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  * * *

  Cameron: To answer the latter, they’re comfortable. To answer the former, to prove it’s me.

  * * *

  Kristen: That proves this is you?

  * * *

  Cameron: It proves I’m me because if I were someone else impersonating me, he’d never humble himself by showing Crocs. I’m showing you who I really am.

  * * *

  Kristen: A Croc wearer?

  * * *

  Cameron: Yes, do you still like me?

  * * *

  My smile is contagious. They’re grinning in the next county, and they caught it from me.

  * * *

  Kristen: Yes. But for the love of pi and the golden ratio, please never show them to me in person so I don’t have to bleach my eyeballs. Deal?

  * * *

  Cameron: Deal. Especially the in-person part.

  * * *

  Kristen: Also, is it so obvious l like you that you knew even Crocs wouldn’t ruin it?

  * * *

  Cameron: Call me crazy, but I like obvious on this count. In fact, I like it a lot. And I like you—a whole helluva lot.

  * * *

  Kristen: Same . . . it’s totally the same. Even in Crocs.

  * * *

  Cameron: Now, back to the Orion Nebula. Evidently, the first me, who wasn’t me but rather based on me, talked to you about it. But I wanted to look at it tonight, and since you’re a stargazer, I was hoping you could give me some guidance.

  * * *

  And my heart goes thud. It falls to the floor, beating for him, like a silly, lust-struck fool.

  * * *

  Kristen: I’d love to. But it’s easier to talk it through on the phone.

  * * *

  Three seconds later, my phone rings.

  “What a cheap excuse to get me to call,” he teases.

  “But it worked.”

  “I’m easy like that.”

  I go to the deck, stare at the night sky, and tell him how to find the constellation. When we’re done searching millions of miles away, we talk about music and our friends. I learn about Lulu, and I tell him about Piper, and the ache in my chest grows.

  But so do the feelings.

  They balloon.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  He sighs, a little sadly. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t be calling you like this. It makes everything harder.”

  “I know. Talking to you till all hours makes it harder.”

  “It makes me wish I were there.”

  I lean back in the chair, closing my eyes. “What would you do if you were?”

  “Kiss you.” His voice is a sexy rumble.

  I hum. “Where?”

  “Your lips, the hollow of your throat, your earlobe, where you like to be nipped.”

  I shiver. “Do I like to have my earlobe nibbled on?”

  “Oh, you absolutely do. And I’d kiss you for hours.”

  “I’d squirm for hours,” I whisper.

  “I like all the sounds you make when I kiss you. I’d like to know what other sounds you make.”

  Flames. I go up in flames. “I suspect you’d be cataloguing a whole lot of noises.”

  A soft chuckle comes from his end of the line, followed by a sexy sigh. “I’d like to kiss you everywhere, Kristen.”

  And I die. From the visual my brain helpfully assembled. From the shiver that rushed down my belly thanks to that image. And from the possibility of his mouth exploring me everywhere.

  When we hang up, I’m lonelier than when we started.

  It would have been smarter to stop, but we don’t. We keep going over the next few weeks, as I work and see my friends, as he works and travels more for business.

  Every night, we talk.

  Every day, we text.

  Every time, the math geek in me craves a solution. We are one side of the equation, and I don’t know how to solve for x with all these miles between us.

  I long to know what’s on the other side of the equal sign.

  One day when I return home from work, I find a package waiting outside my door. Bending, I pick up the padded manila envelope. Once inside my condo, I slide open the envelope, then I shriek.

  Oops.

  I’d shrieked so loudly that Grams opens her door seconds later.

  “Cockroach, gator, or dragonfly?”

  Laughing, I shake my head, clutching the package to my chest. “Neither. It’s Cupid. DVDs of Cupid.”

  “That Jeremy Piven show? Who sent them?”

  I can’t wipe the dopey grin off my face. “Cameron.”

  She arches a brow knowingly. “Told you so.”

  I pluck the card from inside, opening it. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I tracked these down for you. I hope you enjoy every single second of them. The only thing better would be if you were wearing knee-high socks and curled up next to me on the couch.”

  He’s right.

  That’s the only thing that would make this better.

  The next day I send him a gift. One that lets him know how much I like this one.

  19

  Cameron

  * * *

  “What do you think? Great name for the new line?”

  I blink up at Lulu. Shoot. What did she just tell me was her idea for the new line of chocolate?

  I was too busy replaying last night’s conversation with Kristen, when we listed all the things we could do in either a Ferrari or a Bugatti.

  News flash—driving wasn’t that high up.

  Still, Lulu deserves an answer, and since she’s aces at names, I take a wild guess that she’s devised a fantastic one. “Brilliant name,” I say, leaning against the counter in the shop. It’s quiet right now. There’s a lull in the afternoon traffic.

