Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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Wes has me perched up on the vanity, my back resting against the mirror, legs swinging as he stands between my thighs with a toothbrush in hand.
He moves the toothbrush toward my mouth.
It's the fifteenth time—maybe sixteenth—he's tried to get it anywhere near me, and at this point, I'm convinced he's got the patience of a saint.
"Wait, wait, wait." I push his hand away, my voice insistent. "Even if I was hitting on him—why the fuck would I spill his drink all over him?"
"Every girl has a different method," Wes says evenly, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying his amusement. "Now brush your teeth."
I twist my head, avoiding the brush.
"Yeah, but why would I need a method? When I've got these?" I scoff, grabbing my boobs through the soft cotton of the massive T-shirt I'm wearing. My fingers squeeze them together, pushing them up for emphasis.
Wes freezes.
His gaze drops immediately, his eyes darkening as they track the movement. His jaw clenches, his grip on the toothbrush tightening just slightly. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything—just stares like I've knocked every coherent thought out of his head.
"These babies," I continue, because clearly, he needs more convincing, "do all the flirting for me. They're huge and—and did you see how they looked tonight? Wore one of my best bras too. Ugh—fuck, I don't know..."
When I let go, they bounce back into place, and I swear I hear Wes exhale a little too sharply.
"Jesus, Cam," he mutters.
"I mean—it's clearly mental illness. Imagine hating me, and I literally have no idea what's going on. Fucking wild." I scoff, my legs swinging back and forth as Wes rests his spare hand on the skin of my thigh.
His golden skin against my bronze-olive? Cute. The way his entire hand swamps my not-exactly-small thigh? Fucking hot.
Wes tries to angle the toothbrush toward my mouth again, but I twist my head away with a scowl.
"I kind of feel bad for her. Like, she needs to heal. Go to therapy or something."
"Cam," Wes says, his voice low, a thread of exasperation sneaking in. "Teeth."
"Oh my god!" I gasp, waving him off again, my expression lighting up with sudden, drunken clarity. "What if it was him? What if he bumped into me on purpose? That could've been his method—because he doesn't have tits like mine, which is just... so sad."
Wes exhales sharply, his lips twitching like he's fighting a grin. "Cameron—"
My eyes light up. "Oh, shit—you should've heard what Jude called him back at Sticky's!"
Wes arches an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Yeah?"
I open my mouth to answer, but my thoughts stalls. There's nothing in my brain except for Baby Mike Wazowski and the recipe for Gigi Hadid's Vodka Pasta. Two braincells just bouncing around inside my skull like a damn pinball machine.
