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Camille tries to pick up a single noodle, but it slips away.
“It’s harder focusing on one noodle than a bunch.”
She goes in for the kill and manages to pin a couple between the chopsticks. When she leans down to transfer the food to her mouth, it all slips free, causing the broth to splash in her face.
Instead of getting angry and giving up, she laughs, wipes off her face, and tries again.
As I watch her learn something new, I realize the more time I spend with her, the harder it will be to walk away.
There’s no keeping this woman out if every little thing she does is so damn perfect.
When we’re done with our dinner, we move to the living room. Camille pours me a tumbler of whiskey before taking her seat and grabbing the bag of pretzels.
While we’re watching the movie, a text comes through from Maurice, and I quickly check it.
Maurice: St. Monarch’s couldn’t trace the partial image. It’s a dead end.
Fuck.
The past three weeks have been pretty uneventful, and with Camille spending most of her time at home, the forced proximity has made it near impossible to keep my growing attraction for her under control.
Under control, my left nut. It’s fucking spiraling into chaos.
The shitty part is I’m getting used to having her around. I find myself listening for her footsteps, waiting for her to wake up or get out of the shower. Any interaction with her excites me.
Camille has to attend a fashion event, and I have to admit, I miss being at home with her instead of between all these people who are willing to spend money on a piece of so-called clothing no one would be caught dead in.
She’s wearing a breathtaking dress that shows every sexy curve of her body, but every time a model walks past us, Camille fidgets with her outfit.
I’m starting to get the feeling she’s self-conscious, and I don’t like it one bit.
She lets out a groan then whispers, “Just my luck.”
“What?”
She doesn’t answer me, and I follow her line of sight.
Christ.
Juliette’s wearing the same dress as Camille. I’m going to go ahead and assume this is never a good thing for a socialite.
When Juliette reaches us, the cameras start flashing like crazy, which means the two women will be front page news tomorrow.
Unable to stop myself, I place my hand on Camille’s lower back to give her some support.
“Darling, what a disaster,” Juliette says, her mouth downturned. She glances over Camille’s body, then asks, “Why would you wear this dress? It doesn’t suit your curvy body.”
My eyebrow rises, and anger pours into my chest.
Camille lifts her chin, and smiling at Juliette, she replies, “You look beautiful as always. I need to do my rounds, so you’ll have to excuse me.”
When we walk away, Camille mutters under her breath, “At least I have an ass, and I don’t look like a stick insect.”
“You should’ve said that to her face,” I mention as I glance around the area.
The fashion show’s being held outdoors, making my job harder than usual.
“I won’t stoop to her level,” she grumbles, then checks the time on her phone. “Fifteen minutes, and we’re out of here.”
