mob boss bob™

It’s kind of the last thing you expected.

This week was supposed to be about soup and board games and helping your aunt clear out her garage. It was supposed to be about sourdough starters and running errands.

It was not supposed to be about open mic nights at bars and hot strangers with guitars.

And voices that tickle your spine until you have goosebumps all over.

And blue eyes you could sink into and drown like you never learned how to swim.

It was not supposed to be about one night stands.

But, alas.

The blue eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.

Cameron.

That’s his name.

Cameron.

You can still remember last night in flashes. His voice through the microphone. The scrape of his thumb over guitar strings.

The way he looked at you across the crowded bar like he already knew how the night would end.

And maybe you did too.

You remember his hands around your waist in the kitchen while you laughed into his shoulder. Remember him kissing you slow enough to make you yearn for more.

Yearn.

For a man you’d met less than three hours ago.

You remember thinking: oh, this is trouble.

Now he sleeps beside you completely unaware of the damage he’s done.

Mouth slightly open.

Hair a mess.

One hand curled loosely against your waist.

You should leave now, probably. Before you turn this into something it isn’t.

Instead you stay exactly where you are.

Cameron shifts in his sleep. Closer. His arm against you tightens.

Half-asleep, he murmurs against your neck, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper, trying to sound like you haven’t been awake for the better part of an hour just staring at his face. You gather the sheet over yourself, suddenly very aware of your own naked body.

He opens his eyes, barely, looking at you like somehow he didn’t expect you to reply. Like he wasn’t sure you weren’t just a dream.

His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re very pretty.”

You snort with laughter.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Is that your go-to?”

“My go-to?” he repeats, visibly offended.

“Yeah. Your morning-after line.”

“You say that like I have a system.”

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “This doesn’t happen to me often.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “I bet I can predict your next move, though.”

“There are no moves.”

“Right. So you’re not going to get me a cinnamon roll for breakfast?”

“No, I’m not—” He pauses abruptly. “Wait, what? How did you—”

“Last night, I told you I’m new to town and you said…”

Your voice trails off. That’s enough to spark his memory.

“That you should try the cinnamon rolls from the bakery,” he concludes.

“And you specifically said they make a great breakfast.”

His face shifts. Like he’s just now putting two and two together.

“But that’s not a move,” he says.

“No?”

“That’s just—”

“Yes?”

“Information that could improve your quality of life.”

“It’s that good?”

He nods.

You consider him for a moment. He seems sincere, and even if it is a move, like some sort of thank you for the sex, have a cinnamon roll and don’t be mad if I never call you scheme, what is really the worst thing that could happen?

That you leave here with two orgasms and a sugar high?

There are worse fates.

“Then I guess we’re having cinnamon rolls,” you say.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

He gets dressed like he’s already late for something—and for a moment you think he’s freaking out that you might not be here if it takes him a minute longer than he’s promised. You shrug off that thought as quickly as it comes.

Before he’s out the door, you realize that while last night has left you happy and satisfied and relaxed beyond measure, it has also left you icky. Dried sweat. Remnants of perfume. Whatever is left of your makeup.

“Uh, Cameron?”

He turns quickly. “Yeah?”

“Can I take a shower?”

“Sure. Through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the hallway. “Extra towels in the cabinet.”

You nod.

He leaves.

Thirty minutes doesn’t leave you with a lot of snooping time—not that you would, anyway, but you do glance around as you head to the shower, making a few accidentally-on-purpose stops along your way. The house is nice, well built, with a lot of wood and knickknacks that don’t really scream Cameron, but you just met the guy so what do you know? Maybe the little horses have a story behind them. Maybe the framed cross-stitch pieces were passed down to him. Maybe he got the place furnished and hasn’t had time to redecorate anything besides his room.

Maybe—

Maybe it’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the shower.

The water pressure is bad. Like, really bad. And he doesn’t have nice products, but other than that it’s a fairly uneventful shower until—

The front door slams shut.

And just before you have a chance to call out his name, someone else does it for you.

“Cameron?”

It’s a woman’s voice.

A chill runs through your body.

You don’t reply.

You run through the possibilities in your head. This isn’t his house. He’s house sitting. Or he’s a burglar. A scammer. A real estate agent with boundary issues.

Or—

He’s married.

You don’t like any of the options.

Not because of him—God, no. If he’s a liar or cheater or whatever, good riddance. You do not care.

But simply because now you’re complicit. And naked. In a stranger’s house.

That’s the kind of thing that gets people shot.

“Your car isn’t out front,” the woman calls out.

The voice sounds frail, a little hesitant too. And it’s getting closer.

You turn off the shower. She knocks on the door. Your heart jumps and your eyes flick to the handle.

Locked. Thank God you had some sense.

“Cameron, are you in there? Is everything okay?” the woman asks. 

“No, sorry, wrong person,” you blurt out, because you have to say something.

There’s a long pause.

“Who’s in my shower?”

“Funny story. I thought this was Cameron’s shower and not, um—I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m his grandmother.”

He lives with his grandmother?

Weird.

And sweet.

And—

Oh, for fucks sake. Get out of the bathroom.

