Chapter 10
LAWSON
Icast my eye down the screen as I study the itinerary Serelle sent Lamont and me. Each new item is more disturbing than the last.
Christ.
What the hell is Serelle thinking? Lamont can barely tolerate my existence, let along all this touchy-feely shit.
I sit on the bed, pretending this is simply a bad dream that surely I will wake up from any minute now.
The noises from the very open bathroom space behind the faux wall do nothing to mute the string of curses. I assume Lamont just checked her email.
While she’s in the bathroom?
Well, that’s unsanitary.
I run a hand through my hair as the water turns on and then off. Lamont stalks back to the bed and shoves a hand on one hip as it cocks, and she reads the list aloud, like I haven’t already read the same information.
Finally looking from her phone, her gaze falls down to me as her mouth gapes and she says, “No fucking way.”
“You say that like we have a choice.”
“Maybe . . . we say we went, and . . . don’t.”
A knock rattles the door, and she turns on it like a lioness eyeing a vulture circling her cubs before stalking across the space.
Ripping the door open, she demands, “What?”
“Ah, hello, Mrs. Rawlins. My name is Man—”
She throws a hand up and he startles, faltering back a little.
“We are not a Mr. and Mrs. This here”—she waves a hand behind her without looking—“is my coworker Rawlins. My name is Carlie Lamont. So you will need to update your information.”
“Oh, so sorry, miss. My apologies,” the guy says, striking something out on his clipboard and writing a note—I assume, her name.
His megawatt smile never fades over his dark eyes, dark hair, and dimples.
His neat, pressed uniform looks like something straight out of a Scout’s lineup.
Only a little more casual, with his top few buttons open and wearing loafers instead of more serious enclosed footwear.
“As I was saying, if I may, my name is Manuel. I am your guide for your time here. I will escort you to each activity, keep records of your progress as a couple . . .” He shifts on his feet, and Lamont crosses her arms over her chest.
He tries again. “Your professional progress?”
I rise from the bed and pad to where Lamont stands, trying to show a little support for the guy. This woman is scary as fuck when she wants to be. “Sounds great, Manuel.”
I earn a filthy side-eye from Lamont, who nods to the clipboard in his hand. “So you’re our warden this week. Who are you reporting to?”
“Ah, it’s not really like that. More like so you can see how far you’ve come in your relationship after the seven-to-ten days. However long it takes.”
His smile stays painted on, but his grip tightens on the clipboard.
“If you must, but this is a working relationship, Manuel. Your metrics will have to reflect that.” Lamont unfolds her arms and walks away.
So much for us never having any kind of relationship. That’s the most bend I’ve seen in this fiery woman since the day I met her.
“Lunch is at one, then meditation hour. I will pick you up from your bungalow in a few hours, okay?” Manuel smiles.
“Sure, bud. Thanks.” I close the door as he leaves and turn back.
Lamont is pacing.
At least we agree on something.
“It won’t be so bad, maybe we go through the motions and bide our time ’til seven days is up . . .” I offer.
“Bide our time? He’s tracking our progress. Which means that if we don’t make any, we stay longer.”
Oh fuck, of course.
I run a hand through my hair again and she stills, her gaze stuck on the motion. A heartbeat later, she shakes her head as if snapping herself from a trance. “Well, we should discuss the sleeping arrangements.”
I drop my hands by my sides. “Like, left or right?”
“More like, floor or bed,” she snaps.
“You can’t be serious.”
She raises one elegant brow and pins me with those darkening browns.
“Whatever, I’ll take the floor. You take the bed, Lamont.”
Her eyes narrow over an incredulous stare. “This does not make up for Carlson’s, if you’re thin—”
I close the distance between us and am in her space before she can take a step away. She leans back.
“What makes you think I have any intention of admitting fault there? I gave you opportunity to fix that, and you didn’t.”
“What?” Her face twists with confusion.
“You could have taken that idiot for millions. But I guess opening my email was beneath you.”
“What email?”
I study her face for a beat, looking for any hint of a lie. When I find none, I ask, “You really didn’t get the email I sent you the day you were fired?”
“I lost access to all systems immediately. Hell, that snot-nosed weasel in IT was probably shutting down every bit of access I had as I was getting my ass handed to me in Carlson’s office.”
She never even saw it.
That takes the wind out of my sails.
Fuck.
She folds her arms as if things that come from me could only be harmful and she needs protection. “What did you send?”
“Litigation recommendations. Unfair dismissal, anything you could pin him with relating to how you were fired down to the sexism, the vernacular and insults he tossed around that day.”
Her mouth gapes.
“It’s not too late, you know. It still occurred. You were still disrespected and let go on grounds that wouldn’t stand in court. I had Griff do some research for you, in case I’d missed anything.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Griffin, my college buddy; he’s a litigator. A damn good one.”
Her mouth closes as her phone buzzes on the bed, its screen lighting up. “I have to take this . . .”
She swipes the phone up and heads for the door. As she opens it, she answers. “Hey, Mills. You okay, babe?”
The door closes behind her, and I stand in the room, wondering how I missed that Lamont is a mother. How she has a kid. And is a single parent . . .
That explains the mama bear attitude she owns. Fuck, that must be hard, especially with the hours we work.
All of a sudden, I’m jealous of the fucker that got to make a kid with her and annoyed at myself over said thought all in the same beat.
