And there it was. First blood was drawn, their bitter wounds dragged into the light once again. It took what, five minutes for them to fuck it all up? Xander thought that had to be a record â distance had made the memories hazy, easier to push aside when you saw each other a handful of times a year to hand over custody of your daughter. They met, they bantered, bickered, argued â occasionally ended up in bed together ( or the couch, the wall, the kitchen bench â whatever surface was closest ). The wound scabbed. The wound was opened. Rinse and repeat four times a year. It took them longer, then, to succumb to the urge to pick.
Maybe he was naive or maybe just plain stupid, but Xander hadnât really considered the impact proximity would have on their dynamic. Heâd though Vancouver was a big city, it would be easy to avoid each other, right? But the longer he was here, the less possible that seemed. The less he wanted it, though he wasnât inclined to dwell on that. âI commit to plenty of things â being really fucking attractive, my business, our kid.â He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. âItâs hard to commit to something that has no intention of being committed to.â
If Xander had even an ounce of self preservation, he would turn around, leave the store and not look back. Wouldnât think about Camille, wouldnât think how good those previous few minutes were before the claws came out. Unfortunately his penchant for masochism far outweighed good sense. Xanderâs lazy smirk didnât leave his lips as he allowed Camille to drag him closer, so close he could feel her warm breah on his cheeks. His hand reached out, skimming her hip as it joined the other on the table behind her.
âOh, sweetheart,â he crooned in her ear, deliberately misinterpreting her words, âyou know I love it when you talk dirty to me in public.â
When Camille had first moved to Vancouver, she had taken up football. (Well, soccer, but she had enough European pride to never call it that.) Partly because it was the exact kind of unladylike behaviour that her Grandmère would hate, and partly because it was an excellent outlet for her aggression. As a result, she would return to her dorm every Friday night too exhausted to wallow in her loneliness or her frustration with the situation. That was exactly what it felt like bickering with Xander. No, it was not ideal, but it was making the best of a bad situation. It would be worse, she thought, to ever even try replicating this â their bond ran too deeply rooted to ever emulate. Subsequently, even when there was nothing nice left to say, they still had to say it. The alternative was so much worse.
What else was she going to do? Admitting defeat sounded painful, but shutting up and walking away was worse. It was always so much easier to fight him instead; to aggravate him until he snapped, however that happened to be. She was used to being the focus of his attention â what was she supposed to do, not provoke it? Even it hurt, it was better than the alternative. It just happened to be a particularly sore spot, one that made her set her jaw and revert back to a sulky teenager who snapped all the time. âStill shifting the blame onto people more capable of taking it,â she mused aloud, because she could neither accept his brutally accurate accusations nor let go the chance to get back at him. And then, just to divert the inevitable argument: âI think youâre overselling how attractive you are, old man. Really working the dad bod lately, I see.â
It would kill her to admit to it, but Camille nearly trembled. Just from a brush against her hip and a sarcastic endearment? Christ, she needed to get out more. It had been too long since a gratifying tumble with an attractive stranger if mere seconds of her ex being an asshole was enough to get her mind straight in the gutter. Not that theyâd ever had trouble with that aspect, but still. This is what she got for not letting many people in â the one person who had knew exactly how to get under her skin â in more ways than one.
He was so absurd. She didnât know whether to laugh or smack him over the head. Instead, she chose to rise up to meet his stupid gaze, leaning up on her tiptoes with her other hand braced on his chest. âWow, how celibate have you been to forget what dirty talk sounds like? I thought we had higher standards than this, babe.â