“Hey,” I say as she pounds her fingers on the keyboard. Grabbing a bottle of water, I offer her one, too.
“No, thanks.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.
I chug half of it before taking a deep breath, trying to get as much air as possible. Bruno drinks every drop in his entire water dish, and I fill it up for him. When I turn around, I notice Cami’s cat is moving around the table, taking notice of the dog. To avoid another war between them, I put Bruno in my room.
“You okay?” I ask Cami when I return downstairs. “I don’t think you’ve blinked in five minutes.”
“Just working on a paper.”
“You look like you’re about to fire someone.” I chuckle. She finally drifts her gaze toward me and shoots me a death glare. “What? You seem tense. That paper piss you off or something?”
“It’s called focusing.”
“Why are you down here anyway?”
“I got tired of looking at the same thing upstairs,” she explains. “Plus, I needed more caffeine.”
“Speaking of which, can you teach me how to use that machine? I mean, unless your plan is to make it for me every morning. And if that’s the case, I’d prefer it be delivered to my bedroom.” I smirk, sitting on the edge of the table.
“You have a better chance of a meteor hitting us than me bringing you coffee in bed.”
“Ouch.” I chuckle, placing my hand over my heart. “Why don’t you take a break? Have you eaten yet?”
“Not since breakfast.”
I check the time and see it’s already after four. “That was hours ago. C’mon, shut down the laptop and make me dinner.”
Her fingers finally stop moving, and her shoulders shake as she laughs. “You’re not as slick as you think.”
“Really?” I stand. “Because I think I just got you to finally smile.”
She rolls her eyes with a groan. “Fine, but after we eat, I have to get back to it. This professor is a hard-ass, and instead of taking it easy on us during this time, she’s added assignments.”
“Sounds like a bitch move,” I say. “But you’re a genius, so I’m sure it’s cake for you.”
Cami flashes me a look of uncertainty. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
I hold up two fingers. “I swear, totally genuine.” Her expression softens. “You’re obviously smart, Cami. You got into NYU on your own merits. You’re just not…fix a toilet seat smart.”
She leans back in the chair, and her arms fall to her sides. “And you’re clearly not make coffee smart.”
Laughing, I nod and shrug. “Right. So it’s perfect. I’ll be in charge of the hard labor, and you’re in charge of making sure I’m caffeinated enough to do it.”
Her gaze lowers to my mouth, and I wonder if she’s thinking about our kiss like I am. When she licks her lips, the temptation to lean in is strong, but I refrain. The last thing I want is for things to be more complicated between us. It’s only the two of us, and it’s too easy to blur the lines. If we’re going to stay here and get through this together, we have to be civil and respectful of each other
“Okay, deal. But don’t expect room service,” she teases, closing her laptop.
“Oh…” I say slowly. “So then I guess it’s a no for personal lap dances?”
“Are you always this obnoxious?”
“Only when I know it gets on your nerves.” I beam, staring into her crystal blue eyes. They’re brighter than yesterday.
“I’m gonna need way more vodka to deal with you.” She stands and pushes in her chair, then moves to the kitchen.
“Actually, I was informed to hide that.”
She looks over her shoulder and glares at me. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t.”
I follow her, then rummage through the fridge for the meat I brought. It’ll go bad if we don’t eat it soon. “Do you like chicken fettuccini Alfredo?”
“Is that pasta?” she asks, leaning against the island.
Turning to look at her, I furrow my brows. “Are you serious?”
“What?” She shrugs. “I don’t eat a lot of pasta.” I tilt my head at her. “Okay, fine. I never eat pasta.”
“Guess that means you’re about to have the best meal of your life,” I tell her, gloating. “Wash your hands.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not making this alone. Time for you to learn how to cook, woman.”
She sighs and goes to the sink, then suds up her hands. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
I chuckle at how she exaggerates her inability to cook and grab all the ingredients for dinner. After I place the box of pasta and chicken breasts on the counter, I grab a knife and cutting board.
“Alright, you’re in charge of the chicken. Cut off the fat, then slice it into long pieces. Think you can manage that?”
“I guess we’ll see.” She steps closer to the counter and opens the package. I hold back a smile when she grabs the chicken breast and cringes. Carefully, she places it on the cutting board as if it’s going to jump out of her hands. “This is really gross.”