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Dog in her arms, Camille laughed that most delightful laugh of hers, a laugh that should have brought a man to his knees in worship. Dane, however, wasn’t on his knees. When would the man learn?
“No, Fernsby,” she said sweetly, for Camille was always sweet. “I can unpack for myself. Honestly.”
He headed up the stairs with her bag, which weighed almost nothing, and left the two alone in the marble entryway.
Only then did he permit himself a smirk. His thoughts pleased him. “Let’s get cracking, you two.”
They’d dawdled enough. They were meant to be together. And he would make sure it happened.
It was what Lochlan had wanted just as much as he.
* * *
In the late afternoon, when Cammie finished unpacking, she took a moment to sit on the bed and drink in the sense of home she’d longed for over the past five months. How she’d missed this place. She’d chosen everything in the room—the flowered border around the ceiling, the seafoam walls, one of them a darker teal that complemented the rest. The seafoam bedspread with splashes of teal. A lounge chair in the corner where she could read comfortably or use her laptop to do some paperwork. The only thing she hadn’t chosen was the stuffed teal-colored Tyrannosaurus Rex Dane had brought her the day they’d decided on the little dachshund’s name. As a puppy, he’d almost fit in her hand.
She treasured that stuffed dinosaur. Sometimes, lying in her bed, knowing Dane was just down the hall, yet as unreachable as if he were on the other side of the world, she hugged the dinosaur to her as if it were Dane himself.
Of all her suites in all of Dane’s homes, this was her favorite. When Dane had it remodeled for her, he’d had the contractors add a kitchenette, with a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and a microwave. He’d even purchased an electric kettle for her herbal tea. She could make anything she wanted.
But of course, she’d always gone downstairs for dinner, and now, with her belongings put away, she returned to the house’s main level.
The door to Dane’s office stood open. Unlike the office space they’d had on the Peninsula, with an annex for her and a waiting room outside his corner office, this was one expanse of Persian carpet, wood paneling, and oak bookcases. The office was large enough that their competing phone conversations didn’t drown each other out. While Dane liked his massive oak desk, Cammie had chosen a smaller desk and credenza set, situating it where the late afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The estate stood on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The long, winding drive curled through the golf course belonging to one of Dane’s resorts. Although his property was walled off, an errant golf ball occasionally scaled the walls. The sprawling house had everything—a master chef’s kitchen for Fernsby, with his suite of rooms next to it. The formal dining room seated twenty-four, because Fernsby thought it was a good round number. Dane threw amazing dinners, though often he held parties in the San Francisco flat because it was more central to many of his business associates. They rarely used the formal living room except for get-togethers, but they often played chess or gin rummy in his study or lounged in the home theater to enjoy a classic movie or something new on a streaming service or to binge a TV show. Dane used the workout room daily. She did, too, but always at different times.
A door at the end of the hall led to a shower room, sauna, cold plunge, and spa, then out to the Olympic-size pool. When they golfed or played pickleball, they used the resort’s facilities. Beyond the back gate were hiking trails through Pebble Beach and down the cliffs to the beach below. She often went out for a walk, sometimes all the way to the other end of the beach, where the Frank Lloyd Wright house stood on the bluff.
Her memories prompted her to say, “Of all the places in the world where you own real estate, this is my favorite.” She gazed out at the sun sparkling on the waves, the dots of surfers riding the crests.
Dane swiveled his desk chair to look at the view. “Me too. I never get tired of looking at the ocean.”
“Neither do I.” But she was looking at his profile.
Turning back to her, he mused, “The San Francisco flat is kind of amazing, though, with its view of the Golden Gate and Alcatraz out in the bay.”
She suddenly felt nostalgic for all his homes, places she hadn’t been in more than five months. Just as Lyssa Spencer had said, the London townhouse was exquisite. The English manor house captivated her with its twenty acres of grounds. His Caribbean island was a sanctuary. But still, Pebble Beach won, hands down. This was where she felt most at home.
