Her ass was planted on the counter, Brody stood between her legs, and they were making out. I studied them but didn't say anything as I stomped past, trying to ignore the wet, sticky stuff inside my sneakers.
I had to walk with my legs spread because I had ice cream in my pants, too.
My eyes were also burning, but that was probably due to the fact that I'd just walked in on Cam and Brody making out in the kitchen. While part of me was glad she was finally getting some action, the rest of me really didn't need to see it.
If I hadn't been covered in ice cream goop, I would have celebrated the fact that I was right and she was lying to herself. They were definitely more than just friends. Ha!
"You okay?" Cam called after me.
I hollered back, "Fine. But you can blame that one's brother for my bad mood."
I couldn't hear exactly what was said after that, but I did hear them laughing.
I figured it was due to the fact that I was absolutely covered in melted ice cream, sticky caramel and chocolate, flecks of whipped cream, and even pieces of nuts.
How did that happen you ask?
Sexism.
Okay, so maybe the concept of traditional gender roles just played a small role in the incident, but the root of the entire disaster was sexism.
Since Cam had the night off and she'd left me at her parents' house, Ben had given me a ride to work. He also promised to swing by and pick me up so I wouldn't have to call an Uber. At the time, I'd found it sweet, until he'd dropped by at closing because he wanted to "help me."
This "help" included trying to take the garbage bags away from me when I carried them out to toss them in the dumpster. My independence was offended because I'd been doing this task every night for almost a week, so we ended up playing tug-of-war with two very full trash bags. At least until one of the bags burst.
All over me.
Needless to say, I'd gone back into the shop and locked him outside. He refused to leave without me, and I doubted very much that Marty the Uber Driver would allow me in his pristine Buick in my present condition, so I'd relented when Ben insisted that he would drive me home as promised.
But I'd made sure to rub my chocolate-syrup-covered-ass all over his nice leather upholstery.
By the time I'd gotten back to Cam's house, I had melted ice cream in some very private places. If I hadn't been so irritated, I would have laughed at the scene playing out in the kitchen because it was clear Brody had taken my advice earlier today and run with it.
I marched into my room, stripping off my clothes as I walked to the shower. How in the hell had Cam managed to work six days a week like this for six years? It was nuts. My feet hurt. My ankles hurt.
Even my belly button hurt. Don't ask me how that happened because I don't freakin' know.
Then again, monkey sex with a big, strong man less than twenty-four hours ago could have a little something to do with soreness.
I refused to entertain the thought though because I was still irritated with him. In a few hours, I might see the humor, but until then, I was holding a grudge.
Ten minutes after I entered my room, my long, wet hair was wound in a towel turban on top of my head and I wore nothing but another towel because I was too tired to get dressed. I sprawled out on top of Cam's incredibly comfy guest bed and groaned when my phone chimed.
If it was Mr. Barnes, I was quitting.
I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and flopped over onto my belly.
Ouch.
First things first, where was my phone? I thought hard and then remembered. It was in the back pocket of my jeans. I turned my head and grinned. My pants were on the floor at the end of the bed, thank God. I reached out to drag them toward me, careful not to get ice cream all over the comforter, and my phone chimed again.
Shit, if the person messaging me was this impatient then it probably was my boss.
Ugh.
I wrangled my phone out of my back pocket, dreading the name I would see on the screen.