Chapter Sixty-Two
Miranda
“Is everything alright?” Cam asked after walking into my office and closing the door.
There was no such thing as privacy, what with the whole office being glass, but at least the sound didn’t carry when we wanted to share a couple stolen bits of conversation.
“Ah, I mean, yes. As alright as they can be, I guess. Why?”
“Because your shoes, purse, and that hideous necklace don’t work together,” Cam said, giving me a small, familiar smile to help ease the sting of the words.
“I…” I started, glancing over at my bag, then down at my shoes.
I mean, there was nothing wrong with them in and of themselves. And a normal person likely wouldn’t have seen anything off about them. But this wasn’t a normal person. This was Cam. The man who knew what kind of panties I bought and dental floss I liked.
He knew when an outfit choice was a manifestation of something else.
“The necklace is a security thing,” I told him, shrugging. “I am under direct orders to wear it every day from now on.”
“Oh, that is truly unfortunate.”
“I know, right? It’s fine for a one-off, but daily?” I said, grimacing.
“How have things been going?” he asked, coming closer to sit in one of the chairs across from my desk as he often did, settling his clipboard on his knee as he’d done a thousand times before.
“Bizarre, I guess. The security expert is making me remodel my balcony. My guest room is now outfitted with hideous monitors. But, yeah, it’s… okay.”
“Randi,” Cam said, leaning forward a bit, giving me raised brows. “This is me,” he reasoned.
To that, I let out a sigh.
“In the vault, right?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I want to bang my private investigator,” I told him, feeling the weight fall from my shoulders almost immediately at getting a chance to admit that out loud.
“Um, duh,” Cam said, leaning back in his chair with a big smile. “I mean, you have eyes, don’t you?”
“He’s stupidly attractive. Couldn’t you find me an aging, blading, chain-smoking private investigator? You had to find the one who looks like he moonlights as a model?”
“I mean, of course, I tried very hard to find the ugliest one for you. Alas, Brock’s crew is considered the best there is. Which is exactly what you deserve.”
“What did the other two look like?”
“Attractive, each in their own different ways. But they’re married.”
“And I had to have the single one why?”
“Sawyer put him on the case. I don’t really know why. He just seemed knowledgeable about the situation, I guess. So what’s been going on in that penthouse?” he asked, wiggling his brows.
“Nothing. Well, a lot of eye-banging,” I admitted, shaking my head at myself. “In particular, my eyes doing a lot of the banging. Which we can’t even call my fault since the man sleeps with his shirt off.”
“You’re… watching him sleep?” Cam asked, looking a mix of amused and a little creeped out.
“No. I was just walking away after saying goodnight and he took off his shirt. And, well, it goes to follow that first thing in the morning, he is walking around without his shirt as well.”
“I have to know. Is he as fit under that shirt as I think he is?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “And he has a couple of tattoos. One is some sort of military one. Another is, of all things, a tattoo of Reptar.”
“Reptar,” Cam repeated. “Like from Rugrats?”
“I’m surprised you’re old enough for that reference, but yes. Like from Rugrats.”
I’d been both curious and endeared to find that he’d actually put that on his skin. If fear that he would think I was ogling him hadn’t had a death grip on my tongue, I might have asked him about it.
“I got the feeling from him that he’s a mix of very light and very dark,” Cam said.
“He paid for my food,” I blurted out.
“Is that weird?” Cam asked.
“I mean… it wasn’t a date.” And even if it was, Cam would be surprised how many times I’d been on dates since getting my life together and men would just let that black book sit on the table until I, inevitably, got sick of sitting there, and slipped my card in.
“He has that vibe, though, right?” Cam asked. “The ‘I take care of the womenfolk’ vibe, but without all that gross misogyny.”
“I guess that’s true,” I agreed.
“So, did I read your text right? You’re cutting out in the early afternoon?”
“Yeah. Brock is bringing me to meet his boss,” I told him, uncharacteristically leaving out the real plan. To go with Brock to his house, to see how he lived, to get a feel for who he was as a person.
I never shied away from telling Cam anything, even the kind of stuff I might find embarrassing or even a little silly.
I didn’t know what my reservation was right then.
Was it because Brock told me to keep a close eye on everyone, Cam included? Was some part of me doubting my implicit trust in him?
