3. Cam
three
Cam
W elcome back to Chile.
A turbulent approach followed by three laps of the holding pattern set us back from our scheduled arrival time. As a consequence—or maybe as punishment—we missed the sweet spot, and now traffic between the airport and the hotel is atrocious. And I’m wrecked. The bus creeps forward a few more feet and I slam my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes and trying to nap. But it’s no use. The engine makes the most unholy screeching sound with every gear change, the vibration rumbling through the floor beneath my feet, and my noise-cancelling headphones are in my bag in the cargo compartment below my seat.
Rookie error.
I resign myself to staying awake and gaze out the window instead, taking in the snow-capped mountain vista visible from just about everywhere in the city. I’m beyond exhausted, but God, I love this place.
Finally, after just over an hour on the road, I drag my weary body into the hotel lobby, inhaling the standard hotel scent of fresh linen mixed with something light and floral. The high ceilings and light tiled floor give the space an open, airy feel, and the brightness burns my eyes as I receive my room key and wait for the rest of the crew to check in. Once they’re done and on their way to their rooms, I step up to the desk again to request a copy of room assignments and sign some paperwork. As the pilot in command, final authority on the trip rests with me. Any changes to our schedule have to go through me first, and being able to contact my crew in the event of last-minute changes is essential. I stuff the paperwork into the briefcase hanging off the front of my suitcase, then finally head towards my bed.
I push my luggage forward with the toe of my boot, reaching out an arm to prevent the elevator doors from closing before I can jump in. That was one hell of a flight—a long day and even longer night—fraught with poor weather conditions as we crossed from northern to southern hemisphere.
Flying through the night is rough, and so is flying through weather systems. Flying through weather systems at night ? Let’s just say that right now, I’m approximately ninety seconds from falling asleep standing up. I want nothing more than to reach my hotel room, take a hot shower, and fall into bed for a few hours. The local time is only 9:00 am, but I’ve been flying since midnight, and I was awake for a frustratingly long time before that.
A woman crouches in the corner of the elevator. She has her back to me and her hair is in a messy ponytail, secured by a shiny purple scrunchie. She adjusts her short socks and reties both shoelaces in turn. Her sinfully tight leggings highlight the ripple of her muscles as she moves.
God, those curves are perfect.
As quick as the naughty thoughts enter my head, they leave, causing me to stumble over my suitcase. I trip into the elevator, my suitcase running into the back of the woman’s legs. Fuck. Talk about making an entrance.
“Disculpe, lo siento,” I murmur, silently cursing myself. It takes everything in me to even get the words out of my mouth, let alone to find them in my second language. Is this what a fugue state feels like? I’m not even sure I can feel my own face right now. Even breathing in and out feels like a struggle. I’m so far beyond tired, but good God, this woman is gorgeous—I know that much without even seeing her face yet. She has the most incredible silhouette with perfectly proportional curves in all the right places. I haven’t thought about another woman for years, but something about this morning—the jet lag, exhaustion, clumsiness, this woman’s hips and ass so beautifully hugged by these leggings—has me thinking with my other head.
“Ah, no pasa nada,” she responds as she turns to face me. It’s her accent that strikes me first, like an elephant kick to the balls. I look up and in a split second, my brain registers her face. The elevator doors close, trapping us together in close proximity. I see her eyes widen and I feel her breathing quicken, and from the perfect O of her lips, I know she’s having the same reaction to my face as I am to hers.
Fuck, she’s stunning. I remember thinking she was beautiful then, but now… fuck me. Now, she’s truly entered her goddess era. I can’t tear my eyes away. If looking at her is how I die, then at least it’s a hell of a way to go.
For a fraction of a second, I wonder if she’s managed to forget that night and erase my voice from her memory, because I sure as hell haven’t managed to erase it. Or her. No matter how hard I’ve tried. She responded so immediately, so automatically, like the sound of my voice didn’t affect her at all. Like she didn’t even recognize it. But my rational brain kicks in quickly enough, just in time for her emotional walls to activate. I can almost see the bombproof doors slam closed in her eyes.
I open my mouth just to close it again. What comes out of my mouth next might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said in my life.
“You changed your hair,” I blurt, immediately kicking myself.
Did I say rational brain? I meant fucking asshole brain.
Briefly, a half-smirk quirks the corner of her mouth, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. I let my eyes rove up and down her body shamelessly. Her once dark chocolate curls have been lightened and smoothed into rich, chestnut waves. Where it had once hung almost to her waist, her ponytail now ends at the base of her skull, just grazing the high collar of her tank top.
It suits her. My trouser-brain is well and truly awake now, despite the rest of me being ready to fall asleep on my feet. I close my right hand into a fist, squeezing my fingernails into my palm to stop myself from reaching out. I can’t trust myself. I’m itching to wrap those soft, chestnut strands around my fingers, bring them to my nose to see if they still smell like the apple shampoo she used back then.
