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Cammie wasn’t giving away secrets when she answered, “Yes. He’d worked at that resort for a couple of years after his parents died. But the owners ran into financial troubles, and rather than see it go out of business, Dane pulled together the financing to take over. That was the beginning. Now he owns resorts all over the world.”
All three women smiled at her, as if they hadn’t already known all that. “That’s an amazing story,” Rosie said.
But none of them could know the whole story—how hard Dane had worked to keep his family together after his parents died. “He’s a self-made man,” she told them with pride.
Rosie smiled at Lyssa, then glanced at Gideon. “That’s what these Maverick men are all about. Self-made. And they’re all pretty darned incredible.”
Cammie had to agree. But they were no more incredible than Dane.
In that moment, Dane looked up from an in-depth conversation with Will Franconi, as if divining he was the topic of conversation.
She and Dane were simpatico. Each knew what the other thought. With that look, he thanked her for moving among the ranks of the Maverick ladies, learning all she could. Which was why Cammie had done a lot more listening than talking today. She was gathering intel. And it was obvious to her that the Mavericks’ loved ones had given a thumbs-up to a business link.
As the teams went into action on the field, the women shouted their enthusiasm, screaming for their men to score points. Again. Cammie was unashamed to yell her support for the Harringtons.
Rex chose that moment to run to her, careening into her lap. Cammie nuzzled him. “You’re such a sweetie. And I’ve missed you.” He’d been running between her and Fernsby for most of the game.
Kelsey leaned in to say, “Is he your dog, then? I thought he was Dane’s.”
Fingers buried in the mini dachshund’s long hair, Cammie quickly said, “He’s actually our puppy. Together.” She smiled. “Well, not exactly a puppy. He’s seven years old.”
Kelsey settled an appraising gaze on her. “I didn’t realize you and Dane were…” She trailed off.
Cammie blurted, “Oh, we’re not like that. No. I work for him, that’s all.” Then she laughed, hoping it didn’t sound uneasy. “It’s just that T. Rex thinks he owns both of us.” She buried her face in the dog’s soft coat, not wanting Kelsey to see the blush that had crept into her cheeks.
What on earth would the Mavericks think if they knew she lived in Dane’s house? Or that she had her own suite of rooms in each of Dane’s homes, so they could more easily work together when he traveled? After all, she was his personal assistant. Not a lot of people, though, would understand there was nothing going on between them.
And if sometimes late at night, wherever they happened to be, she thought about Dane in his suite just down the hall and imagined things that could never be, well, that was no one’s business but her own. They were PA and boss. And good friends. That was all.
In the end, the game was a draw. Cammie wondered if that was Dane’s doing. Or maybe Will’s. Though Dane was competitive, and his sisters even worse, he saw no advantage in trouncing the Mavericks. Ditto for Will Franconi.
The Mavericks and Harringtons jogged to center field, shaking hands and giving hearty claps on the back.
Then Will called, “How about going for that pint at the Buena Vista Café?”
The Buena Vista Café served a famous Irish coffee, claiming to have brought the drink to the US. The Maverick ladies darn near squealed, even the pregnant ones. Cammie assumed there’d be nonalcoholic offerings.
Dane caught her eye, and she felt that familiar thrill up and down her spine. That was another of the things she’d never tell anyone.
Reading the question in his eyes, she nodded. Naturally, she’d go for Irish coffee—nonalcoholic, of course, since she had a long return drive to San Juan Bautista.
When they video-chatted tonight, she’d tell him everything.
Except the things she’d never tell anyone. Especially not him.
* * *
Fernsby packed up his tea trolley. He’d designed the contraption himself, with a warming tray, a cooling tray, a battery-powered teakettle, and, of course, a big box fitted below to carry necessities such as serviettes, silverware, and good porcelain. Fernsby never skimped on anything.
Dane looked at him. “Are you coming with us, Fernsby?”
He used his sternest voice. “Sir, surely you can’t take the dog to a bar.” Then he rolled his trolley away, calling to the animal. “Come along, Lord Rexford, we can’t have your morals corrupted by these wastrels.” Of course, he said it loud enough for only Dane to hear.
His employer’s laughter followed him as he trundled away.
The long-haired dachshund trailed after him, casting longing glances back at Camille. But the little dog was well trained—Fernsby had seen to that personally.