Or was it simply because I had clear and apparent schoolgirl sort of crush on Brock? And I didn’t want anyone to know about that? Especially because I was generally very rational about men.
I didn’t pine.
I didn’t feel shy or unsure of myself.
Everything about how I was feeling toward Brock was uncharacteristic of the woman I worked so hard to become. And maybe just too much reminiscent of the girl I’d needed to leave behind to get to where I am.
“Sawyer seemed very professional,” Cam said. “Tig too.”
“That’s good to know, since my very life seems to be in their hands.”
“Yes, speaking of that,” Cam said, making my stomach tighten. “I did some research and I have some creams coming for that scar when it is healed enough to start treating it. People who’ve had plastic surgery swear by it.”
It was incredibly vain of me, but I was really upset about the scar. About people possibly seeing it and coming to conclusions about it. If I couldn’t fade it, what was I supposed to do in seasons when long sleeves wouldn’t be appropriate or comfortable?
“You could always get a tattoo to cover it if the creams don’t work,” Cam reasoned. “And don’t try to tell me you don’t like tattoos. I saw your little secret,” he reminded me.
Yes, another glorious moment for me.
I’d fallen in my shower and sprained my ankle badly enough that I needed help getting out. And try as I might have to cover myself with the towel, Cam got an eyeful of hip and ass, which meant he saw the little tattoo I’d gotten very low on my hip, low enough that it was practically on my butt.
“That was a different me,” I insisted.
“Come on. The world is different. Plenty of wealthy people and CEOs have tattoos now.”
“Not that many,” I insisted.
“You’ve already proven you fit in with them, Randi,” he insisted. “You don’t have to keep proving it. If you want to cover it with a tattoo, cover it with a tattoo. Fuck anyone who has anything to say about it.”
He was right, of course.
It was absurd that I still ran every aspect of my life through the lens my peers would look through.
I had proven myself.
I had the job, the money, the house, the clothes, the charitable donations.
I mean, I was single-handedly paying for the much-needed renovations on a library in the neighborhood I grew up in, with the hopes that more kids like me would be able to use it, gain some of the knowledge inside of it, and get out of that area like I had.
I didn’t have to care what they all thought anymore, that they might see me as an outsider.
“And, I mean, when it comes to the old money families, there’s just no way to get them to think you’re equal.
Even if your fortune was fifty times theirs, they just think their names mean something.
And those are the snooty people who would have something to say.
Luckily, old money isn’t so prominent anymore and new money is taking over.
Tech billionaires and guys who created social media sites. ”
“That’s true. Well, if the creams don’t work, it may come to that.
I can’t be covering up my arms forever. And I don’t know how I feel about creating a lie about it,” I said.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Your morning meeting tomorrow is pushed to eleven. Shandy is having her baby as we speak, so we had to give John a couple extra hours to work on the presentation.”
“Oh, okay. That’s fine. We need to send Shandy…”
“Already in the works,” Cam cut me off.
“What would I do without you?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Still get it all done, but you’d have a lot more gray hairs and wrinkles,” he told me with a smile as he got up. “Have a good little day trip. Don’t work in the car,” he added as he got to the door.
“You know me too well,” I said, shaking my head.
The rest of the day was the usual putting out of fires and trying to talk project managers off cliffs.
Then, finally, it was time to head out, and I felt oddly self-conscious walking out of the office when everyone else was still steadily working.
That was another thing it was probably time to get over. I had a full staff. I didn’t always need to be the one who left last, who burned the midnight oil, who worked weekends and holidays.
At a certain point, you had to trust other people to each do their parts without being watched over.
And what was the point of working so hard for so many years if you didn’t eventually give yourself a chance to truly enjoy the fruits of that work?
I would get there.
Maybe.
But I would call it progress that by the time I got back to my building, I was no longer stressing about what my employees were thinking about me cutting out early.
And I didn’t bring a bunch of paperwork to go over on the trip, either.
Though I did tell myself that I would grab my home laptop to bring to check my emails and such in case it was needed.
Though I promptly forgot all about that as I slid out of my car to find Brock leaning against my building, looking casual, at home, even.
His dark gaze was on me as I approached.
“A little extra cream and sugar,” he said, holding out a coffee toward me.
“This mug looks familiar,” I said as I took it.