Things We Tell Ourselves

Chapter 2

The sun is setting on Los Angeles’s horizon when Camille’s flight lands. As she walks out of the terminal, she reviews the terms Evelyn sent her. Keeping a firm grip on her Dillard’s clearance rack carry-on bag, she hunches over her phone, following the crowd to baggage claim. Two million and thirty-three and a third percent ownership in Oxygen Recycler. If they want a buy-out—three and a half million and we maintain five percent royalty for life.

She looks up from her phone when she gets to the baggage claim to retrieve her luggage. With her suitcase in tow, she walks up to the line of men in suits of various builds and ethnicities holding dry-erase boards, except for one older man at the end holding a bouquet of pink roses. His face lights up as a woman rushes to him.

“I have missed you something fierce,” she exclaims, throwing an arm around his neck as he holds onto the flowers with one hand and wraps his other around the small of her back.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he chuckles, giving her a kiss.

“I won’t as long as you come with me to my mother’s next time.” The man’s smile turns as though pained at the thought, but it quickly disappears as he hands her the flowers and takes her luggage.

Camille stops in front of a stalky man holding the sign that reads Integrity Heights. He has a thick neck that she’s pretty sure would make it impossible for him to fasten the top button, left intentionally undone, no doubt behind his black bow tie. He’s too busy watching the blonde in yoga pants walking past him to notice her.

“That’s me,” Camille states with a gentle grin, internally jumping for joy.

He glances down at the back of his board. “Mrs. Lee?”

“Miss Lee, actually.”

“Welcome to Los Angeles. I’m Buck.” He reaches out with his big hand to her suitcase. Mistaking his gesture for an invitation, she shakes his hand.

“Oh, thanks,” she murmurs awkwardly, realizing his true intent. She releases his hand.

She keeps ahold of her carry-on, stepping back so he can grab her suitcase. As he leans past her, she catches a glimpse of the sharp point of a tattoo sticking out from under the crisp collar of his white shirt. This gives his thick neck even more of a macho appearance. Wondering if this guy is a bodybuilder, she follows him out of the main entrance to a car parallel-parked across the street.

“Is this really my ride?”

The chauffeur glances back at her as he opens the rear driver’s side door. Her eyes double in size as the car door opens in the opposite direction.

“Suicide doors?” she squeals, walking up to the sparkling white, early edition Rolls-Royce. She stops ten feet from it to admire the car in its entirety.

“All Phantoms have them,” Buck replies, unamused.

A mental image pops up of Buck wearing the half mask from Phantom of the Opera, driving the car around with the soundtrack blaring. Camille can’t help but laugh. Buck rolls her suitcase to the back of the car, looking over his shoulder at her, frowning. A taxi lets out a loud honk as the driver punches its brakes to avoid running into her. It scares her enough that she flies forward, diving into the back seat of the car. She tosses her carry-on bag on the seat beside her.

“I’ll get the door,” Buck calls from the trunk. He reappears at her door a moment later. “I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but you shouldn’t stand in the middle of the road in L.A.”

He presses a button on the inside edge of the door before she can respond. Her eyes continue to bulge as the door shuts itself.

“My bad,” she tells him as he climbs into the driver’s seat, not wanting him to think that she’s some crazy chick who stands in the road for fun. “I was thinking about the opera,”

He glances at her through the rearview mirror, giving her the exact look she was hoping to avoid. “The opera?”

“Yeah, you said phantom, and it made me think of you wearing that white mask covering half of your face belting “The Music of the Night…” Her voice trails off as the line between Buck’s brow deepens in the rearview mirror with her every word. Yup, he thinks I’m a nutcase.

Buck shakes his head, pulling out onto the road. “I’m more of a heavy metal fan.”

She grins. I bet you are. Camille barely notices the traffic outside as she stretches out in the spacious backseat, rubbing her hand across the soft-white leather and yellow pipping. She inhales deeply. It smells brand-new, but the leather is too soft with a faint worn spot on the seat for that to be true. It makes her wonder if the rich have somehow figured out how to bottle that authentic new car smell. Not the little cut-out tree car fresheners you get for a dollar-fifty at the car wash, but the real, authentic aroma that only cars fresh off the lot have.

As it grows dark outside, the tiny interior lights illuminate the ceiling in a starry landscape, setting the mood for a quiet, gentle ride. She could lay back and go to sleep in seconds.

