Chapter 14
Aaron lowered himself into one of the chairs in Camille’s living room. Her maid had ushered him in, telling him to have a seat—that Miss Camille would be with him shortly.
This was the first time he had visited her house. It had been her idea for them to have their last Bible study session there, as her treat. He hadn’t put up any fight.
Truthfully, he wanted to be alone with her even though he knew how dangerous that was.
His gaze drifted to the coffee table. Books. One on cooking, several on exotic destinations. He examined each, wondering which offered insight into Camille. It seemed reasonable to assume the destinations held more appeal—three glossy volumes promising escape to one modest book about cooking fish.
Then she appeared.
His chest constricted.
She looked stunning—her flowing dark mane framing her face, chocolate-colored eyes sparkling, that bow-shaped mouth tipping upward in greeting.
She wore a snug yellow top and slim fit blue jeans.
Her hands were outstretched, and he rose eagerly, pulling her into his arms. He lifted her off the ground and squeezed her as her lips reached up to meet his.
He kissed her deeply, breathing her in, his arms tight around her, loving the feel of her soft, warm body against his.
He groaned.
He wanted to keep kissing her—wanted to forget the Bible study altogether and lose himself in Camille’s senses. He wanted to trail kisses down her neck, run his hands down her body… he wanted—
He broke off abruptly and set her away from him.
She stared at him through hazy eyes, chest heaving.
“Why?” she asked breathlessly. “Why’d you stop?”
He folded his lips inward, dragged a hand over his mouth, then down his chin as he fought for control.
She took a step toward him.
He took one back, holding out a hand. “Uh-uh. Stay right where you are, Camille.”
She swallowed and took a baby step forward.
He took a giant step backward, bumped into the couch, and fell onto it.
She jumped into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He plunged his hands into her hair and kissed her hard—devoured her mouth. His lips moved to her neck, and she moaned—
And then he jumped up from the couch and deposited her there.
She stared up at him, stunned, watching him breathe hard.
“You,” he exclaimed, pointing. “Temptress.”
She gulped, running a hand down her throat.
“I’m leaving,” he threatened.
When she got up and moved toward him, he turned and headed for the door.
“No!” she cried, overtaking him and grabbing his arm.
He spun around, glaring with mock anger.
She dropped his arm at once. “I’m sorry, Aaron. I promise I won’t do that again.”
“What?” he asked. “What won’t you do again?”
“Touch you.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head, and chuckled. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry for tempting you, and I’ll be on my best behavior from now on. I swear. Don’t leave. I made dinner and everything.”
She looked fairly plaintive—sheepish, even.
He tilted his head. “You cooked for me, Camille? You actually cook?”
“I’m not all looks, you know,” she said, batting her perfect lashes.
He pointed a finger at her. “Uh-uh. None of that. No batting your lashes, or I’m outta here.”
She turned on her heel. “I’m not even going to look at you again, Aaron Cortelli. And you call me dramatic.”
He followed her to the back of the house, where a terrace opened onto a pool. The table was already set.
That was when he heard the song.
Sweet Caroline.
“Hands, touching hands…” Camille crooned.
A wave of emotion hit him so hard his gut clenched. His steps slowed. Then he stopped completely.
Camille turned and came toward him, sashaying her hips. When she caught his expression—saw him looking right through her, seeing someone else entirely—she faltered.
“Sorry,” she said lightly. “I promised not to look at you, didn’t I? But I like this song.” She laughed—then stilled. “Aaron… what’s wrong?”
He blinked back tears.
She reached out and took his hand as the words, Look at the night and it don’t seem so lonely, we fill it up with only two, played.
“Are you alright?”
Instead of answering, he pulled away and sat. He ran a hand down his face and squeezed his eyes shut.
She sat beside him. “Aaron?”
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “That was Scarlette’s favorite song. Her middle name was Caroline. I used to serenade her with that song. It was our song.”
Camille covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
She watched him for a moment, then stood. “I need to check on the meal,” she muttered before disappearing inside.
He knew she was upset. He felt terrible—but he couldn’t say anything yet. Not until he’d made peace with his feelings.
