His Mane Course (Paranormal Dating Agency #100)

Chapter 1 Camille

ONE

CAMILLE

The summer evening draped Manhattan in honeyed light, but Camille felt anything but golden as she stood beneath the crystal chandeliers of the Metropolitan Museum’s Temple of Dendur gallery.

The charity art auction sparkled around her with the kind of effortless wealth she’d been bred to navigate—each polite laugh rehearsed to perfection and every strategic conversation wrapped in silk and diamonds.

Yet beneath her sapphire Valentino gown, that familiar tightness constricted her chest, the quiet suffocation of being displayed rather than truly seen.

Her parents moved through the crowd with military precision.

Her mother Vivienne’s platinum hair caught the light as she air-kissed philanthropists, while her father Reginald’s commanding presence drew investors like moths to a flame.

Every interaction doubled as negotiation and every smile carried an agenda.

Camille had watched this dance her entire life, performed her part with flawless grace, but tonight the choreography felt particularly suffocating.

“You look like you’re planning an escape route,” Serena murmured beside her, her hazel eyes sharp with concern.

“Multiple ones.” Camille’s fingers tightened around her champagne flute. “Did you know the emergency exits are located behind the Egyptian sarcophagi? Poetic, really.”

Serena’s dimpled smile appeared. “Dramatic much? Though I suppose being entombed in a museum beats whatever fresh hell your mother has planned.”

As if summoned by their conversation, Vivienne glided toward them, her pale blue eyes gleaming with purpose. “Darling, there’s someone extraordinary I want you to meet. Damian Cross—brilliant developer, impeccable family connections, and absolutely divine to look at.”

Camille’s stomach clenched. Another introduction.

Another carefully vetted candidate for the position of Camille’s future husband, selected based on portfolio performance rather than any consideration of her actual desires.

The memory of Carter still stung—how she’d allowed herself to hope, to soften, only to be quietly replaced when someone more advantageous entered his orbit.

She realized then that love was a transaction, and affection was merely strategic alliance.

“Mother, I’m perfectly capable of meeting people on my own—”

“Nonsense. You’re far too selective for your own good.” Vivienne’s smile could have cut glass. “Trust me, darling. This one is special.”

Special to you, Camille thought bitterly. Special meant connections, influence, the kind of partnership that elevated the St. James name while conveniently ignoring whether Camille’s heart might have other preferences entirely.

Across the room, she spotted him before her mother’s subtle gesture made introductions inevitable.

Damian Cross commanded attention without apparent effort—tall, devastatingly handsome, with the kind of polished confidence that suggested he’d never encountered a room he couldn’t own.

His dark blonde hair was styled to perfection, and his tailored tuxedo emphasized a lean, athletic build that belonged on magazine covers.

“He’s gorgeous,” Serena admitted grudgingly. “But also looks like he practices his smile in mirrors.”

Camille studied Damian’s interaction with a prominent art collector, noting how his charm felt almost theatrical in its precision. “Everything about him screams ‘perfect on paper.’“

“Which means your parents will adore him and you’ll feel like you’re suffocating again.”

“You know me too well,” Camille replied, her voice tinged with resignation.

The introduction proved as inevitable as gravity.

Vivienne practically vibrated with satisfaction as she guided Camille across the marble floor, Reginald flanking them with paternal authority.

Damian turned at their approach, and Camille felt his gaze sweep over her with the thoroughness of an appraisal rather than genuine interest.

“Camille, darling, meet Damian Cross. Damian, our daughter Camille.”

His handshake lingered a beat too long, his blue eyes holding hers with predatory intensity. “The famous Camille St. James. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Does it?” Camille kept her voice carefully neutral. “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

“Beautiful, intelligent, impeccably connected.” His smile revealed perfect teeth. “Though I suspect there’s much more beneath the surface.”

The comment felt calculated, designed to suggest depth while remaining safely superficial. Camille recognized the technique—she’d perfected similar maneuvers herself. Yet something in his tone made her instincts sharpen, a subtle wrongness beneath the polished exterior.

“Damian’s developing the new luxury complex in Tribeca,” her mother interjected, practically glowing with approval. “Such vision and ambition.”

