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No.
No, I wouldn’t. Watching Camille dance seductively before going to a restroom with another man made me unreasonably angry. It had nothing to do with her safety and everything to do with the fact that another man was touching her.
And I didn’t like it one bit.
I can’t develop feelings for this woman. I’m an assassin, and she’s a socialite. We’re worlds apart and total opposites.
And I never mix business with pleasure.
Then there’s also the problem that I shot her. If I get close with Camille and she learns the truth, it will be a disaster.
It’s easier to hate an enemy than a friend.
Fuck.
It’s hard doing a job that’s the opposite of what I usually do.
I can’t expect her to stop living, but I can’t allow the slightest risk. One fuck up, and she’s dead.
Over my rotting corpse will she die on my watch.
It’s okay if she hates me as long as I keep her alive.
I let out a sigh and climb to my feet. Camille’s bedroom door opens, and she comes out wearing her usual t-shirt and tight shorts. Barefoot, she takes the stairs down, and without glancing in my direction, she heads toward the kitchen.
A smile every once in a while wouldn’t kill you. It will make her feel better.
I follow her to the kitchen and watch as she takes ingredients out of the fridge.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, her tone quiet and drained from the fighting spirit she displayed earlier.
“I can eat,” I answer.
Even though her anger was directed at me, I found it attractive. Her eyes lit up with little sparks, and her cheeks flushed with a pink tinge.
Camille is sexy and beautiful, and she’s kind. Christ, she’s the perfect woman. If things were different, she’s precisely the type I’d go for.
I’m so fucking glad I didn’t kill her.
I watch as she prepares chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches.
Give the woman a break, Maxim. She’s not from your world, and the threat to her life must be very upsetting.
Still, I can’t risk having a friendship with her. How the fuck do I stop that from happening?
Camille glances up and catches me staring at her. Her eyebrows draw together, and she hesitates before saying, “I’m sorry about tonight.”
It takes a few seconds before I let down my guard enough for a smile to tug at the corners of my mouth.
Surprise flutters over her features, and it’s quickly followed by a smile of her own. The frustration that’s taken up permanent residence on her face eases away like mist before the sun.
Christ, does a smile mean so much to her?
“I really didn’t think you had it in you to smile,” she teases me.
I notice her body relaxes, and it makes me feel like an asshole for not smiling sooner.
My violent past has conditioned me not to show emotion, but now that I have to guard this beautiful woman, I’m starting to realize how lifeless my life has become.