“This car is the best,” she sighs, resting her head back. The leather is like cream against her neck.

Buck glances at her in the rearview mirror. “There’s champagne in the center console if you’re thirsty.”

Camille sits up, turning to the center seat. “Don’t mind if I do.” Finding the small indentions at the top of the cushion, she lowers the console to find it empty. Confused, she glances back at the hole where the console folded out and finds a leather strap. She pulls it open and finds a second console layer, but there is still no champagne.

“There’s one more to open,” Buck says from the front seat.

A silver-trimmed handle inlaid in the small, hard plastic clicks open, unfolding to reveal two thin glass champagne flutes latched in the small door. She snaps one out, surprised to find the glasses are chilled. It’s refrigerated! She opens the champagne, pouring herself a glass before returning it to its cooler. She takes a sip. This feels like a dream.

“Buck,” she sighs after her second, larger sip, “you’re the best.”

He keeps his gaze straight ahead, nodding slightly. “You don’t have to tell me.”

When the car slows an hour later, Camille sits up, acclimating to her surroundings. A wall of towering hedges to the left of the road stops against a tall white gate. Buck pulls up to the gate, stopping next to the call box in front, and rolls down his window to press a button.

“Yes?” a female voice calls through a speaker.

“This is Buck with Ms. Lee.”

“I’ll meet you out front,” the soft female voice calls over the speaker.

Buck rolls the window up as the gate shutters open.

They pull through the gates, and Camille stares out the window, though the tinting makes it difficult for her to see clearly in the dark. As she struggles to see out, her window lowers. “Thanks, Buck,” she smiles.

The thick hedges continue to a sprawling, wide driveway, surrounded by grass growing in evenly spaced sections and separated by large concrete squares leading to the house. She moves to the edge of her seat, peering out the front windshield. She gapes at the house as the hedges transition to palm trees towering over the car.

The driveway becomes a circle drive, looping in front of the houses. A split off to the right leads to a garage set back from the house. Buck parks in front of the large Spanish-style home. The front window on the right side of the house is wider than her entire living room. The exterior of the house seems to glow in the perfectly placed lighting tucked within the surrounding landscape. A large fireplace to the left of the front walkway takes centerstage. For a second, she thinks about taking a picture of it to send to Evelyn but worries it might look tacky. The lights are on in every room at the front of the house, adding to the estate’s welcoming glow.

Buck pops the trunk. Camille already has the backdoor open when he gets to her. The beauty of it all has her nerves taking a backseat to her excitement. To see the inside, not to mention meet the person who owns such a magnificent piece of property, has her feeling giddy.

Buck shuts the door behind her. She keeps a tight hold on the strap of her carry-on as if it were her only anchor to the real world. Not sure if she’s supposed to wait at the car as Buck collects her luggage from the trunk, she slowly heads for the house.

Halfway up the walkway to the front door, she glances back to the car. Buck is at the trunk, not paying any attention to her. Suddenly, the front door swings open. A tall, older woman pauses in the doorway, looking back into the house.

“Oh, I know precisely why you hired her, don’t worry,” she scoffs, her voice a low, resonating alto.

“Don’t be like that,” another woman calls from deeper inside of the house.

“I’ll see you when I see you,” the woman at the door tells her, turning quickly and nearly running into Camille standing in front of her. “Oh,” the woman stops, looking down at Camille. Her left brow arches as she examines the oversized bag Camille is clutching. “You must be Integrity Heights.”

Camille smiles up at the woman towering over her. Her chin-length silver hair curls into her stern, square jaw. The wrinkles surrounding her lips deepen every second Camille doesn’t reply. Camille takes a deep breath.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bloom,” she lets go of her carry-on strap and offers it to her, “I’m Camille Lee.”

The woman gives her a sly grin, taking her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says, giving her hand a surprisingly firm shake before dropping it. “I’m Nancy. Leah’s inside.” She takes a step aside as she looks over her shoulder. “You have a visitor.” She turns back to Camille, dipping her chin. “Until we meet again.”

With that, the tall, square-jawed woman strides off down the walkway, leaving Camille staring after her.

“Oh,” a surprised, gentle voice says. Camille looks around to see a woman closer to her height wheeling up to the door, her left knee resting on the scooter wheeler at her side. Her left foot is in a black boot that goes midway up her calf. “Hello, dear.” She greets her with a genuine smile. She stops at the threshold of the door, tucking a loose strand of bleach-blonde hair behind her ear, a hint of gray hair tracing her roots. “I’m Leah Bloom.”