“Ambition is important,” Camille agreed, wondering why the word tasted bitter in her mouth.

They chatted about art, about the charity, about mutual acquaintances, but Camille felt increasingly like a specimen under examination.

Damian said all the right things and laughed at appropriate moments, yet his attention felt heavy, possessive in a way that made her skin crawl despite his obvious appeal.

“Perhaps we could continue this conversation over dinner,” he suggested, the words carrying the weight of expectation rather than invitation. “Tomorrow evening?”

Camille’s parents beamed. Serena’s expression remained carefully blank. The pressure to accept pressed against Camille like a physical force, decades of conditioning demanding compliance.

“That’s very kind,” she managed. “Let me check my schedule and get back to you.”

Disappointment flickered across Damian’s features, quickly masked by an understanding smile. “Of course. A woman of your caliber must have countless demands on her time.”

The comment felt like an endorsement of her status disguised as flattery. Camille’s chest tightened further, the familiar gilded cage walls pressing closer. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to powder my nose.”

She practically fled toward the restrooms, Serena’s heels clicking behind her in solidarity. The ladies’ lounge provided blessed sanctuary—marble and mirrors and blissful silence away from the performance.

“Well?” Serena demanded the moment the door closed. “Verdict?”

Camille sagged against the vanity, her reflection showing cracks in the perfect facade. “He’s everything they want. Handsome, successful, appropriately ambitious.”

“But?”

“But he looked at me like I was a particularly valuable acquisition he intended to purchase.” The words tumbled out, relief and frustration tangled together. “God, Serena, what’s wrong with me? He’s perfect. On paper, he’s exactly what any rational woman would want.”

“Since when are you rational about anything that matters?” Serena’s dimpled smile softened her bluntness. “Your instincts are usually spot-on, even when they’re inconvenient.”

“My instincts led me to a two-year relationship with Carter, and we both know how that ended.”

“Your instincts about Carter were right too. He was a good guy initially. You just ignored the glaring red flags after he met Veronica because you wanted so desperately to believe in the fairy tale romance you thought you guys had.”

Camille stared at her reflection, seeing past the perfect makeup to the uncertainty beneath.

At thirty-five, she should know what she wanted or at least should have outgrown this desperate longing for something real in a world built on beautiful facades.

Yet here she stood, running from another perfectly suitable man because her heart refused to cooperate with logic.

“What if my current life of running my mother’s charity foundation and trying to hook up with Damian is good enough?” she whispered. “Maybe I’m just too emotionally damaged to appreciate what’s right in front of me?”

“Or,” Serena said firmly, “what if you’re finally ready to stop settling for what looks good and start demanding what feels right?”

The restroom’s marble sanctuary felt precious and fragile when an unexpected voice cut through their conversation.

“Forgive the intrusion, but I simply had to catch you alone.”

Camille turned from the gilded mirror to find a petite woman in an exquisite purple Chanel pantsuit, her white hair styled in a perfect bob. Her blue eyes sparkled with an intelligence that felt almost supernatural in its perceptiveness.

“I’m Gerri Wilder,” the woman continued, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “And you, my dear, are far more interesting than that dreadful conversation you just escaped.”

Serena’s eyebrows shot up, but Camille found herself oddly disarmed by this stranger’s warmth. Something about Gerri felt less like an encounter and more like being quietly understood by someone who saw straight through the polished veneer to the restless soul beneath.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” Camille managed, though her usual social armor felt suddenly unnecessary.

“Not yet, but I know you.” Gerri’s smile carried secrets and possibilities. “Your blog on architectural innovation is absolutely fascinating. The piece on sustainable luxury development? Brilliant insights that most men in the field completely overlook.”

The words hit Camille unexpectedly hard. Her anonymous blog—the one place where she allowed her true passion to breathe, where she analyzed design trends and critiqued developments under a carefully neutral pseudonym—was supposed to be invisible. A hobby hidden from her parents’ disapproving gaze.

“How did you—”

“Your perspective on spatial dynamics in urban planning could revolutionize how developers approach community integration,” Gerri continued, as if Camille’s architectural degree wasn’t ancient history gathering dust in her parents’ expectations.

“Which brings me to why I’m here. I have an opportunity that might interest you. ”