by Emma Tharp
Her words are like a punch to the gut. How could she think that? "Please have some soup. You need to keep your strength up. And if I've done anything to make you think that you are a bother to me, please tell me what it is."
She lifts her spoon and fills it with soup. She blows on it and finally takes a bite. "This is really good. I'll have to tell Eloise when she gets back." She wipes the corners of her mouth and sets her napkin back on her lap. "You haven't done anything to make me feel like I've been a bother. Believe me, it's all me. I know how hard you work and how valuable your time is. You’ve been nothing but gracious and welcoming, having me here in your home and doting on me." Her eyes dart down. "I don't deserve it," she mumbles.
“Why would you say that?” And the better question is who in the hell made her feel this way? That she isn’t worthy of being cared for? I’d like to find the bastard and teach him a lesson.
She wrings her hands together. “I don’t know. I mean, look around.” She gestures around the room. “You’re a very successful entrepreneur who lives in opulence. I’m your assistant and I live a shoe box.”
Lifting her chin so she's forced to look at me, I take her cool hand in mine. "Enough of that. Hear me when I tell you that you absolutely deserve this. Money doesn’t make a person worthy. Their heart does, and yours is huge. Got it?”
She blinks rapidly and nods.
I’m not sure I’ve convinced her, but for now, it will have to be good enough. And I’m going to do my damnedest to prove to her that she’s worthy. “Good. Please stay through the weekend and we will see how you're doing on Monday. Okay?"
She lets out a long sigh and nods again. “Okay.”
I'm grateful she's agreed to stay, but I can tell she doesn't like it. Her objections keep mounting. I'm going to have to work very hard to get her to stay right through to the trip.
We finish our lunch and she excuses herself to lie down for a nap.
I tidy up the kitchen and head to my office, closing the door behind me. I finally break down and dial my brother’s number. He answers on the second ring. "Donovan, important question," I begin before he even says hello. I'm anxious about mentioning this, but I don't know who else to ask. "How do I get a woman to stay?"
Donovan's laugh booms through the line. "Stay where?"
"You know my assistant, Camille, is staying with me while she convalesces. I'd like her to stay with me longer." There, I said it.
Donovan's laughter grows louder and I have to pull the phone away from my ear. "If you can't get a woman to stay in your penthouse, you’re doing something wrong."
"This isn't funny. This is serious."
"I don't pay women to stay, I pay them to leave,” Donovan says between fits of laughter.
"Those are hookers," I remind him.
"There is truth to that, but the same principle could apply in reverse. Maybe you could pay her to stay." For the first time in this conversation, Donovan is serious.
Actually, it isn't a bad idea. After all, it worked in Pretty Woman. "Thanks for that. I think I'll give it a try." I end the call.
I turn this idea over and over in my mind for the next hour while Camille sleeps. I’m not sure if this is going to work at all, but I have to try something.
When she wakes up, she moves to the living room with a book in her hand, having a seat on the couch.
I join her and sit on the chair next to the couch. "Did you get some rest?"
She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. "I did. It was nice."
The bags under her eyes have lessened and her cheeks are pinker. "That's good. I've been thinking about the conversation we had at lunch."
"Okay," she says.
It's nice to see that her mood has lifted; the pain pills must be working. "I can tell that you're anxious about leaving. Or rather, when you're leaving. And I know you're afraid of settling in here and having the rug yanked out from under you."
She sets her book down on the coffee table and crosses her legs. "You're right."
"What if we just decide you're not going to leave until after we get back from the trip?"
She shakes her head and tugs her knees in close to her chest, hugging them in front of her. "That's six weeks away."
I take the seat next to her on the couch. "I'm fully aware how long it is. And I still want you to stay. Would it help if I paid you…? To stay."
"I don't understand."
"You have to know that this is not about sex, since you can't have any."
She shakes her head and lets out a little laugh before looking up at me. "You’re really that lonely that you'd move your personal assistant in?"
I lean back and ponder the question. "Maybe. But is it so hard to believe that it's you?"
Twelve
Camille
That's exactly what's hard to believe. I can't imagine a world in which a man like Garrett Monroe would be interested in me. He has everything. He could have anyone.
Has it been so long since this man has had to woo a girl that he's completely forgotten? He doesn't need to buy people.
"I can see your mind working overtime." Garrett taps my forehead lightly with his fingertip. "It's you, because you keep me grounded. There's something about having a person who will be honest, trustworthy, and kind. Those are qualities I value, and I don't see in a lot of other people. I'm in business, and my dealings are mostly with those who are the exact opposite. Why wouldn't I want to keep you close? I'll give you more money. Just stay." There's a plea in his voice that reaches inside me and tugs at my heart.
I do my best to consider what this means. I'm going to get attached to him. I can feel it already. This is the Garrett I always imagined but never saw before. When this is all over with, my medical bills will be paid and I'll have a nice, hefty bank account to keep me company.
“I don’t want more money.”
Garrett leans back and rubs his hand over his chin. “Okay. I understand.” His voice sounds resigned.
