Chapter 6
ASHTON
“ T hank you for your time.” With the phone to my ear, I glance at Camille sitting cross-legged and lovely in a flowered green sundress. Morning sun dapples her shoulders at the same seafront table where she ate chicken nuggets yesterday. “Please keep me abreast of any developments.”
I hang up the phone and watch my train of thought derail into the lush valley of her cleavage. Was I doing something?
“Eyes up here, Ash Hole.” Camille tucks a finger under my chin and lifts my gaze to her face. “What did she say?”
“Who?”
“The airline executive you called.” She rolls her eyes. “I know I’ve got great tits, but surely they didn’t make you forget you called a major airline CEO and attempted to singlehandedly solve an international pilots’ strike.”
They did, actually.
“Bad news,” I say, though some secret part of me isn’t terribly disappointed. “There will be no flights departing or arriving from any airport in the region today. My attempts at negotiation were unsuccessful.”
Not that I tried as hard as I could have. Speaking of hard?—
“Hey, Ash?” She tips up my chin again. “I appreciate the flattery. And I really appreciate you making those calls. But do you think you could talk to me and not my tits?”
“I apologize. You’re right, that’s disrespectful.” One would think that having my hands all over Camille’s body would satisfy my curiosity. Scratch the itch. Tick the box on touching the world’s most perfect pair of breasts.
But all night long, I couldn’t stop thinking of her. The squeeze of her slick channel around my cock. Her sharp cry at the peak of climax. The taste of her arousal as she?—
“Breakfast.” I force my gaze back to her face. “We should eat something.”
“Good plan.” Camille gets up from the table. For the last forty minutes, we’ve been sitting here reading through news of the strikes, poring over airline websites, and struggling to find her a route home.
I suppose I could offer my private jet, but the pilot was granted the same long vacation as the rest of my staff. How urgent really is it to send Camille on her way? She seems to be having a nice time, and I?—
Let’s just say it’s been a while since I enjoyed anyone’s company this much.
“I can cook.” Camille heads for the end of the bar, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “Is it okay if I poke around in the restaurant kitchen?”
“Be my guest.” I follow because technically, she is a guest. “You really don’t have to cook for yourself. The least I can do is prepare a meal for us both.”
I do rather enjoy cooking for people I care about, which technically shouldn’t include a woman I’ve just met.
But I follow her into the kitchen where she’s already making herself at home.
“Please.” She tugs an apron off a hook by the stove and cinches it around her slim waist. “You sent me a tray last night with one of the best gourmet meals I’ve ever eaten.
Seriously, where did you get all that? I just opened my door when the bell rang and poof —Michelin star meal sitting on my stoop. ”
“My personal chef created it.” I pull open the fridge and rifle through its meager offerings. We really aren’t stocked to serve meals this week. “I asked him to prepare an extra meal for an unexpected guest.”
“That’s very sweet of you.” She pulls a carton of eggs from the fridge, then butter and bacon and cream. “You must live close by?”
“Not exactly.” I locate a loaf of bread that’s several days old and decide it’s acceptable for French toast. Setting it aside, I start slicing up strawberries I brought over this morning from my garden. “My home is roughly a thirty-minute boat ride from here.”
“Wait.” Forehead furrowing, Camille finds nutmeg and cinnamon on the chef’s spice rack. “You had your personal chef travel an hour round trip to bring me dinner?”
“Something like that.” There’s no need to go into details, or admit that’s not quite how it happened. “I do hope you found it more appetizing than chicken nuggets. I referred to your intake form to determine your dietary preferences.”
Which is why I’m double-checking the bread to ensure there’s no sesame. She’s also allergic to peanuts, so I’m glad I didn’t serve yesterday’s lunch with its customary peanut butter dipping cup to accompany the apple slices.
“Dinner was incredible, thank you.” She starts beating eggs and cream in a bowl. “The jumbo scallops with lemon burre blanc were an especially lovely touch.”
She shoots me a look that says the subtext wasn’t lost on her. If her dickhead ex would rather eat scallops than show up for their wedding, the least I could do was bring her the best goddamn scallops she’s ever tasted.
“I hope they weren’t rubbery.” I reach into a cupboard and pull down a serving platter and two plates. “I had to prepare them on the boat to eliminate the risk they’d dry out.”
“You mean the chef had to prepare them?” She looks up from sprinkling cinnamon sugar in the egg mixture.
“Precisely.” I check the pan I’ve been heating, then lay out the bacon in sizzling strips. “I’ve asked Lars to prepare several more meals while you’re here.”
