Beauty and the Brit by Poppy St. James

STERLING

As I stand here cleaning the dishes, I’m in shock at how well tonight went. I went out on a limb, given that I never plan dates, and Camryn isn’t even someone I’m supposed to be dating, but that was incredible. That kiss. The conversation. It was more than I expected.

I wanted more with her, to take her to my bedroom and explore her body, to bring her pleasure. But I settled for her sweet, tender kisses because there’s no upside to rushing this.

That bit about her finding her lobster—I smile when I think of it. Behind her tough persona, she’s actually quite a softy. A romantic. The basic human need for closeness has never felt so real. I’ve spent the past years pushing all of it from my brain, but now, confronted with someone who challenges all my preconceived notions, I’m awestruck.

My hands pause in the dishwater.

Wait.

That was my one rule. I promised myself that under no circumstances would I fall for her.

But I can already feel it happening.

This won’t end well if real feelings get involved. Camryn will end up hurt, and I’ll be the guy who broke her heart. My uncle’s words from earlier tonight ring in my ears.

Angry at myself for possibly messing up the one positive thing in my life right now, my friendship with Camryn, I throw the dishtowel onto the counter. I need to stay focused. And tonight with her, I’ve been anything but. I was ready to call off the entire wedding charade, just for a chance to feel her warm body up against mine.

Knowing I won’t be able to sleep until I blow off some steam, I figure a long drive out to New Jersey should do the trick. I can check on my mum too, and that always helps put my mind at ease. I grab my keys and stalk out into the night.

• • •

I spent the night curled up on the small waiting-room couch, and now I’m sitting in the rocking chair beside my mum’s bed.

We’re sharing a cup of tea, and my somber mood from last night has disappeared somewhat. Being here with her, reminding myself of my purpose, all of those things seem to help.

Mum has a bandage on her arm where scratch marks from last night lay underneath. She looks around, her brows knitting together as she takes in the room around us.

Given her bewildered expression, I think she’s about to ask where we are, which she has countless times. Most times she remembers that she lives here now for treatment, and that she’s sick. But other times, it falls on me to break the devastating news to her like it’s the first time she’s heard it.

“Where’s your dad?” she asks.

I set down my tea and take a deep breath.

Explaining to my dear mum for the third time this month that my father is gone, that he pissed off and left us, isn’t something I want to put her through. I simply don’t have the strength, and neither does she, I think.

“He’s just run out for milk. He’ll be back in a few minutes,” I lie, the words like sandpaper in my throat.

Mum watches my eyes like she’s deciding whether she should believe me, then gives me a nod. “You’re such a good boy, Sterling.”

I’m not. Not at all, but I’m trying to be.