Camille walks up to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Camille Lee.” She offers her hand to the woman she flew all this way to see.

“Ma’am,” Mrs. Bloom chuckles, taking her hand, “you certainly are from Texas, aren’t you?”

Camille’s smile tightens, forcing a chuckle that matches hers, not entirely sure how to take her comment. You can do this.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mrs. Bloom. I’m sorry that my business partner wasn’t able to make the flight.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Her handshake is warm. She”s so warm that she’s half-expecting to pull her into a hug but doesn’t. “Miss Sykes got in contact with my assistant. Her ticket has been moved to tomorrow morning. You can call me Leah,” she says, letting go of her hand. “I haven’t been a Mrs. for five months and twenty-five days, but who’s counting?” Leah waves Camille into the house, pausing when she sees Nancy walking down the front path. “Buck can drive you home, Nan,” Leah calls out.

“No thanks.” Nancy nods at Buck, walking past her with Camille’s luggage. She throws a hand up over her head as she walks off. “I’d rather walk.”

Leah shakes her head, frowning. “She’s an Ortego. They’re all stubborn.”

Camille nods along.

“You’ve heard of them?” Leah asks, seeing her nod as they watch Nancy leave.

“Um, not that I know of. I was just … listening.”

“She’d like to hear that.” Her eyes meet Camille’s, and her smile returns. “Her family’s known so well in the financial world that people usually hear Ortego and think of her late father. Now that man was hardheaded. She got it from him. That’s one of the reasons I love her so much. It’s always a good thing to have a best friend who doesn’t put up with people’s bull.” Leah sighs.

Camille gives her a concerned look, glancing back out the door.

“Don’t worry,” Leah tells her with a shake of the head. “Nancy lives next door. She’ll be fine. Come in, come in. I know having you over to my house the first time we meet is a little unconventional, but after my surgery yesterday, my doctors wanted me out of the office to relax.”

Camille’s eyes the boot on the woman’s foot. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

Leah shakes her head, still grinning. “How could you? You didn’t tear my ACL. I pay good money to make sure my private affairs stay private. It’s fine, really.” She nods her head for Camille to follow her. “Normally, I would have waited to meet at my office in Illinois, but it’s not every day you find a functioning solution to an ongoing problem. And when I learned about the brains behind the Oxygen Recycler,” she looks over her shoulder at Camille, “I couldn’t wait to meet you.”

She glides her scooter through the large foyer and into an even larger living area. “Delilah did exactly what I asked by getting you here. You see, it doesn’t matter if I’m at the office or not. My work never ends. That’s something you’ll learn soon enough.” She turns to look at her. The wheels on her scooter stopped. “Is it true that you’ve only been out of college for less than two years?”

“That’s right,” Camille says, peeling her eyes from the gorgeous interior of the house to look at Leah.

“And no background in business?”

“Besides the Business 201 course, I took as an elective, no.”

Leah looks her over for a second. “You’re impressive. If I would have had girls instead of boys, then I would hope at least one of them would have your initiative.”

Leah kicks off on the scooter, continuing into the living room.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t know what else to say.

Leah Bloom is far more personable and … normal than she imagined. Camille takes a deep breath, rounding the corner of the foyer behind her. The living room is immaculate with no tv in sight, only an oversized fireplace. The tall ceilings and white walls add to the immensity of the space. Even the couch facing the fireplace has pillows bigger than she’s ever seen. The living room opens up to an equally impeccable kitchen.

On the other side of the living room, the kitchen island is big enough that the five wide barstools sitting under it have half a foot or more space on either side of them. Somehow, even the 1930s retro-style phone in brilliant, reflective chrome hanging on the kitchen wall adds to the house’s sleek feel. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the back gives a breathtaking view of the pool, extending past the kitchen and leading to the side of the house. Camille’s eyes lock on the pool, her hand reaching out to run over the top of the couch as she passes it. She could walk straight out the back and dive into its soft, blue water. She can’t help but imagine how the water must feel in the Los Angeles heat.

“So this is my house,” Leah says, waving her arm across the living room and kitchen.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Camille mumbles, staring at the pool.

Leah turns on her scooter to face the backyard with her.

“If this goes as well as I think it will,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’ll feel more like a vacation than a business trip.”

“A vacation,” Camille repeats under her breath.

