Cameron Wants to Be a Hero (Love Austen 2)

Mr. Tilney gaped at him lying in his son’s bed, jaw hardening as Cameron scrambled out of it, every move proving his guilt. Every “um” and “ah” betrayed Henry’s trust not to interfere. Not to let his dad know.

“It’s true then, isn’t it?” Mr. Tilney said in barely restrained rage.

Here was the end. Right when he believed in the start.

“You’re screwing my boy.”

Mr. Tilney’s anger was quiet and unyielding.

Cameron shoved up his glasses. His knees quaked and he stumbled, kicking balled paper into Mr. Tilney’s ankles. Explanations and words were choked behind the surging horror that he’d ruined things with Henry, ruined his relationship with his dad. Maybe ruined his life.

Mr. Tilney flung open the door to the guest room. “Get your things and get out of here.”

Under his foreboding watch, Cameron stuffed his bag and was escorted through the hallways. He wished Georgie were close, even Alicia, but they’d retreated to the east wing to watch a film together.

Lounging against the double doors to the ballroom, Fred watched him go.

He fought the instinct to duck his head, and held Fred’s smug expression tightly.

The door opened and Mr. Tilney barked at him to leave.

Cameron stiffened against his body’s urge to bolt. He turned on his heel and looked Mr. Tilney in the eye. Not a single muscle flickered in a moment of uncertainty.

“Please,” he said. “He’s a good person. He’s the best person.”

“He deserves love. Scruples. Not”—Mr. Tilney gestured him with disgust—“this. I never want to see you around my children again. Not Henry, and most definitely not Georgie.”

He was tired, he meant it the other way around.

“That will be their decision.”

Though he imagined they’d choose similarly. Henry would look at his dad heartbroken, then he’d look at Georgie torn between them. God, he had to choose her and his dad over Cameron. She was his soul.

Maybe if they’d known each other longer. Or if . . .

Too much hope in ifs. He had to stop dreaming.

Love had boundaries.

Eyes stinging, he gripped his bag and stepped out of the manse. The door slammed shut behind him with deafening finality. His gaze blurred as he groped for his phone to call a taxi.

His phone. He’d left it inside.

The only thing stuffed in his pocket was the letter he’d written.

His throat tightened. He had no way of warning Henry. He’d have to get to Dad’s and use his old laptop. Henry wouldn’t be checking regularly—if at all—at camp though.

But that meant it was unlikely Mr. Tilney would get hold of him either. No, Mr. Tilney would only unleash his disappointment in person.

Henry had to hear it from Cameron first.

The timer on the porch light winked out and Cameron stared at the iron gates and the knowing black woods beyond, waiting to swallow up whatever was left of his spirit.

His heart raced just as it had the first day he’d climbed to the top of this hill.

Frightened to come.

More frightened to leave.

Cameron was sweating from run-walking through the town belt snaking around Port Ratapu. Streetlamps burned his eyes after the thick darkness of the woods. Every step pulled him closer to breaking the news to Henry.

Dad’s car wasn’t parked, and no one answered his urgent knocks. He dropped his bag and hauled himself to Lake’s place. He’d given Knightly a spare key in case he ever locked himself out. He hadn’t ever imagined using it like this, heart torn, barely holding it together.

In the driveway, the back of John’s orange convertible gleamed under a streetlamp.

He grimaced and rang the bell.

“Just got back twenty minutes ago.” John hauled him into the living room and slung him onto the couch with a devilish grin. “Been doing a lot of thinking.”

“I just want the spare set of keys. They’re on a blue chain, under the kitchen sink.”

“You want to get to bed. You said already.”

His laptop. “It’s been a long night.”

“They’ve all been long. Long, hot, and bothersome.” John waggled his eyebrows. “Every night I think of our parting kiss.”

Cameron blinked at him. He was too wrecked for this. “I told you how I felt about that kiss, John.”

John eyed a bouquet of roses that Cameron figured Brandon had sent Isabella during the week. His grin widened; he ripped off a handful of rose petals and rained them over him. “You weren’t expecting it.”

He dropped to his knees, palms suctioning onto Cameron’s thighs. “This time will be better.”

Lips crashed toward Cameron, and he jerked to his feet, knocking John to his ass. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to kiss you.”

John pushed to his feet, brushing off rose petals with distaste. “Someone is grumpy when they’re tired. Okay, I get it. You need to sleep first. But you’re hard to please. Not all men will be as patient as I am.”

Cameron made a noise of gritted frustration and disbelief. “We’re not boyfriends!” He whisked toward the kitchen. “I need those keys.”