The Real

“Look down,” he said as he aimed it at us. “Done.”

He pushed away from the glass, and I followed suit, mildly distracted by his story but brought into the present as I took in the view of the city and the expanse of Lake Michigan.

He studied the picture as we walked off the deck. “It’s a good one,” he said, holding it out for me to look. I waved it away.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He grinned. “Not a fan of having your picture taken?”

“Nope. I’m not photogenic, like at all. It’s a curse. Every time I take one, my eyes are closed or close to it because my smile is so wide.”

He inspected the picture, and I could tell that was the case when he chuckled.

“Yep, but it’s still a good one.”

We ended up walking the streets of downtown, getting lost in conversation among the high-rises, talking about everything and nothing. When we sought brief refuge from the brutal wind between buildings, Cameron used the opportunity to warm us up. He kissed me every chance he got, without shame, and I loved every second of it.

I basked in the feel of him, in his tall frame as he surrounded me, the way his hands always seemed to be warm, and his smooth as silk voice—a voice I’d deprived myself of. Though we’d been dating for over a month, all of it was new.

Hovering on a bridge at the Riverwalk, he took another selfie of us, which I reluctantly smiled for. He pressed his lips together when he studied it, and I knew it was another disaster.

Due to the unrelenting wind cresting off the water, my eyes were streaming mascara. Cameron leaned in and cupped my face, wiping away the smudges with his thumbs.

“Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm,” he said after another stolen kiss.

Glued to his side, he shielded me from the cold. After a few minutes o

f walking in silence—that was anything but empty—we ended up nestled at a cocktail table at Howl at the Moon, a dueling piano bar on West Hubbard.

“Ever been here?” he asked as I shed my coat.

“Nope, another first,” I replied with a smile.

When the waiter came by, Cameron ordered us a bucket of Moscow Mule to share as I perused the bar. Other than the pianos that sat on a spotlit stage, the neon-lit room was dark and intimate. “This is what I love about Chicago. You never know what’s around the corner.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Most days I’m happy I got my first job coaching here after I graduated.”

“And the other days?”

“The other days aren’t summer, and I’m freezing my ass off,” he said with a wink. “I’ve endured enough winters, so I’m used to it. I don’t see myself living anywhere else.”

“Me either,” I agreed.

“You know, Max goes to Bears games in shorts. In fact, you can’t get him to wear a pair of pants in subzero temperatures.”

“That’s just plain stupid,” I said with an eye roll.

Cameron shrugged. “I used to think he was crazy and did it to show off, but it turns out he’s comfortable that way. He’s from Wisconsin, so . . .”

“That explains everything,” I said as I gave him my own wink.

“Something in your eye, Abbie?”

I deadpanned, “That’s the last time I throw flirt your way tonight, Coach.”

“That was flirting?” he asked with a smirk.

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m going to the bathroom.” I stood and was swept off my feet and into his lap. I had to keep my moan internal when he leaned in and brushed his lips against my neck.