Page 123 of Off the Grid

“I can picture it now. This is going to be the next AITA.”

“What?” I bark out a laugh.

“This is Spencer Riggs, back with another request for advice.” Camilla does her best impression of me.

“I do not sound like that.”

But she continues. “Am I the arsehole for fucking a girl on a grassy knoll that we illegally broke into? If the coppers were to come, is it okay if I outrun her so she’s left to take the fall?”

“Bullshit,” I say and press my lips soundly to hers to stop her laughter. “I’d push you down first, then run.”

“Hey!” She swats at me but then grabs the back of my neck and yanks me back down so her lips can find mine again.

“Don’t look now, Moretti,” I say against her lips. “But this was a beautiful, whimsical something kind of night.”

Her lips spread into a smile against mine and then she kisses me again.

What a perfect fucking night.

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CHAPTER FORTY

Camilla

“Should we be worried that you invited us to your flat and that you cooked for us?” Isabella asks.

It’s not like she’ll eat anyway. She never does.

Gia looks around, eyes narrowed, as if she’s trying to figure out what’s different in my place.

“It’s all the same since you helped me unpack,” I say, figuring I’ll help her out. Besides, I’m nervous for some ridiculous reason.

I shouldn’t be.

But I am.

“So what’s going on, Cam? Please tell us you’re not pregnant—”

“Oh my God. No!” I laugh and it eases the tension. “Where in the hell did you get that idea?”

“Let’s see,” Gia says. “You haven’t explained if you have or you haven’t slept with Race God but when we ask, you change the subject despite there being a”—she points over to the edge of my couch—“man’s shirt sticking out from under your couch.”

There is?

Oh. Shit. There is.

Oopsie.

My cheeks heat as I recall exactly what we were doing when that shirt happened to make it to that location.

“We tried to set you up with Archie this weekend but, only after you make every excuse under the sun why you can’t go, you invite us over for dinner. So we’re thinking pregnant or engaged,” Isabella says, leaning back as she crosses her long legs and takes a sip of wine.

My eyes widen, horrified at the thought of either at this point in my life.

They eye each other and smile. “You were right,” Gia tells Isa.

“About?” I prompt. Of course they had conversations about me before they came here.