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“It’s letting up, my lord,” he replies in a reassuring tone of voice. “She’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
“Good.”
A few minutes later, we enter the palace and then our suite.
Rudy goes food hunting. Camille ducks into the bedroom that has become her room for the duration of our stay. I get some work done over the phone and by email. The things that have to do with the estate are the easiest part. The formalities related to my new posting move smoothly, too. But I need to think before taking any action with Royal Riviera.
The scriptwriter has almost finished the final script. Celeste has seen the first draft, and she’s pleased with it. I trust her judgment. The artistic director and the studio manager are excited. All my ducks would’ve been in a row if it wasn’t for Magdalena. We’ve had radio silence from her and her agent for three days since I informed her that I got married.
I consider calling her, but after some hesitation I decide it’s too early and send her an email instead.
Rudy arrives carrying a tray loaded with open sandwiches and fruit.
“The chef can whip up a warm meal if you give him half an hour.” He sets the tray on the large coffee table. “He thought you’d be dining out tonight.”
I survey the food. “Please tell him this is fine.”
“See you in the fitness center later?”
“Not tonight,” I say. “I’m wasted after the race.”
With a nod, he leaves the room.
I get some mineral water from the bar and knock on Camille’s door. “Dinner is served.”
“Coming!” she calls out.
Here’s my new three-step plan. One, we eat quickly. Two, I pick up my phone and call Jacques to discuss the advancement of the restoration of the faux-marble paint. Three, Camille retreats to her room. And that will be that.
Unless she opens the door now wearing nothing.
But when she steps out of her room, she’s dressed in her usual uniform of layered sweaters and baggy bottoms. My manners override the informal aspect of this meal, making me stand up until she sits down.
Why am I vexed when I should feel grateful?
Camille settles on the sofa a good meter away from me and picks up a sandwich. I do the same. When she’s almost finished hers, I realize I haven’t taken a single bite despite being famished. I’ve been staring at her inexplicably alluring lips. They aren’t fashionably pouty. Her upper lip is rather thin and sort of pointy. Yet, the more I look at it the more I like the shape of her mouth.
Returning my untouched sandwich to the plate, I wipe my fingers and scoot closer to Camille.
She swallows the last bite of hers.
Will she reach for a second one?
She drinks some water instead.
I move closer still, until there’s no more space between us.
“I want to kiss you again,” I tell her straight.
She puts her glass down, chest heaving. No words ensue. I’m going to take it as a yes, but I’ll leave her plenty of time to change her mind.
I pull her onto my lap and stroke her back, her shoulders, her hair. I remove her Dame Edna eyeglasses and set them on the table. The tips of my fingers graze her naturally long eyelashes. With my pads, I trace her nose and lips. I linger on her lips and savor their softness.
Her brown eyes dilate, nearing black. Her cheeks are flushed—another foolproof sign. She won’t change her mind. She craves that kiss as much as I do. I take my sweet time, delaying our reward to enhance the anticipation.
She parts her lips.
But I stand my ground.Not yet.