  She shoots me a thumbs-up. “Fantastic. Toe Jam Chocolate it will be.”

  I adopt a straight face, though I cringe inside. “Excellent.”

  She shakes her head. “You are so busted.”

  “Please, I knew you were putting me on.”

  She shakes her head, poking my chest. “You. Did. Not.”

  “Did. So.”

  “You lie.”

  I shrug. “Fine, you caught me. I was drifting into Daydream Land.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time in Daydream Land since your Miami trip with Kristen.”

  I sigh heavily. “I know, I know.”

  “Heck, that weekend you guys took me to the Hamptons, you were texting her the whole time,” she says, reminding me of the trip a bunch of us took Lulu on when she needed to sort out the complexities of her love life. I might have been talking to Kristen a whole lot that weekend. And the next week. And the next one. And telling Lulu about her. “Which makes me wonder,” she adds, “why are you still here?”

  “Where should I be?”

  Lulu stares sharply. “Not here.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not doing something crazy.”

  “Why not? That’s what love is.”

  “This was just a date.”

  “It seems like it’s one fantastic date that’s lasted a few weeks.”

  I shrug in admission. She’s not wrong. “Maybe it has.”

  “And that brings me to my big question.”

  I furrow my brow. “What’s that?”

  Before she can answer, though, the bell above the door rings and the UPS man strides in, handing her a package.

  “Must be supplies,” I say, offhand.

  Lulu smirks as she looks at the front of the envelope. “Supplies for you, lover boy.”

  My interest is piqued. “And why do you say that?” I ask as the man leaves.

  Lulu holds a package behind her back. “This might as well be tied with a satin bow.”

  “But it’s not tied with a satin bow, is it?”

  She waves it above her head. “It’s from your mystery woman. Kristen.”

  My heart thumps faster. I have no clue what Kristen sent me, but whatever it is, I
want it. I reach for the package.

  Lulu holds it behind her back.

  I roll my eyes. “We are not playing these games.”

  “Promise me something.”

  “What on earth do you want me to promise you?”

  She tells me what she wants me to do after I open the package. I laugh in disbelief. “That’s bonkers.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s what you told me to do when I was all up in the air over Leo.”

  I shoot her a quizzical look. “I don’t believe that is exactly what I told you to do.”

  She waves her hand. “Just open it.”

  Like a college prospect waiting for a scholarship notice, I rip open the envelope. And then I grin. Then the grin grows entirely naughty when I read Kristen’s note.

  Lulu shakes a finger at me. “Don’t break your promise.”

  I don’t plan to. I definitely don’t plan to.

  Later that night, Jeanne texts me with an idea. But I’ve beaten her to it.

  * * *

  Cameron: I’m on it already.

  20

  Kristen

  * * *

  Piper taps her chin, considering the lavender dress at the bridal shop. “So much lavender. I wish the bride chose yellow. I have twenty lavender dresses.”

  I arch a brow. “Twenty? That seems an exaggeration.”

  “Come to Manhattan. Check out my closet. I solemnly swear I have twenty.”

  As Piper holds up the dress to her mirrored reflection, I sink onto the plush pink chair. “I’ll stow away in your bag. Go back with you.”

  She spins around, looking at me with sharp eyes. “You could.”

  I scoff. “Hide out in your bag?”

  “No, goofball. Come back to New York with me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t need a job. I’ll leave my condo. And my family.”

  “For. The. Weekend.”

  “Then what happens after the weekend?”

  She taps her chin. “Gee, I don’t know. Fly up another weekend if it works out.”

  “Just jet back and forth from Miami to New York?”

  She nods exaggeratedly. “Yeah. It’s called a long-distance relationship. You do know it’s been done before? You didn’t invent this scenario of falling for a guy who lives a thousand miles away.”

  “Thanks for clarifying. I thought I had.”

  “It’s the modern age. People meet online. They date long-distance. They make it work.”

  “That’s a lot to make work.”

  “And how many evenings have you been talking or texting him on the phone all night long?”

  I cast my gaze down, grumbling, “The last several.”

  “And I bet some of those texts weren’t entirely safe for work.”

  “I did not sext him. I didn’t send any nudes.”

  She arches a brow.

  I huff. “I sent him a shot of my legs. But it was a tasteful shot.”

  “I’ve no doubt he wants a taste of you.”

  I laugh, but my stomach is swooping, because I’d like that too. “Maybe,” I say noncommittally.

  She laughs, sets the dress on a hook, and strides over to me. She lifts my chin. “You could get on a plane to New York and surprise him, and I bet he’d be ecstatic.”

  “That seems a little presumptuous.”

  “Then ask him if you should . . . presume.”

  But can I ask him that? Are we at that point? I marinate on Piper’s advice as I return home, then I reread the last few nights of texts.

  I stare at the photo from our date.

  I close my eyes and I recall how it felt.