“No, I don’t think you do.” I throw caution to the wind, because the intensity in his eyes, and the way I feel when we’re together, taken care of, appreciated, encourages me to say the words. “I’ll stay, but I don’t want you to pay me more money. I like your company, too.”
“Good.” He leans in and rests his hand on my knee, the warmth of it heating my skin, making me happier than I think the simple gesture should. “I want you to be content here with me. And feel like you’re at home.”
“Okay,” I say tentatively, because I’m not sure that this place will ever feel like my home, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be more than content here.
The next few weeks pass by quickly. We fall into a comfortable routine. I ride to work with him in the morning and back to his place in the evening. Initially I was concerned of what people might say that I was coming in with Garrett every day, but no one has said anything or seemed to care. We eat dinner together every night. He's easy to talk to and I'm just enjoying these moments, taking them in and not taking any of it for granted.
By the fourth week, I'm feeling pretty good. I can bend and stretch without crying, and even sneeze without regret. Garrett and I are getting closer. We flirt, he'll gently touch my hand, sometimes I’ll get brave and nudge his shoulder or rest my hand on his arm. There's something going on between us that neither will acknowledge. Butterflies come to life in my belly every time we're around each other.
Before I know it, six weeks has come to an end. The time has flown by and I owe that to Garrett. If I were at home alone, I’m sure it’d have gone by at a snail’s pace.
My post-op visit is scheduled for tomorrow, a Thursday. The air between Garrett and me is positively electric. I can barely stand being around him. My hormones have me on edge. I have a longing inside me I’ve never previously experienced.
After work, we go home, and I cook dinner. I insist. It makes me feel useful and less pampered, more real. It's spaghetti Bolognese. Once the meal is plated and set on the table, I call Ga
rrett in from his office.
He has a seat at the table, eyeing the food in front of him, a look of appreciation on his face. He’s not shy and digs in, taking a large bite of pasta. When he swallows and smiles at me, my heart skips a beat. "This is really good."
I blow out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. "Thank you. My mother died when I was five, but one of my memories is eating her spaghetti. This is her recipe."
"Turns out you’re a great cook like she was." He takes a sip of his red wine.
It's my turn to smile. "That's a big compliment. My dad always talked about all the delicious meals my mom used to cook him."
"Eloise has stellar culinary skills, but I really like that you cooked for me." His dark eyes shine, and my belly heats up under the weight of his stare.
"I'll cook for you anytime." There's meaning in my statement. If he asked me, I would see him again after our trip is over.
He nods. "I’d love that.”
“You’ve never told me about your parents. Was your mom a good cook?”
He laughs. “No. My mother was a fun mother. She loved to read to us and bake cookies, but they’d always taste like salt. And her idea of vegetables were pickles and French fries.”
“She sounds fabulous.”
He looks off into the distance as if he can see her now serving the salty cookies. “She was. I miss her. She passed away in a car accident eight years ago, and Dad had a heart attack fifteen years ago. He was a hard-ass who taught us the value of hard work. I take after him and Donovan is more like Mom. Giselle is a combination of both of them but leans more toward Dad. They were great parents.”
“I’m sorry to hear that they’re both gone. I understand how hard that feels.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. He grabs my hand and squeezes it, then releases it.
“How have you been feeling? Any pain or problems lately?” Garrett asks.
The look of concern on his face melts me. He truly cares. I know he does. I can see it in his eyes and he shows me with his kind gestures. “I’ve been pain-free, and the incision seems to be completely healed.”
“That’s great news. You’re so strong, Camille. I know there were days that you were still in pain, but you went to work anyway.”
No one has ever called me strong before. It’s one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten. “Thank you. I didn’t want to disappoint you. And if I stayed on a regular schedule with my pain meds, it was tolerable.” I didn’t realize how long I’d actually be down from the surgery. There were a few days in the beginning when it was hard, but once I was at work, keeping busy made me feel better.
“You’ve never disappointed me.”
I grin at him and take a bite of my pasta, letting that statement sit with me for a minute. Garrett is truly a wonderful man. Any woman would be lucky to have him and I firmly believe that Adriana is an idiot for cheating on him. He dishes out compliments like it’s second nature.
“Thank you. And I have to praise everyone at the company. I was worried that people would be catty and treat me differently once they figured out that we were arriving at the office together and leaving together, but no one said anything derogatory to me and I never heard any rumors about us.” I was worried that once people put two and two together that they’d make things hard on me. To my surprise, they didn’t. At least not that I heard or noticed.
Garrett has a sip of wine and sets the glass in front of him. “That’s good to hear.”
“Your staff respects you." And I’m sure that people know if they start rumors about the boss, they could lose their jobs.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, but can we talk about tomorrow? Tomorrow is your appointment and if she gives us the go-ahead, we’ll leave."
I inhale deeply. "We'll leave."
"And since we haven't talked about this yet, are you on birth control?"
There's suddenly not enough air in the room. "Yes, and I'm clean. Are you?"
"Yes, I was tested after I found out Adriana was cheating. I'm glad we got that out of the way. Let's pack after dinner so we can leave right from work tomorrow if we get the all-clear."