You look around frantically only to discover that your clothes are exactly where you left them.

On Cameron’s floor.

The only thing you have is panties. Skanky panties.

That’s what your aunt had called them when you were unpacking. Then she’d laughed and said you would not be needing such things in Sowell Bay.

Joke’s on her.

You toss them on and reach for a towel, starting to wrap it around your chest before it hits you.

Modesty, maybe.

Or just the possibility of getting shot, which is still very real, and if that happens you do not want to be wearing skanky panties and a towel and end up the star of the most unfortunate crime scene photos.

Because the woman outside the door may very well be Cameron’s grandmother and she may be sweet and understanding to naked strangers and not shoot you—but what if the man you met isn’t Cameron at all? 

What if the real Cameron is dead and stuffed in a closet somewhere and you were just a bit of entertainment for Scameron while he waited for grandma to come back so he could finish what he—

Oh, God. You have to stop listening to true crime podcasts.

And you can not go out there in a freaking towel.

There’s another knock at the door.

“Whoever you are, will you please come out?”

A quick glance around the bathroom proves most unhelpful to your current predicament—until you spot something hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A shapeless lump of dark fabric.

A sweatshirt.

Cameron’s, most likely. Unless his grandma is secretly an oversized sweatshirt kind of baddie.

You snatch the sweatshirt off the hook. It’s soft, probably from years of washing. Still warm, somehow, from the shower steam.

And before you can stop yourself, you bring it up to your face.

Big mistake.

It smells like him.

Not gross, sweaty boy smell. Just—him. Faint detergent, subtle woodsy cologne and skin.

Your stomach flips immediately.

“Oh, you are pathetic,” you whisper to yourself.

Cameron’s grandma clears her throat outside the door.

You pull the sweatshirt on quickly and then, carefully, crack the bathroom door open.

The woman waiting outside is about five feet tall with silver hair, a cozy cardigan and practical shoes. Her eyes glaze over you—bare legs, Cameron’s sweatshirt, wet hair—and for a moment you expect a scolding.

But then, she simply tilts her head to the side and mutters, “Oh, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I—” you stammer, but the rest of the words fail to materialize.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not even supposed to be back yet.”

She starts walking down the hall, gesturing for you to follow. You do.

“I’m Tova,” she says.

You reach the kitchen. Tova starts putting on a pot of coffee.

You stand there awkwardly.

“And you, dear?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m—”

The front door opens. Both of you turn to look.

Cameron walks in carrying a stack of two white bakery boxes.

He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Okay,” he starts, “I was just gonna get cinnamon, but they were doing something new with pistachios, so I—”

He freezes.

You and Tova stare at him from the kitchen.

He walks over, eyes peeled on you and your bare legs and the whole situation at hand, and sets down what he’s brought on the counter.

“Uh, so, uh—”

“Relax, Cameron, we’re all adults here,” Tova says and begins unpacking the contents of the bakery boxes onto a decorative plate.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”

“Margaret’s husband developed chest pain, so we all came back early.”

“Oh.”

“He’s fine.”

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic for him.”

Tova walks over to the cupboard to grab coffee mugs.

Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”

“Fair point.”

“I haven’t seen you around Sowell Bay before,” Tova says, gesturing for both of you to sit down, and you feel obligated to obey.

“I’m just visiting.”

“Mm,” she says, pouring coffee into three mismatched mugs. “Sowell Bay has a habit of keeping people who need keeping.”

Cameron looks at her like she’s practically arranging a marriage.

You laugh.

“I’m going to take my coffee outside,” Tova says. “You two can pretend I’m not even here.”

“It’s raining,” Cameron tries to argue.

“There’s a roof over the deck,” Tova replies. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

And then, wearing another cardigan on top of the other one, she goes out into the cold misty air where rain is still falling and disappears from view.

Cameron nudges the plate of baked goods closer to you. You grab a cinnamon roll and take a big bite. It is exactly as good as he has described it to be.

He watches you and the way your lips can’t help but curl into a smile. You wash the bite down with coffee.

“She seems really nice,” you say, nodding your head towards the window. “Did you grow up here?”

He shakes his head. “We only met about six months ago.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“You do?”

“I mean, my aunt is expecting me to go list all her Beanie Babies on Facebook Marketplace,” you say, unable to hide the hint of amused disdain in your voice. “But I think that can wait.”

“Alright.”

“Unless you’re scared, of course,” you add quickly.

He looks into your eyes from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Scared of what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more I like it,” you say. Then, you bite your lip. “I might fall in love with Sowell Bay and never leave.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Good cinnamon rolls.”

“Can’t argue.”

“Nice scenery.”

He shrugs. “When you can see it through the fog.”

“Friendly people,” you say.

Your cheeks are burning. He can see it, you know he can. He’s staring, now, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to break the silence or—

He clears his throat.

“Friendly octopuses, too,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Like I said,” he says. “It’s a long story.”

“Well?” you ask.

“Well what?”

“Go on, then.”

Cameron smiles.

This week was not supposed to be about cinnamon rolls, grandmothers and blue-eyed boys with stories to tell.

But, alas.