Chapter 8
ASHTON
I ’m an insufferable asshole.
I’ve known it forever, but I earned a reminder today. Someone as sweet and kindhearted as Camille doesn’t belong in the company of a heartless bastard like me. We shouldn’t even exist on the same planet.
Camille’s urge to help fellow humans in need only ensures I’ll wrap my slick tentacles around her delicate ankles and drag her to the bottom of the sea.
I’ve learned that the hard way already. Refreshing the lesson feels like ice water dumped down my trousers, but it’s necessary. She’d understand if she truly knew me.
“Thank you again for the lovely day.” A breeze lifts her hair off her shoulders as Camille sets her gym bag on my private dock at the Crystal Bliss marina. “I had a great time.”
I don’t even walk her to her suite. That’s how much of an asshole I am. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
She touches my arm and I flinch. “I want to apologize again for my poor attempt at humor. It was inappropriate and completely uncalled for to imply that I had insight into your character. I feel aw?—”
“Continue to put Neosporin on the sting site,” I interrupt before she says one more damn word about her feelings.
I’ve already done enough damage.
She blinks, then nods. “Will you allow me one more apology then?” When I don’t reply, she forges ahead. “Besides burrowing into your brain, I never should have pried you with questions about the loss of your wife and child. Please accept my deepest apology for stirring up difficult memories.”
“I’ll call the airline tonight.” If I ignore what she’s saying, I can pretend we’re not having such an intimate conversation. “As soon as I have more news on the strike, we’ll get you out of here. Until then, I’ll have Lars bring meals to your room.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble.” She hikes her bag up on her shoulder. “If you’ll allow me to access the restaurant kitchen again, I’ll make my own meals. I don’t want to bother Lars.”
I nod once, aching to end this discussion. Aching to take her in my arms and tell her I’m not upset about her psychoanalysis. I’m not even angry she asked about the photo.
I’m mad at myself for forgetting she’s a human with feelings. That actions have consequences, and my actions—my selfish, libido-fueled actions—can destroy lives. It’s as simple as that.
“Help yourself to whatever you need,” I tell Camille. “I’ll text you as soon as there’s an update on your travel plans.”
Her throat rolls as she swallows. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I watch as she walks toward the Villa, bag slung over one shoulder as her red hair glows in the late-afternoon sun.
There’s zero risk of anyone harassing her on the short walk to her room, but I glue my eyes to her back anyway.
The lump in my throat makes it painful to swallow as she vanishes behind a palm tree.
Well. That’s done.
I kick myself all the way home, wishing I’d done things differently.
So many things, not just today. I never should have laid a hand on Camille in the boiler room.
The sex swing was a mistake, too. So was today’s tropical excursion.
What the fuck was I thinking, fulfilling items on her fantasy list, when she’s not even a guest at the resort?
It was reckless and selfish and completely out of character for me.
Inviting her into my bedroom, for Christ’s sake. When’s the last time a woman stepped foot inside my home? Or the last time I laughed with a woman, let down my guard like I have the past twenty-four hours?
I know the answer to that. Thinking of it now swells the lump in my throat to something the size of a softball.
Pounding a hand on the control panel, I remind myself of the one rule I live by. The rule I don’t ever break.
“Feelings aren’t part of the equation.” I say it out loud, so I’ll fucking remember.
The sun’s going down by the time I get back to my house.
I wasn’t lying about tomorrow’s meeting, so I spend a few hours preparing.
The legal team representing Holyfield Properties is spending the week in Negril assessing a resort I’ve recently purchased.
Meeting them there gives me a chance to go over my vision for the property, and to review the details of keeping sex work safe and legal at my Jilted Brides Honeymoon resorts.
I’m re-reading a clause on vacation pay when it dawns on me. I’ve failed to alert Kora Neville to Camille’s presence on the island. She and her wife live just down the beach from the guest quarters, and I don’t want them alarmed by a stranger’s presence.
At the risk of interrupting their vacation, I dial Kora and explain.
“I’ll be delivering most of her meals, but I’ve granted her access to the kitchen at Halcyon Bistro,” I conclude. “She shouldn’t cause any trouble, but I wanted you to be aware.”
“She’s here?” Kora sounds taken aback. “On the island with us?”
“She passed the background check.” That’s standard procedure with all Crystal Bliss guests. “She’s not violent or dangerous or?—”
“That’s not why I’m concerned. It just seems inhospitable not to welcome her.”