“Marcy, our chef, has already cleaned up the kitchen for the evening,” Leah says, turning to the kitchen, “but if you’re hungry, she made some lovely garlic butter steak for dinner, or there’s plenty of the Cobb salad from lunch.”

“I’m good. I don’t think my nerves will let me eat right now…” Embarrassed by her confession, Camille glances sheepishly at Leah, who gives her a knowing grin.

“I remember my first deal after I took over the company. A word of advice: always plan your next step. So that no matter what way it goes, you always know what your next step is.” Her smile grows, taking on a mischievous edge as she rolls over on her scooter. “Of course, after signing on with my company, your next step will be your next big invention and telling the Flexinburg Group to shove it.”

Camille arches her brow in surprise. Her frustrations from the Toronto meeting bubble to the surface. “The Flexinburg Group?”

Facing the backyard, Leah admits, “I know the two of you met with their people.”

Camille turns her gaze out to the pool, watching Leah’s reflection in the glass. Hesitant, Camille searches Leah’s face for a hint of anger or jealousy. Finding none, she relaxes.

“They like to think of themselves as our biggest competitors, but I can tell you that they most certainly are not.” Leah’s eyes flicker over at her.

Camille averts her eyes to stare out at the glistening water.

“Did they invite you to Austin?”

“They flew us to Toronto,” Camille replies, intentionally keeping her answer short. The last thing she wants to do is tell the owner of Bloom and Bloom that the meeting went poorly, nor does she want to admit that she and Evelyn walked out before the meeting was over. Knowing that would only encourage any other interested parties to lowball them.

Leah eyes her carefully. “I bet that was nice,” she says slowly. “I’ve never been. The Flexinburg Group has never been what I would call ‘friendly competition.’ But from what I’ve heard, their Austin lake house trips with potential clients and business partners have been impressive enough that they’ve taken people from us. However, I’ve also heard that it’s only those of the male persuasion whom they invite out to their Austin property. I’d hoped you’d tell me otherwise.”

Camille frowns, trying not to look too annoyed that they could have driven from Dallas to Austin versus flying all the way up to Toronto. Not that she’s surprised, given how they were treated at the meeting.

“It definitely would’ve been a shorter plane ride,” she admits, the corner of her mouth curling.

“That it would,” Leah chuckles.

Camille relaxes, feeling more at ease from her own joke.

Leah examines her face a moment longer before facing the living room. “You can take her things to the guesthouse, the upstairs loft.”

Camille realizes Buck is standing silently near the fireplace opposite them. She hadn’t heard him walk inside. Buck’s brow furrows.

“Wade’s place?”

“To be clear, all of this is my place,” Leah retorts, rolling her scooter toward the patio door, “and I say who stays where.” She grabs the doorknob, swinging it open.

Buck’s mouth is a hard line as he walks out the back door toward the pool, Camille’s suitcase rolling behind him. Camille looks at Leah, who’s still standing at the door.

“Should I follow him?”

“I was hoping that you’d be hungry. My chef’s cooking is phenomenal, but…” she shrugs slowly, “if you aren’t, then that’s fine too. I can make you one of my amazing omelets for breakfast.”

Images of past summer vacations come to mind, her favorite kind, back when her mother was still alive. She remembers a man in a white chef’s coat standing behind a breakfast buffet, pouring eggs, tomatoes, chopped onions, and cheese into a hot skillet as she stands hand in hand with her mother, waiting for their omelets. She’d been maybe in middle school at the time, but she could still smell the eggs cooking like it was yesterday.

“I haven’t had an omelet in so long.”

The corners of Leah’s eyes crinkle as she beams at her. “It’s settled then.” The sound of heels clicking softly against the floor turns their attention to the hallway. “You can come in, Delilah,” she calls.

A tall woman emerges wearing black capris and a fitted white blouse, cradling a leather-bound padfolio on her hip, her heels hitting against the floor with more vigor thanks to Leah’s invitation. A long, straight, dark ponytail sways behind her. She smiles meekly at Leah. “Sorry about Nancy—”

Leah throws a hand up to silence her. “You did nothing wrong. Nancy is in one of her moods. Don’t worry; you’ll get used to it, as we all have. She gets like that when she frets over my health, always has. I’ll send Buck over to check on her later. This,” she waves her arm gracefully toward Camille as if to showcase her to her assistant, “is the lovely Ms. Lee.”