“That’s the funny thing about hair,” she begins, jabbing a finger at the button for the twenty-second floor. She misses it twice before the button finally illuminates, and she squeezes her trembling fingers into two fists by her sides. Twenty-second floor. Shit . My room is on that floor. If I remember correctly from my last layover in this hotel, these elevators are slow as fuck. This is gonna be a long ride—and not the good kind.
“You can change it whenever you fancy,” she finishes. What was she saying? I zoned out during her response. My brain is hammering a thousand thoughts a second into my consciousness, screaming at me to get some sleep, but all I want to do right now is wrap my hands around her hips and pull her body towards me. I close my eyes and shake my head, willing my brain to get in gear and give me something useful.
“I don’t—didn’t think I’d see—why—what are you doing here?”
Well, it was better than the first attempt.
She sighs, pushing out the heavy breath from puffed-out cheeks.
“Trust me.” Her tone is sharp and unfamiliar. “I really don’t want to be here right now. In fact, I’d rather be anywhere fucking else. But, I got called off standby, so here I am.”
That throws me. We didn’t spend long together, but it was enough to learn that this is her favourite city in the world. Or maybe I don’t know as much as I thought. The elevator pings—finally—and the doors slide open. In her haste to put distance between us, she launches herself through the open doors towards the hallway outside. Her sudden movement has her off-balance and body-checking my luggage with her hip. I reach out instinctively and steady her with a hand on her elbow as she rights herself. Heat rushes through my body as my hands meet her warm skin, but she pulls back as though my touch burns. That stings more than any rejection ever could.
I grab the handle of my suitcase and tip it backwards onto its wheels, pulling it into the hallway as the doors close again. She hesitates, foot raised to take a step, then turns to me.
We speak at the same time.
“It was good to see you,” I say honestly.
“Listen, can we—can we talk?”
I glance down at my watch, trying to hold back the smile threatening to split my face in two. She wants to talk to me. We only had one night, but she used every minute of it to burrow beyond my skin and all the way into my bones. I’ve missed her with an unimaginable ache ever since. The more I look at her as she stands, eyeing me warily with one hip cocked and a gentle pout on those beautiful, pink lips, the more I want to see her.
I blink. I think a full second goes by before my eyes open again. If I don’t sleep soon, I’m probably going to fall on my face, figuratively and literally.
“Let me get a couple hours sleep.” I offer. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon?”
She glances at her watch and then nods, her anxious eyes darting around the hallway and landing anywhere but on me. “I’ll see you then,” she agrees.
A choir of angels sing a hallelujah chorus. At least, that’s what you’d think, considering the obnoxious way my stomach swoops and my heart rate kicks up. It starts racing in my chest like a herd of cattle and I’m sure she must be able to hear it a foot and a half away. I haven’t seen this woman for nearly four years and I haven’t stopped thinking about her for just as long.
How in the world am I supposed to take a nap now?
It turns out, it doesn’t matter how hard your trouser-brain is trying to make your life—or your dick. If you’re tired enough, you can sleep. I barely manage to get into bed before I crash, waking up only when my alarm blares a couple of hours later. I hadn’t even closed the curtains before I fell into bed. Now, the mid-morning sun is blinding, shining high and bright through the window .
I squint against the light as I drag my weary body into the shower, giving myself a quick scrub and brushing my teeth before rifling through my suitcase for some clothes. I’m not sure why I’m so indecisive when it comes to selecting an outfit. I’m hardly a fashionista, and I highly doubt Amie is meeting me with any preconceived notions of what I’ll be wearing. Eventually, I settle for a pair of charcoal chinos and a sage green button-down, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. I load my pockets with my phone, room key, and wallet, fasten my watch around my wrist, and head out the door.
Amie has changed since I bumped into her earlier. Her light-wash jeans hug her hips but are baggy on her legs, paired with a loose-fitting tank top. Three delicate, gold chains hang at different lengths around her neck, the longest one dipping into her cleavage and just out of sight. Into the spot I’d like to explore with my tongue. There’s a small mouse—or maybe it’s a rat—tattooed on her left collarbone. I find myself staring at it. I didn’t see it earlier and it definitely wasn’t there that night four years ago. I devoured her entire body then. I would’ve seen it. Trouser-brain wants me to lick it, claim it as my own. I suck in a deep breath as I approach her.
I’m dumbstruck as she stands in front of me with an awkward smile and wave. She’s the only woman who has crossed my mind in almost four years. I haven’t so much as looked at anyone else. She’s the only one I’ve thought of in cold, empty beds at night. The only one I’ve thought of in the shower with scalding water beating down on my shoulders and the memory of worshipping her on my knees beneath the spray, playing like a movie behind my eyes.
Whatever it is she wants to talk about, I can’t let her go. Not again.