“You really need to stop picking me up like that.” “I’d rather not,” he countered in a serious voice before planting me on a stool at the kitchen island. He turned around and produced a small pillow. I narrowed my eyes at him. “What do you mean, you’d rather not?” He wrapped a hand around my legs—one single hand—lifted them up and placed them on the pillow he had set on a second stool. “Cameron,” I hissed. “You really have to stop that.” “Go ahead and tell me why,” he said, ignoring me and coming to my back. I sensed his head closing in, his chin touching my shoulder. “I’m sure there’s some
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