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My feet hurt so much I could cry. I stop by my locker to grab my bag, then head to the back, to tend to my poor feet.
I remove my right shoe—the worse of the two—then my sock, careful as the fabric moves over the raw, bleeding flesh.Holy shit, that hurts.I wince, and bring my foot to the sink to run water over it. I wish I had antiseptic spray on me, but I don’t, so water and soap will have to do for now. I’ll treat it at home. One would think I suffered more back at Silks, as I was working while perched on fuck-me heels, but my shifts were shorter. Also, back then I hadn’t taken up the habit of skating every morning. That doesn’t help the state of my feet.
Thankfully, I’m almost done with work. Just two more hours. I can handle it.
The door swings open behind me. Reasonably, given the fact that I’m in the girl’s bathrooms, at the back, I expect one of the female employees, so I say, “Hey, would you mind grabbing the first aid kit?” as I look over my shoulder.
Camden’s here, in all his glory, wearing a black short-sleeve summer shirt and taupe Bermuda shorts. Those arenotsupposed to be hot. They usually reveal pale skinny, hairy legs, but this is Camden Hunt, prince of Thorn Falls. He isn’t capable of appearing less than perfect, from any angle. He’s definitely not skipping leg days, or tanning days, or arm days, given the defined biceps on display.
He strolls in with as much swagger as ever, like he belongs here, though to my knowledge, he hasn’t changed sex in the last few days.
“This is the little girls’ room, Hunt. Can’t you read?”
I focus on the fact that he’s in the wrong bathroom, rather than pointing out that he shouldn’t be here at all. In this café, in the staff area, in the city.
I try to tell myself the city doesn’t belong to me. If he wants to spend time in LA, it’s none of my business. Except he makes it my business when he’s inmyworkplace.
I hadn’t noticed him before, which isn’t surprising, given how crowded it is out there. I wonder how long she’s been here, watching me.
That’s paranoid. Maybe he just arrived.
Then I think about the fact that I’m getting a break right now, although it’s a zoo out there. Sure, I’m legally entitled to one, but so is every employee, and Faith hasn’t given one to anyone else that I’ve noticed.
Did he arrange that?
“Let me see.” He zeroes in on my foot, brows creased as he takes in the three blisters, particularly the one bleeding at my heel.
He wets a cloth and runs it along the sensitive spots. His hands are gentle over my skin, and soothing, but I should stop him all the same. Ineedto stop him. “Camden—”
“You’re quitting the job.”
I choke out a sound between a snort and a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
I lower my foot to the ground, settling it on top of my shoe. I don’t have it in me to put it back on yet: the friction of the fabric is murder.
“It’s not negotiable.” His voice is steel, and when I bring my gaze to his, I’m startled by the intensity.
Gone is the easygoing image he likes to project. This is the man I knew was underneath, the thing I got a glimpse of in June. Camden has never been so beautiful, but his amber-gold eyes are cold, unrelenting. He looks at me like I’m a bug in his path, something he’d gladly crush to get what he wants.
“I am being patient with you, Morgan. I’m beinggentle.” He doesn’t even know the meaning of either of those words, but he’s trying. “But you’re not going to willfully hurt yourself while I stand by. Lose the job. I’ll find you something else—something that’s not physically damaging you.”
“Let me guess,” I huff, straightening up. “You’d have me shake my ass for your benefit instead. I bet that job would come with decent insurance. Dental, even.”
“Like that would be a new job for you,” he snaps.
“For Christ’s sake, I was awaitressin a strip club, you asshole.” Not that there’s anything wrong with actually stripping. If I’d had the skills or coordination, I would have done it, as the pay would have been better. It’s still honest work.
Camden’s right eyebrow inches up. That’s news to him. Apparently, his PI sucks—or he’s also a dick who thinks anyone working in a strip club is doing the same exact thing for a living.
He switches tacks. “You don’t need to striporserve. You got through Montgomery’s security. It took their consultant ages to even find outhow. You’re a brilliant hacker. I can send one email; a dozen companies would come knocking for someone with your skillset. Hell, even my dad might be interested. No one can tighten up security like hackers.”
I can see it. A fancy, white-collar job with a decent salary, nice hours, no manual labor hurting my feet or hips or neck. But if I get offers, it’ll be because of his email, not because of my abilities. “And what would I owe you for getting that foot in the door, Hunt?”
He doesn’t answer. No need to spell out the obvious.
“I’ll stick to the café.”
“No.” He’s adamant. “Look at your fucking foot.”
