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)
“Sure.” Camille shrugs and starts collecting the many pieces of broken camera littering the ground. Stan finds it in himself to crouch down and help, constantly darting wary eyes to me. “Stan and I have an arrangement, don’t we, Stan?”
“We did!” He laughs sarcastically. “I think we need to renegotiate the terms.”
What the fuck? “I’m sorry.” My hand comes up and rakes through my hair. “What?”
Camille stands, followed by Stan, and hands all the broken pieces over to him. “He gets his pictures, but only so many a month.”
“Then why the fuck is he loitering in an alleyway spying on you?”
“Because he’s had his quota this month. Right, Stan?” Camille fires him an accusing but forgiving look.
“Right,” he admits guiltily. “Sorry. Bit short of excitement this month.”
“I’m drinking tea!” She laughs, head thrown back and all. That neck. I blink and suck in air.
Stan sidesteps that comment and looks at me. I read his mind in an instant. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn with all the threat I mean.
“But you’re so handsome!” he whines, and then pouts. He fucking pouts at me.
“No.” I point a finger at his protruding lip. “I swear, if my face appears in any magazine, posed or not, then I’ll hunt you down and kill you. Understand?”
“But the handsome bodyguard is the most prized accessory these days! And, boy, do you top them.”
“Fuck off!” I spit, incensed. Accessory? He’s making a fucking mockery of it. “Get out of here.” I dismiss him with a shove to his shoulder and a curled lip.
Wisely, he dumps all the broken pieces of his camera into his bag and saunters off, flipping an indignant wave over his shoulder as he goes.
“I’ll replace the camera, Stan!” Camille calls, guilt rife on her lovely face.
“No, you fucking won’t,” I retort. She’s got nothing to feel guilty about, and neither have I, even after roughing up the little twerp.
“Are you done?” I ask Camille, turning to find she’s been joined by Heather. She has a miffed look on her face, while Heather is grinning. “What?” I ask, truly flummoxed by Camille’s filthy glare.
“You could have just ruined my relationship with the press!” She pushes past me and makes her way back to the café, collecting her bag from Heather as she goes. I grit my teeth as the lasting effect of her touch, angry or not, fades.
I feel Heather’s smirk still pointed at me, so I face her, ready for whatever she might chuck at me, too. “I love how protective of her you are,” she muses.
I wasn’t expecting that. “Of course I am. I’m paid to protect her.”
She scoffs as she turns, shaking her head as she walks away from me. “Open your fucking eyes, big man.”
What the hell does she mean by that? I’d ask, but she’s out of talking distance too quickly. I wander over, seeing some serious words exchanged as I approach, before both women shut up and Camille gives Heather a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she says to her friend, tossing a note on the table for the bill, at the same time tossing me yet another filthy look.
I sigh. What does she want me to do? Wait until someone tries to bundle her in the back of a van before I make my move? I can’t fucking win.
Camille sashays off and Heather heads the other way, leaving me standing like an idiot between them. My head drops back, my eyes rolling to the heavens. Then I expel a long, fucking annoyed sigh. What I can’t decide, though, is whether I’m annoyed with myself for shooting from the hip, or whether I’m annoyed about the outcome. She’s pissed off with me, and I fucking detest myself for being bothered by that.
Following Camille to my car, I jump in and find her sitting in the passenger seat, focus rooted firmly forward. I start up the Range Rover and pull out, peeking at her out the corner of my eye as we head off down the road. It’s awkward, the tension palpable.
“Home?” I ask, taking a left at the top of the street.
She keeps her mouth shut and her attention forward.
“Home?” I repeat, this time clearer and louder. Again, nothing. Great. So I’m being punished with the silent treatment now? I hate that it bothers me. “Camille,” I say, loading my voice with authority as we come to a stop at some lights. “Would you like me to take you home?”
The light changes to green, but I stay exactly where I am. I’m not moving until she answers me. I could take her straight home, regardless of where she wants to go, but something silly inside of me wants her to acknowledge me. Speak to me. Stupid? Yes. Proud? Most definitely. She’s rubbing off on me, for fuck’s sake.