~*~*~*~
Camille returned to the kitchen, where Luma was cleaning up. Camille had done the cooking herself; Luma had helped with preparation.
She moved straight to the oven. The chicken had just come out—golden, fragrant. She basted it again, turned off the heat, and let it sit, steaming gently in its own juices before checking the potatoes.
Whole roasted chicken with rosemary and garlic. Crispy roast potatoes, Italian style.
She had chosen the menu because Aaron had mentioned that Italian was his favorite. And somewhere in the back of her mind was her grandmother Carlucci, who had made roast chicken and potatoes this same way, taught to her in the old country, with quiet pride.
In truth, the entire evening had been designed with him in mind. Every detail. Even the music.
A small, self-conscious smile flickered and faded.
She felt foolish now for playing that song.
The truth was, she preferred rock and roll to seventies pop. But she’d heard Aaron listening to it in his car, had filed it away without thinking—and built a playlist around it.
Just her luck she’d pick the one song that carried him straight back to Scarlette.
She let out a soft sigh. “Oh well. That’s life.”
“What’s that?” Luma asked, glancing over.
“Nothing,” Camille said, forcing a light smile. “Just talking to myself.”
She reached for a spoon and tasted the potatoes. Perfect. Unlike the night she’d planned.
“These are done,” she said. “Keep them warm. We’ll start with the soup.”
~*~*~*~
At the table, Camille kept her gaze averted, though she could feel Aaron watching her.
When Luma finished serving the minestrone and left them, Aaron reached for her hands.
“Shall I bless the meal?”
She nodded.
His large, warm hands closed around hers. Her throat tightened.
He prayed softly. She listened less to the words than to the cadence of his voice—how it washed over her like a warm bath.
When he finished, he didn’t let go.
She opened her eyes and met his.
He lifted her hands to his lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she whispered.
“For this. For having me over. For preparing this meal. For being you. For reminding me that life goes on.”
Tears burned her eyes.
“Look here.” He was holding out his hand. At first she didn’t understand what he was showing her. Then suddenly it hit her. The pale circle of skin around his finger and what it represented.
“Your ring. It’s gone,” she gasped.
Her eyes shot to his.
He nodded slowly.
“Yes. It’s time to move on. Make new memories.”
She blinked back tears as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.
Later, as Pretty Woman played softly, he asked, “Are you lonely?” making reference to the words in the song.
“Not anymore,” she said.
“Neither am I.”
After a moment, he said gently, “Camille… I’m in love with you.”
She gasped. Tears spilled freely. “I feel the same way about you.”
He laughed, joy bright in his eyes.
Luma cleared the dishes, but they barely noticed.
~*~*~*~
Luma returned carrying a large platter of chicken, roast potatoes, and butter-glazed vegetables. Steam curled upward as she set it carefully between them, the warm scent of garlic, herbs, and slow-roasted meat wrapping around them like an invitation.
“How delicious this smells,” he said appreciatively, leaning in.
“Wait until you taste it.”
He didn’t need further invitation. He carved off a piece of chicken, added a generous spoonful of potatoes, and took a bite.
The sound he made was almost indecent.
“You were not kidding.”
“Told you,” she said, unable to suppress the note of pride in her voice.
“I had never heard that Camille Carlucci was a killer cook.”
“Only my close friends know,” she replied lightly. “I cook as an act of service for my loved ones.”
He looked at her then—not teasing this time, but with something deeper, warmer.
“I’m so happy to be counted among that number.” Then, with genuine curiosity, “So how do you get this chicken so soft and good?”
“Low temperature,” she explained. “And constant basting in its own juices.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, clearly impressed, already going back for another bite. “Speaking of your close friends—who are these people, and when am I going to meet them?”
She laughed, the sound easy, unguarded. “Is this the man who is always lecturing me about us keeping our relationship under wraps for the next few weeks?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “You’ll meet them soon. In fact, interestingly enough, one of them is married to that photographer who did those photos for you in GQ. When is that issue coming out anyway? I keep checking and it hasn’t been published yet.”
“Two weeks,” he replied. “It’ll coincide with the wrapping of the film and the marketing push.”
“Oh.” She raised a brow. “I was surprised you chose GQ.”