  I open my eyes and grab my phone.

  * * *

  Kristen: This might be crazy, but is there any chance you might want company this weekend? Or want to be my company this weekend?

  * * *

  He doesn’t reply.

  And I do my best to pretend that doesn’t equal one very sad Kristen.

  21

  Cameron

  * * *

  The car rumbles through the streets, and in the back seat, I reread my most recent chat with Jeanne.

  * * *

  Jeanne: I’m keeping her busy till you arrive.

  * * *

  Cameron: You’re a good woman.

  * * *

  Jeanne: Also, I beat you with a full house.

  * * *

  Cameron: It’s about time.

  * * *

  Jeanne: Hey, be nice to the little old lady.

  * * *

  Cameron: As if that description fits you at all.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, my Uber arrives at my destination. I thank the driver and bound up the steps, then knock on the door.

  For a second, maybe more, I wonder if this is crazy. If I’ve gone insane, presumptuous, and all kinds of soft inside for trying to pull off this surprise.

  Maybe I have.

  Maybe I’m jumping off the nutty end of the diving board.

  Maybe that’s okay.

  Hope rises in me. A big balloon of it. Nerves expand too, relentlessly.

  But what’s life without a big chance now and then? After all, she’s worth the risk.

  Kristen opens the door. Her chestnut hair is piled high in a messy bun, her glasses are sliding down her nose, and her cute pink skirt makes me think very bad things.

  Her expression, though, is priceless.

  It’s hope meets wild hope.

  It’s Is this really happening?

  It matches mine.

  She parts her lips to speak, but I go first.

  I smack my forehead. “My bad. You texted me and asked if I wanted company this weekend. Figured I’d tell you in person that the answer is yes.”

  She grabs my shirt collar and yanks me inside, crushing my lips with hers in a hot, searing kiss. The door isn’t even closed, and I don’t care. She’s on fire, devouring me, and I want to be burned. My head is a haze, and my body is rocketing to five-alarm levels.

  Then she lets go.

  “Whoa. Why’d you stop kissing me? You should do more of that. Never stop kissing me. Also, do it all night long.”

  She laughs and kicks the door closed. “All night long can be arranged. Also, this is perfect timing. My grams just left about ten seconds ago.”

  “Good. I told her to keep you occupied till I arrived.”

  “Wait. Did she engineer this too?”

  I laugh as I slide my hands around her waist. “No, but she did tell me she thought I ought to get my butt down here. And I told her I was already on it.”

  She ropes her arms around my neck. “Good. Because I like your butt. Also, you had me worried.”

  I tug her closer. “Woman, when you send me a deck of cards with a note that says Want to play strip poker sometime? I am on it. I booked the next flight out of town to see you. Yes, maybe Lulu made me promise that I would get on a plane to see you, but it was all I could think about anyway.”

  She brushes a kiss to my lips. “Maybe let’s stop talking and thinking and texting, and start doing.”

  That I can do.

  I thread a hand in her hair and seal my mouth to hers. It’s one of those slow burn kisses, the kind that takes its time, heats you up, and warms you inside and out.

  But it’s only slow burn for so long.

  Because weeks of longing? Late-night phone calls? Flirty, dirty texts? And the kisses we shared on that first date?

  The time for slow burn is over after one delicious minute of soft, gentle, open-mouthed kisses.

  My circuits go haywire, and my desire rockets to sky high.

  I grab her ass, lift her up, help her hook her legs around my hips, and then I carry her to the couch.

  “Kiss you everywhere?” I ask, arching a brow, as I tug off my shirt. “I believe that was one of your requests?”

  Her eyes blaze, and she’s stripping at the speed of light too. There goes the shirt, the bra, and hallelujah. My brain is official
ly fried because . . . breasts.

  “Yes, but right now, I kind of need something else.”

  “And what would that be?”

  She sits up, reaches for my jeans, and makes her intentions clear. “You naked, fucking me.”

  What do you know? Her intentions match mine. “I aim to deliver on all your needs.”

  A few more seconds, and that pretty pink skirt pools on the floor, and my boxer briefs join it.

  She reaches for my shoulders, bringing me close, whispering, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, as I roll on a condom.

  “Also, please get inside me right now.”

  I laugh. “You are so damn direct and it's a hell of a turn on.”

  Her eyebrows wiggle as her hand darts down, clasping my erection. “I can tell. You are definitely turned on.”

  I groan from the red-hot pleasure, the wild thrill of her hands on me. Then, I groan from the sheer perfection of sliding inside her. This woman I adore. The woman I crave. And the woman I want badly.

  She lets out the sexiest sigh in the entire galaxy as I fill her, and then she arches up into me, gripping, moving, owning her pleasure.

  She’s so alluring, so unabashed as she seeks the right angle, the right friction, then as she asks me to go a little faster, a little harder.