“Lars is your personal chef?” Camille takes the vanilla I hand her, tipping some into the bowl. “Sounds like a sexy Swede.”
“He’s seventy-six years old and German. Other than that, you’re spot on.”
“Well it was nice of him to offer to prepare food for me, but please ask him not to go to any trouble.”
Arranging sliced berries on a platter, I comb my brain for what else Camille ought to know as my temporary guest. “You’ll likely meet Kora and Sybil at some point. Their home sits at the edge of the resort property and they chose to stay for the duration of the break.”
“Ah, Kora and Sybil.” She unwraps the bread and begins dunking slices in the egg mix. “My brother mentioned them. Married couple, right? Sybil’s a consort and Kora manages the consorts?”
“Kora manages all resort personnel, plus my household staff.” I’m a little surprised Camille knows of them.
I knew they’d stayed in touch with Kit Plier, but I’m surprised he’d discuss such details with his sister.
“I’m certain they’d enjoy meeting you. Other team members may return early, depending on when the airline strike ends.
If they’re vacationing nearby on adjacent islands, the strike shouldn’t impact their travels. ”
“Good to know.”
I turn the bacon with tongs as Camille tests the skillet I’ve warmed for French toast. She turns down the heat just a little, then lays egg-soaked slices on the hot surface. “I thought perhaps we could take a boat ride today.”
Camille nibbles her lip. “Please don’t worry about entertaining me. I already feel like a jerk for showing up when you’re closed. The last thing you need is someone to babysit.”
That’s where she’s wrong. Having her here feels like my own private vacation. “It’s no trouble, truly.” I clear my throat. “Given our less-than-ideal circumstances at Crystal Bliss, the least I can do is ensure you fulfill a few of your bucket list fantasies.”
She looks up in surprise. “Did you memorize that form when I handed it to you in the boiler room?”
“It’s in the online portal.” And I’m a little embarrassed to admit how much time I spent poring over it last night.
“I saw skinny-dipping on your list, and while most of our pools are being resealed, I’m happy to take you to a private swimming cove with a beach you might find inviting.
It’s also a chance to attend to your nude sunbathing fantasy. ”
“Damn.” Camille gives a low whistle. “What did I do to get the VIP treatment here?”
“Fucked me in the boiler room, then sucked me off on a sex swing.”
She bursts out laughing as I transfer the bacon to a platter. “Jesus, Ash. You do love the shock value, don’t you?”
Only with her, it seems. “That was gauche, I apologize.”
“Please. I love your comedic timing. Your sense of humor is like one of those orgasms that sneaks up on you. Just comes out of nowhere and bam! Instant dopamine hit.”
“Well put.” That might be the nicest compliment anyone’s ever paid me. “Could you reach that bottle right there? The brown one with the blue top—it’s maple syrup.”
Camille grabs the bottle, then swivels to face me with shock in her eyes. “Wait.”
“What?” I frown down at the bacon, at the French toast she’s piled on the platter beside it. “What’s wrong?”
“Did we seriously just make an entire French toast and bacon breakfast without discussing what we were doing?”
I survey the meal we’ve prepared. The perfect crisp bacon. Slices of fresh strawberry. The warm, fragrant wedges of French toast, each with a golden pat of butter pooling on top.
“Yes.” I try not to read too much into that. “I believe we did.”
“Wow.” Camille’s grin spreads slow and wide. “Guess we’re in sync or something.”
“It appears so.”
“That might explain all the simultaneous orgasms. Not terribly common among couples who’ve just met.”
There’s a sharp pressure building behind my breastbone. A need to say something before Camille reads too much into this.
“I don’t get involved.”
“What?” She blinks, then looks down at the breakfast. “Is this your way of telling me you’d rather eat on your own?”
“No, I mean—” Fuck , what do I mean? “I don’t date. Not seriously, not ever. Certainly, I’ve had my dalliances over the years?—”
“Dalliances, huh?” She grins. “That’s how you keep in such good practice. Your sex skills are on point, my man.”
I study her face for flashes of judgment. For jealousy or irritation. There’s none of that anywhere.
Perhaps she’s just not hearing me. Perhaps I need to be clearer.
“I fuck women a few times, then move on with my life. It’s nothing personal. I’m not seeking connection or commitment. I just—I don’t get involved. Feelings aren’t part of the equation.”
A smile breaks over her face. She even laughs just a little. “Oh, Ash Hole.” She pats my arm, then picks up the platter. “You’re sweet to look out for my feelings but trust me—the last thing I want right now is commitment.”