Close to You (Fusion 2)

Down, girl.

“It’s not that early,” I point out, and he turns narrowed eyes on me and firms his jaw, and I realize that not only is he not thrilled that I’m here, he’s . . . irritated.

“I’m still shaking the jet lag,” he says. “What do you need, Cami?”

I take a small step back and shake my head. “I don’t need anything, Landon. I just wanted to stop by and say welcome home.”

“Thanks.” His voice is a little flat. I was not expecting this at all. Landon has always been welcoming, happy to see me. I don’t know what to do with this.

I do know one thing: I need to get out of here. I’m sorry I came.

“I’m sorry that I woke you up,” I murmur, my eyes on my feet as I turn away. “I’ll see you.”

“Cami,” he says, but I don’t stop to see what he’s about to say. My fight-or-flight reflex has kicked in, and all I can think is Get out of here.

“How embarrassing,” I mutter, fighting tears. “Why would he want to see you, Cami? You’re just his little sister’s friend.”

But it wasn’t always that way. Back in the day, we were friends. He and I always got along well, and I refuse to believe that it was just because of Mia. We had things in common, and we had conversations. And when he left for the Navy, he left a hole in my life that I tried to fill with a mistake of a marriage.

I miss him. I’ve missed him for years. And now he’s home and he doesn’t want me?

I’ll just have to learn to live with that. Besides, it’s not like I can claim that I know him well. Ten years away is a long time. He only came home once a year, and after I got married, he stopped contacting me because he said it wasn’t appropriate to continue to communicate with a married woman.

Divorced or not, why would I think that he’d suddenly be thrilled to see me and swoop me up in a tight hug, then want to share breakfast and conversation?

I sigh as I park in my driveway, kill the engine, and finally face the fact that despite our past, I don’t really know Landon anymore. I know the young man who left here long ago, and that’s not who he is anymore.

I’m not that girl anymore either.

I’ve been carrying a torch all these years for someone who doesn’t exist.

“Stupid,” I whisper, and slam my car door shut and climb the steps to my porch, unlock my door, and to my utter shock, see a gray-and-white streak run between my legs and into my house, then stop at the entrance to my kitchen, turn, and sit on its butt, as if he belongs here.

“Oh, no, you’ve got to go,” I say sternly. “Come on.” I gesture to the door, but the cat just blinks, then licks his tail twice before returning his gaze to me.

I’ve never seen this cat before in my life.

“Where did you come from?” I ask, propping my fists on my hips and giving the cat my best glare.

It doesn’t seem to bother him.

“You need to go,” I say, and march toward him. “Scoot. Outside.”

He simply runs out of my reach into the living room, watching me. “Meow.”

“No, you can’t stay,” I reply, as if I’m carrying on a conversation with the feline. “Seriously, I don’t like cats.”

“Meow.”

“Because they’re moody and snobby. I’m really a dog person,” I say, trying to reason with him. He flicks his tail and turns away from me. “Seriously, I’m not even allowed to have pets here. My landlord doesn’t allow it.”

Great. Now I’m lying to the cat. I own this house.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I try, but the cat lies down on his back, exposing his belly, and stretches out on my expensive area rug, making himself at home.

“Meow.”

“You. Have. To. Go.” I clap my hands and move fast, trying to scare him out and through the open front door, but he runs in the opposite direction. “Seriously? You’re really starting to piss me off.”

“Meow.”

He jumps up on the back of my couch and crouches, watching to see what my next move will be so he can dodge it, I’m sure.

“I said outside,” I say, my voice heavy with authority.

Finally, he jumps down and runs through my legs, toward the front door, and when I turn around, there’s Landon, with a shirt on now, leaning against the doorjamb with a smirk on his face and the cat weaving through his legs, purring.

“What are you trying to do to your cat?” he asks as he leans down and scoops the terrorist into his arms.

“He’s not my cat,” I reply, and blow out a gusty sigh. “He ran in here and now I can’t get him to leave.”

“Smart cat,” he says, and scratches the feline’s head. Landon’s blue eyes are on mine as he closes the door and sits himself, and the cat, on my couch.

“By all means, both of you make yourselves at home.” I roll my eyes and push my fingers through my hair. “What do you want, Landon?”

I frown. My voice has never been this hard when I spoke to Landon before. It doesn’t sit well with me.

“I’m sorry, Cam,” he says softly, watching the cat as it curls up in his lap and purrs happily.

“No need,” I say, and sit on the love seat to the left of him. “I shouldn’t have come over without calling first.”

I trace the pattern in the fabric of the love seat, not wanting to meet Landon’s gaze. I’m still embarrassed, and disconcerted about the cat.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Landon says.