behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Five

HARPER

Oh, fuck.

My face buries itself deeper into the pillow, as if that's going to magically make the sun go away. The sunlight is vicious-sharp, intrusive, and entirely too cheerful for how shitty I feel. Why the hell are there no blinds on these windows? I squint toward the glass, the room nearly glowing from how the winter sun bounces off the frost outside and pours in like it owns the place.

For a city that's famous for clouds and rain, Vancouver really decided to throw me a curveball this morning. It's like the sun itself is trying to punish me for existing.

I groan and turn my face to the side, trying to find a corner of shadow on the floor where I might steal a few more minutes of sleep. No luck. Just the hard, cold wood pressing against my hip and the crinkled throw blankets I yanked from the couch last night. My neck aches from the awkward angle I passed out in, and my back feels like I slept in a twisted game of Tetris.

This isn't how I imagined waking up in a new place.

But then again, none of this is how I imagined anything.

I don't know what time it is. I never unpacked my alarm clock, and my phone is somewhere buried in the explosion of boxes and half-unzipped duffel bags cluttering the room. For all I know, it could be six a.m. or noon or three in the damn morning. But the sunlight doesn't lie. It's early.

Too early.

My eyes flutter closed again, desperate for just a little more rest. I'm not ready to face today. Not yet. I should be catching up on the sleep I didn't get all week. But my body has other plans.

My stomach growls. A second later, something warm and rich fills the air.

Coffee. Not just any coffee-the good kind. Bold. Fresh. Like someone ground the beans themselves and knew exactly what they were doing.

Then there's bacon. The unmistakable sizzle and pop of it crisping in a hot pan filters through the air, and I swear I'm levitating off the floor. I haven't even eaten meat in months, but that smell? That smell hits like a hug and a slap all at once. I scramble to my feet, tripping over a pair of shoes, a hoodie, and something that might've been underwear, all tangled in a pile I never unpacked.

I shuffle down the hallway, yawning so wide it nearly cracks my jaw, and walk into the kitchen like I've been summoned by divine intervention.

"Morning," Amelia says without even glancing at me, her back to the room as she flips something in the pan.

Her voice is scratchy with sleep. She's still waking up, too.

I mumble, "Yes, it is," and slip onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, blinking against the brightness of the room.

She's barefoot, her legs long and pale against the cool tile. An oversized T-shirt hangs off her frame like it was made for someone twice her size, swallowing her whole in the kind of way that makes your brain stop working for a beat too long.
The shirt rides just high enough to make me wonder if she's wearing anything underneath. I probably shouldn't think about that.

Her red hair spills down her back in soft waves, not styled or slicked back like it is in press photos or award shows. It looks real.
This isn't the Amelia I expected to see first thing in the morning. And that throws me.

She turns then-slow, casual, like she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on people and just doesn't care. Her eyes meet mine. I realize, too late, that I'm staring.

Shit. Heat floods my cheeks and I immediately drop my gaze to the counter like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen in my life. The veins in the marble. The way the light cuts across it. Wow. Riveting stuff.