Delilah smiles, walking up to her. “So happy you made it. How was your flight?”

“Great,” Camille replies, noting Delilah’s firm grasp on her padfolio. No shaking hands with this one. “I’ve never flown first-class before.” She gives Leah a sly grin. “Not even to Toronto.”

“Cheap bastards,” Leah chuckles, looking at her assistant, who chuckles along. “We are going to show you what life can be like,” she declares to Camille, “if you choose to join Bloom and Bloom.”

She likes the sound of that. The join part more than anything. She doesn’t admit it, but the last thing the Flexinburg Group wanted was for her and Evelyn to join them. They wanted her product. Nothing more.

“Shall I show her to her room for the weekend?” Delilah asks.

“Yes, please,” Leah says, resting both hands on the scooter’s handles.

“The weekend,” Camille repeats, watching Leah adjust her knee on the scooter’s thick pad. “I wasn’t expecting to be here more than a day, maybe two.”

“Oh,” Leah exclaims, looking at her assistant, “I assumed that we sent you an itinerary.”

Delilah sucks in a breath, flipping her notebook open, a cellphone screen lighting up her face. Delilah taps away at it feverishly.

“It should have been attached to the email I sent Integrity Heights with the plane ticket instructions.”

“I must not have seen it,” Camille answers sheepishly. She’d been so excited at a second opportunity after their first was such a fiasco that she didn’t open any other attachments, only the one with her ticket.

“No big deal,” Leah says nonchalantly. “We’re waiting on your business partner, and one of my executives is flying in late tomorrow evening to take part in the negotiations. It’ll be a nice weekend. The sort of thing Integrity Heights should have received when you met with that supposed competitor of mine.”

Executive. Camille swallows. Evelyn better get here first. Working with this kind, smart woman is one thing, but one of her executives?

“Okay,” she says, feeling anything but okay.

Her only solace is knowing that Evelyn will take care of everything once she gets in.

“And if you didn’t pack enough, we can bring you shopping,” Leah adds, nodding at Delilah, who pulls out a pen and jots a quick note down in her padfolio. “Los Angeles has great shopping. Have Buck go check on Nancy,” she tells Delilah, “after you show Camille her room, and then set up an appointment in the morning at that boutique I like.” She gives Camille a wink. “On me.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t mention it. You just remember who really took care of you when deciding who you want to partner with. It’s time for my medicine,” Leah says, rolling her scooter past her and Delilah, who’s still writing in her padfolio. “I’ll hand you over to my beautiful assistant, and she’ll show you to your room.”

Delilah gives her a gracious smile, closing the notepad as Leah rolls toward the smaller hallway.

“I’ll have breakfast ready at nine,” Leah says over her shoulder.

“I can’t wait,” Camille calls after her.

Delilah opens the back door. “Alright,” she exclaims enthusiastically, ushering Camille out onto the back patio. “Let’s go check out where you’ll be staying the next few days.”

They walk out onto the back patio toward the pool. Delilah leads her between the water and the pool chairs, evenly spaced down the side. Camille fights the urge to kneel down and check the temperature of the blue water.

“It is lovely, isn’t it? You’ll be staying on the second floor.” Delilah sighs, staring straight ahead.

Ahead of them, a two-story guesthouse glows like a beacon in the darkness. Lights planted in the ground of the corner flowerbeds illuminate a guesthouse that is the size of most people’s homes. The ground floor is cut in half, with an open-air kitchen on the left and a full double sink, cabinetry, barbeque pit, and refrigerator. To the right side of the outdoor kitchen is a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooks the pool and backyard. Her eyes drift up to the second floor. The glass walls stretch up and out, filling the entire side of the second floor. She can already imagine how the pool must look from up there.

“Wow,” she whispers in awe.

Delilah spins around to face her, not missing a step as she guides her, walking backward with the grace of a swan. “I know right,” she looks over her shoulder, staring out over the pool. “This view is unbeatable. The Bloom’s buy and sell property every year depending on the market, but Leah’s parents kept this one in the family for good reason.”

Camille follows Delilah’s gaze past the pool, stopping in her tracks. She forgets about the sprawling house and its property as she stares out at the breathtaking view. She didn’t realize that Buck drove them so high up in the hills. The Los Angeles lights twinkle like stars in such a gentle way that it feels like it’s all just for her. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. From inside the main house, she couldn’t see any of this beyond the privacy shrubs, tucking it all away from prying eyes, but from the pool … she glances over at the guesthouse. The guesthouse will have a perfect view as well.

