he lunged for the stairs once more—

Oof.

Right into Ms. Olivia Collins, their costume supervisor. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Olivia smoothed her cotton gown. One of Ask Austen’s newest employees, she had proven herself diligent and hardworking. “You scrub up good in costume. That coat is stunning on you, as I imagined.”

Cameron liked himself in it too—except for the rigid way it forced his posture when all he wanted was to slouch into the shadows.

“You forgot the gloves,” she said, frowning. “But what am I worrying for? We’re not on set.” She smiled radiantly. “I heard you met Henry? I thought I spied him.”

Cameron wanted to collapse in his office, but he could manage one more bout of socialization without crying. “Um, Henry. Yes. Interesting man.”

“Was he invited? I’d have loved to chat with him and Alicia. It’s been far too long, and they’re such an enigmatic pair.”

Cameron’s hold on the rail intensified as his stomach took a sudden dive. “Pair?”

Olivia nodded. “I knew them in London. She’s quite the actor. They’ve been turning heads since they met at university.”

“He has a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend, no.” Cameron released a breath, and started to smile. Then Ms. Collins continued, “He has a fiancé.”

Cameron shouldn’t be slickly stroking himself to the memory of Henry’s hand at his waist. Especially when Henry was engaged.

Inappropriate didn’t begin to cover it.

But . . .

Under fresh cotton sheets, in the dark privacy of his bedroom, naked but for those soft gargoyle socks, maybe a little fantasy was justified?

He imagined Henry single, Henry nibbling a ticklish trail down his neck, Henry curling a hand around his length and squeezing.

Henry whispering in his ear, asking if he could be the first to breach him—

He stiffened as his body shot rope after rope into his cupped hand.

God.

He cleaned up and slung back into his warm bed, arm draped ashamedly over his eyes.

It was out of his system. He’d never think of Henry again.

But curiosities lingered. Why had Henry danced with him well beyond what was necessary?

Henry had guessed Cameron was gay. He’d also left soon after Lake had shown up, but if he hadn’t, would he have tried to . . . what? Seduce Cameron? Bribe him to give his actor fiancé a job?

What if Henry’s stories were fictitious? Boarding school in the UK after his mum presumably passed. Maybe that emotional hook was meant to secure Cameron’s sympathy, make him malleable?

Maybe Henry didn’t work at the high school at all.

He pulled the covers up to his chin and stared at the shadows dancing over his moonlit ceiling. Big and dark. It reminded him of the last time he’d ever called for help. He was ten, waking from a nightmare, paralyzed with fear the night would consume him. His dad had grunted from down the hall: “Just go to sleep.”

He’d cried, no longer with fear, but wishing for a mum.

He twisted on his side. His other side.

Ridiculous, feeling disappointed to be a pawn in Henry’s con game.

But . . .

What if Cameron took a page from Henry’s playbook? Played sleuth himself?

What if he went along with whatever Henry was pulling on him? Uncovered the truth.

Left Henry impressed, frustrated, harboring . . . feelings?

What if Henry chased after him, pushed him tight against the wall, face pressed against cold, moist brick . . . “God, you’re clever. Cunning. Never have I met such a man. I must have you.”