Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Car horns start blaring around us, drivers cursing out of windows and throwing hand gestures. I ignore them all. I’m not bothered. I’ll stay here all day if I have to. Camille, however, is looking increasingly embarrassed by the whole noisy spectacle, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. “The light’s green,” she mutters, refusing to look at me when she knows I’m turned in my seat, facing her.
“Very observant of you.” I shouldn’t be sarcastic. That won’t help. I should have known her compliant behavior wouldn’t last long.
Her face twists as she turns toward me, her jaw tight. “Why are you being difficult?” she asks seriously, car horns still going loopy around us.
I gawp at her in disbelief. Me? “Camille,” I laugh lightly, trying to rein myself in before it breaks into a belly laugh. She’s a case! “I’m asking you a simple question.”
“Yes,” she grates. “I want to go home.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I pull away swiftly and leave the noise behind.
“Don’t patronize me,” she spits, and I smile on the inside. I fully expect a fuck you at any moment.
But weirdly, and quite surprisingly, I don’t want her to hate me. It’s a revelation. Most women hate me after only a few hours in my company, usually after I’ve kicked them out of my bed. They’ve never cost me a thought. Camille, however, is costing me lots of thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts. Painful thoughts. Annoying thoughts. I quietly groan. What I wouldn’t do for a drink right now. I haven’t had a drop for days. Drinking helps me relax. And I haven’t run for too long. Running soothes me.
I haven’t fucked for what feels like forever.
Fucking helps with…well, fucking is fucking. It’s a means to an end. I shift in my seat, my cock beginning to swell no matter how hard I try to talk it down. I’m just one big fat bag of pent-up man. None of this has ever been a problem on any previous jobs, but I wasn’t shadowing Camille Logan on those jobs. It wasn’t a daily battle to control my…
I shake my head furiously, flicking her a glance, just to check that she hasn’t caught sight of my awkward shifting. I find her gazing out of the passenger window, deep in thought. Part of me wants to leave her be, to let her have her quiet time, but a selfish part of me—a misplaced instinct—wants to know every tiny detail currently whizzing through that smart mind of hers.
Because I need to know if any of her thoughts are matching mine. Thoughts that are wrong. Thoughts that I shouldn’t be having. And maybe then I won’t feel like I’m going slowly crazy.
Chapter 12
CAMI
After Jake’s driven me home, I spend the rest of the afternoon in my room going over the offer from the investor, hoping to find some redeeming clause that will make it more appealing. It’s wasted time, I already know that, but it’s a great ploy to avoid Sharp. I feel guilty, like I’m betraying Heather by even touching the offer. When I left her outside the café, after Jake had very nearly put Stan in the hospital, she commented on the way Jake looked at me. I brushed it off, yet obsessed about it the entire journey home. I’ve seen the way he looks at me, too. I’m trying not to think about it. And I’m failing.
Once I’ve tossed the offer aside, I call my agent to confirm my decline. Then I lose myself for a little while longer updating my portfolio. Anything to avoid him.
And then I’m out of things to do. And I’m thirsty. It takes too long for me to muster the courage to leave my room to fetch some water, but once I have, I scurry across the lounge toward the kitchen like a rat up a drainpipe. I feel his eyes on me the entire time.
After filling my glass, I make quick work of getting back to my room without searching him out. I nearly make it before my treacherous eyes betray me and flick to my sofa. Our eyes meet. My heart jumps. My hand pauses on the handle of the door into my room. And the water in my glass definitely swishes a little from my trembles.
All from just one dash of eye contact. He quickly returns his attention to his laptop. The atmosphere is thick. Horrible. He knows I’m annoyed, but what he doesn’t know is why. He thinks he knows, but he’s wrong. I’m not angry because he could have ruined my relationship with the press. I’m angry because I like having him around. I’ve quickly become used to him. Always there, shadowing me. I feel safe. Safe from Sebastian, safe from the paps, and safe from the stupid threats because of my father.