With almost two hours to kill before the first activity, I open the laptop and work on this quarter’s report.
After a solid hour passes, the front door opens and Lamont wanders in.
Her hair is a mess around her shoulders, her face flushed, like she’s been exercising.
The jeans and T-shirt she’s wearing are sweaty from the warm midday sun. For the first time, she forces a smile as she walks past me toward the bathroom. After collecting a few things from her bag, she disappears behind the faux wall. “Stay out there, Rawlins. I’m taking a shower.”
I chuckle.
“Yes, ma’am,” I call back.
A breathy huff escapes the bathroom space before water turns on.
The image of her stripping out of those jeans mere feet from where I sit winds its treacherous way through my ridiculous mind. Blood sinks south before I can wrangle my thoughts.
Fuck me.
I retrain my focus to the spreadsheet on the screen. I try three times before giving up when the shower turns off. I slam the laptop shut, shoving my head into my hands.
“Shit,” a small whisper comes from behind the wall.
It’s then I realize the towels are still on the bed, twisted into the heart shape.
Lamont would be needing one right about now. I rise and grab up a towel, padding for the wall. I lean on it, looking away from the bathroom. “Cold yet?”
“Just throw me a towel.”
I chuckle. “Manners, Princess.”
“The fuck,” she mutters.
“I guess you could drip dry. You’ll miss lunch, though.
Guessing all that long hair takes a while to dry.
Manuel will be upset. You could blow-dry yourself.
” The second the sentence leaves my stupid mouth, I groan into the drywall.
The words blow and Lamont shouldn’t be in my mind, let alone escaping my damn mouth.
“Towel, Rawlins, before I make this uncomfortable for both of us.”
She would, too.
And I’m momentarily tempted to let her come out here and take the piece of linen from my hands.
She has the spine and the confidence to pull something like that off.
Now that last phrase took me from semi-hard to concrete.
Sweet Jesus.
A hand appears around the wall, grabbing for the towel. Relenting, I shove it into her hand. My fingers brush over hers as she snags it and disappears, replaced by a breathy word. “Child.”
My chuckle turns to a stifled groan as the ghost of her touch sends electricity over my skin, radiating out.
Who would have thought Satan’s Little Helper could have that effect on me.
Lord above, it’s going to be a long week.
Manuel is right on time to collect us for lunch, which we inhale in silence before he shows us to a patch of lawn for our meditation. With his clipboard in hand, he waits as we sit on the grass, leaving at least three feet between us.
“No, no.” He’s waving his hands, signaling for us to shuffle closer. “It is better if I don’t have to keep alternating between you both.”
Lamont doesn’t budge, simply lifting her sunglasses into her messy updo. Probably so she can more effectively incinerate Manuel with a single glare.
I shift closer until a measly six inches of grass is all that’s left between us, earning a short-lived glower from those brown eyes.
With her hair up that way, a few strands have already escaped.
Her tank top has slipped off one shoulder, and the workout pants she wears make it just past her knees as she sits cross-legged with her sneaker-clad feet tucked under her.
“Better!” Manuel smiles. “Let’s start. Close your eyes, please.”
I shut my eyes. Instantly, every other sense is more intense. The ground beneath me, the wind that tosses my messy hair, the air that fills and stretches my lungs. I relax into nothingness.
Lamont shifts beside me with a sigh.
I guess sitting still isn’t her thing.
“What next?” she asks.
“Simply breathe,” Manuel says, “Feel every sensation you can. Listen to every single sound. Taste the air—”
“How on earth am I supposed to taste the air?” she says, annoyance lacing her tone.
I open my eyes. She’s tense, rigid, and sitting upright. Her eyes are pressed shut, her face scrunched like she’s in pain. I guess it takes effort to stay that sassy every minute of the day.
“You can simply concentrate on other senses, if you wish,” Manuel offers.
“Fine.” She relaxes slightly, her hands coming to rest on her knees, still curled into fists.
I suppress the smile that wants out at seeing her like this.
“Close your eyes, Mr. Lawson,” Manuel says.
Lamont’s eyes fly open and her face sours. “You need a Polaroid? Close your fucking eyes.”
Now I can’t help the laughter that spills from my lips. My shoulders shake with the hearty chuckle that runs away with me. This woman is always on, even when she’s supposed to be powering down. It’s impressive.
It must be exhausting for her.
“Stop laughing. You’re supposed to be taking this seriously, remember?”
I let my laughter peter before choking out, “Sure, I remember.”
Her brows lower. “Your eyes are still open.”
I flatten the remnants of my smile and let my eyelids fall.
“Better,” she whispers.
Those two syllables send shivers over my skin like they caressed their way over my body.
I tilt my head, trying to analyze what the hell that’s about.
“Now settle your mind by counting backward from one hundred,” Manuel says softly.
Hauling in a lungful that stretches my chest, I start. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-sev—
“I’m sorry, how long will this take?” Lamont snaps.
I open my eyes to find her glaring at Manuel, who now grips the clipboard like a shield to his body.
Smart man.
“This session runs for an hour, Miss Carlie.”
I school back the wince that automatically twists my face as he calls her by her first name.
And . . . he just got stupid.
But her face relaxes slightly. “Thank you, Manuel.”
Well, fuck.