And now, all of a sudden, things just got real.
Thirteen
Garrett
I’m practically crawling the walls of my office all morning. Camille made her post-op appointment for after lunch and I swear it was to torture me. That's what it’s felt like since she's been living with me. The most beautiful pain I've ever experienced. I wonder what's happening to me. Originally, this was all about getting laid and getting over Adriana. Not anymore. I don’t know exactly what this is or how to put it into words, but Camille means something to me. I can hardly remember what life was like with my ex.
In six weeks, Camille has somehow managed to wipe my mind of the past I wanted to escape. And she did it seamlessly, without even trying, just by being herself. I absolutely adore her for it. She’s kind, funny, sweet, and she’s a natural beauty—and she doesn’t even realize it.
On the drive to her doctor's office, I feel compelled to hold her hand. She’s jittery and I know she’s nervous. Maybe the contact will calm her down. "No matter what the doctor says, I want you to stick around."
She stares down at our connected hands and lets out a nervous giggle. "You only want me to stay because you're afraid I will back out of the deal."
I hold my tongue because that thought never crossed my mind. What I am most concerned with is that she'll suddenly disappear from my life, and I have no idea how I'm going to ever let her go. She is sunshine and moonlight all wrapped into one beautiful package. But I don't tell her any of that now. I just shake my head.
Once inside the office, we are called back to an exam room where the nurse asks Camille to put on a gown.
"Do you mind turning around?" Camille asks, her cheeks turning pink.
"No, of course not." I angle my body toward the wall. The irony here is not lost on me. She's being shy and modest now, but soon I'm going to know every inch of her body. Blood starts pumping to my groin, but for now, we can play it this way.
Camille clears her throat and says, "It's safe."
I turn back around to find her swinging her legs on the exam table, gown on. She has her hands folded on her lap and she's twiddling her thumbs. I move toward the table and grab her hand. "Are you nervous?"
"A little."
"About what?"
"Mostly about the results of the biopsy. I've been trying not to think about it, about getting bad news, but I can't avoid it anymore." She blinks her eyes several times in rapid succession. She's trying not to break down.
Before I can comfort her and tell her that I will take care of her no matter what, the door swings open and Dr. Lin walks in.
"How have you been, Camille? Any excessive bleeding or tenderness?" she asks and lifts Camille’s gown.
Camille shakes her head as she watches her doctor press and prod the incision. "No, it seems to be healing nicely."
"Yes, it looks good to me." Dr. Lin puts the gown back in place and holds out her hand to help Camille sit up. "We have the results of your biopsy."
Camille's forehead scrunches up and she reaches out for my hand. I stand and go to her, twining my fingers with hers. She squeezes really hard and I try not to wince.
"Despite your family history of cancer, there's no sign of it here."
A huge smile spreads across Camille's face and every muscle in her body seems to relax. She lets go of my hand and I miss her touch almost immediately.
"That's great news, thank you, doctor," I say.
"You’re clear to resume all of your usual activities," Dr. Lin says, giving me a look. As if it were illegal to want to have sex. But something in her expression makes me feel guilty, like I'm doing something wrong. But we made the deal. And she agreed. I certainly didn't force her. I could never force her to do anything. Hell, if she decides once we’re on the island that she isn’t up for it, I'd still be happy and
think I'd gotten my money's worth. That doesn’t mean that I’m not very much looking forward to exploring every inch of her body.
I exit the exam room and let Camille get dressed. She has a spring in her step when she comes back out. We exit the building, and drive back to the office to close down for the day.
One last look on my desk, and I realize I’m ready to go. I’m not taking any work with me. No way. This weekend is all about Camille and me. Stepping out to her desk, I see she’s reaching for a file and I notice her hand is shaking. I don't say anything. Maybe she's just had too much caffeine today.
"Are you ready?" I walk up to her and lay my hand on her shoulder.
She turns to face me; her smile wavers and she seems less animated than she was just an hour ago when we were leaving her doctor's office. "As I'll ever be."
"Our ride will be arriving in a minute," I tell her.
She nods and leans down to collect her purse.
We walk up to the roof where my helicopter has just landed and will take us to the private airport.
Opening the back door, the wind from the propeller whips Camille's hair around. She looks up at me, mouth agape and eyes wide. "I've never been on a helicopter before."
"You're in for a treat. Come on, let's go." We dash toward our ride and I help her inside.
She sits in her seat, fastens her seat belt, and puts her headphones on. I take her hand in mine. It's cold, clammy, and shaking like a leaf. "Are you all right?"
She paints on a flimsy smile and nods. "Sure."
"Everything is going to be okay, Camille. I promise,” I tell her. It’s intense, the feeling of wanting to protect her and take care of her.
She doesn't say anything, just nods and chews on the edge of her thumbnail. I’m sure she’s overwhelmed by it all.
On the ride to the airport, I watch Camille with rapt attention. I take in her features as she watches the city fly by. I've seen this view more times than I can count, but I’m enamored by watching this beautiful woman beside me take it all in for the first time.