“She’s not staying.” That’s mostly a reminder for myself. “If anything comes up, please reach out. I’ll have my phone off during my meetings with the attorneys, but I’ll be available by text.”
“About the meetings—I’d like to be there.”
“I can’t ask you to do that. You’re entitled to vacation, just like the rest of the team.”
“I’m aware, and I appreciate that, but I want to be part of discussions impacting the staff.”
“I see.” It’s tough not to take that personally. I take pride in ensuring all Crystal Bliss staff are well cared for. “Do you have concerns?”
“Absolutely not. Please don’t think I’m questioning your authority or your competence, sir, but?—”
“You really don’t have to keep calling me sir.” It’s a habit she’s never let go of, not in the three years she’s worked for me. “You’re welcome to join me tomorrow. I respect your position overseeing all Crystal Bliss staff. Of course, your input is valuable.”
“Thank you.” There’s a pause during which I hear muffled laughter on her end. Kora sighs. “We’ve had a houseguest these past couple days.”
“Oh?” I have no idea why she’s sharing this. Kora and I don’t discuss our personal lives.
“A dear friend who works for one of the other Jilted Brides properties. She’s charming and lovely and an absolutely wonderful woman, not to mention a wonderful g?—”
“You’ve reached the bottom of your introvert gas tank?”
“Dear God, yes.”
I fight back a chuckle welling up in my chest. “Say no more.”
“I really do want to be there for the meeting with the attorneys.”
“That’s perfectly reasonable.” I’m well-versed in Kora’s deep commitment to her work.
“This isn’t just a job for me,” she says, practically reading my mind. “Looking out for the staff is a point of deep pride. Especially the consorts. I feel like their mother hen, and I can’t switch that off because I’m on vacation.”
“I understand.” My brain zings back to my conflict with Camille. To what triggered me lashing out. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the marina. Eight a.m. sharp.”
“I’ll be there, s—Mr. Holyfield.”
“Good night, Kora.”
I click off and stare at my phone for a minute. I was a dick to Camille. That much I already knew. But I hadn’t considered the implications of letting her think her professional insights caused the riff between us.
We still can’t get involved. Feelings aren’t part of the equation, of course. But that doesn’t mean I should completely ignore hers.
I’m dialing her number before I have the good sense to think it through.
“Ashton, hello.” She answers on the second ring, sounding out of breath. “Any word on the pilots’ strike?”
“Nothing new.” I haven’t checked for an hour, and I still need to phone my airline contact. “I called to apologize.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence on the other end. “You’re apologizing to me ?”
“For being curt with you.” Among other things, but that’s the easiest to address. “I understand that your habit of analyzing people is deeply engrained as a part of you. I’d just as soon tell you to stop breathing as order you not to tunnel into my psyche.”
“That’s still no excuse for voicing my thoughts. I know better than that, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, Camille. Truly.” I hadn’t realized until just now how tired I sound.
It’s good we’re sleeping in separate spaces tonight.
If we were together, I’d need to explore every inch of her body.
To bury my face in her neck just to feel her shiver.
To slide into the sweet vise of her slick little?—
“Did you have dinner yet?” I try to divert blood back to my brain.
“I’ve been snacking on Pringles. Found a can in the bottom of my gym bag.”
“Quite the well-balanced dinner.”
She chuckles. “I just wrapped up a telehealth session and I still need to write up my notes.”
“You were able to reschedule with the patient from earlier?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“This is someone you’ve been treating a while?” I don’t know why I just asked that. “I apologize, you probably can’t answer that, can you?”
“This one’s a bit different, since she’s a patient I first counseled on a popular podcast. You’ve heard of Brooke Braham?”
“The name is familiar.”
“She’s America’s leading advice guru, and also an old friend. We did a three-part podcast series on grief. Several of our callers chose to continue with me in private therapy.”
“I see.” I suspect that’s the end of what she’s allowed to share with me. “You must not be terrible at your job, if you’re sought after like this.”
Camille scoffs. “It’s the Brooke Braham connection, more than anything.”
I doubt that’s true, but I know better than to dispute someone’s treasured personal narrative in which they star as the leading loser. “This patient is grieving?”
“Yes.” She seems to hesitate. “Again, I can’t share anything she didn’t share publicly on the podcast. She’s a young widow with lingering feelings of guilt about her husband’s passing.”