“Camden,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “You’re the actual worst for letting me make a fool of myself.” Leaning forward, I attempt to push her hands from her face, but she keeps them locked in place. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. I liked hearing what you thought of my work.” She grunts, not giving any indication that she’ll move her hands. “I was telling you what I thought that artist was trying to convey when you were the artist.” Another loud groan comes from her. I try to look away from the skin she’s showing between the denim waistband of her jeans and the ruffle at
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