As they admire the view, Buck’s footsteps become audible as he descends the stairs on the side of the guesthouse. For a stalky guy, he sure is quiet.

Delilah turns when she hears him coming down the stairs. “Ms. Bloom would like you to go check on Ms. Ortego before you turn in for the night.”

“Will do.” He heads straight for the line of tall shrubs to a hidden gate covered by slender shrubbery. Through the gate opening, Camille can see out onto the driveway and beyond to the five-car garage. The sound of paper shuffling drowns out the sound of the gate shutting behind him.

“I’m going to need you to sign and date this for me.”

Camille turns to see Delilah holding out a packet of papers. “What’s this?” she asks, taking it from her.

“It’s a standard non-disclosure agreement. Everyone who enters the premises has to sign one. It basically means you won’t tell people what you witness or hear while you are around the Bloom family, especially any business dealings. It’s to protect the business and personal lives of the family until if, or when, the family and/or company is ready,” her voice fades as she walks up the stairs.

Camille tries to read the top page in the outdoor lighting.

“Now,” Delilah starts.

Camille hurries to catch up to her at the top of the stairs.

“I’m not sure if Ms. Bloom told you, but I would recommend not touching any of the artwork. The Blooms have all of the expensive stuff hooked up to the security system. I straightened a Van Gogh at her New York residence three months ago when I started, and alarms went off everywhere. It nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Don’t touch anything that isn’t mine,” Camille acknowledges, “got it.”

“It’s not that serious,” Delilah chuckles, opening the door at the top of the stairs. “Just don’t touch what’s hanging on the walls, sitting on podiums … or anything that has a light pointing down at it.”

“Got it.”

Delilah pauses next to the door. She pulls the pen from her padfolio. “Here you go.”

Camille takes it and flips to the last page, signing and dating it as instructed.

“Thank you.” Delilah takes the pen and paper from her. She tosses them into her padfolio and then looks at Camille, grinning excitedly. “Now,” she continues, opening the door. “This is where you will be staying.” She walks inside, scooping up a remote from the counter next to the door. “I haven’t been up here until today.” She stares down at the remote, struggling to find the correct button in the darkness.

“Buck could have at least left the lights on for us,” Camille mumbles.

“If I had to bet, he didn’t even turn them on. He’s worked for the Bloom family for years like most of the security.” Delilah finds the button, pointing it up at the ceiling as she presses it.

“Thankfully, Wade keeps it immaculate.”

Lights click on, filling the apartment with a peaceful glow. The decor matches the warm lighting, adding to the welcoming atmosphere that makes you want to take a seat and get comfortable. The kitchen is spotless. The dark countertop stretches the length of the wall. The kitchen island is much smaller than the island in Leah’s main house, but it fits the space. Like the main house, the guesthouse has an open floor plan. The subtle browns, blacks, and creams give it more of a homey feel compared to the overstated open white walls of Leah’s living room and kitchen.

The kitchen blends right into the living room. On the opposite side of the room is another door near the glass wall. The privacy blinds cover the glass exterior wall, blocking their view of the pool. The animal hide rug in the middle of the living room surprises her. A baseball bat hangs on the wall facing the long, low-profile, dark couch, giving it more of a masculine vibe than the main house. Leah’s ex-husband must have decorated the guesthouse, or maybe she used a different interior designer from the main house. The remote in Delilah’s hand shines in the light, the stainless steel reflecting like a mirror. Camille’s luggage is sitting at the back of the couch, facing the wall where the television is mounted next to the baseball bat. If it were up to her, she would have the couch facing the glass wall. Who wouldn’t want to enjoy that view?

“Can you open the blinds?” Camille asks, eyeing the privacy blinds lowered all the way to the floor.

Delilah shows her the remote. “You open the privacy blinds with this.” She presses the top left button, pointing it at the blinds. They curl up on themselves. When she presses the button again, they stop two feet from the floor. “You press it again to bring them down.” She hands the remote to Camille. “The buttons show you what they control. The tv, surround sound, blinds, thermostat—”

“It’s a remote-controlled guesthouse,” Camille murmurs, looking at the long remote in her hand.

“Basically,” Delilah nods. “Now, you should know that Ms. Bloom’s chef, Marcy, resides below you on the ground floor. Her cooking is the best when she gets a full night’s rest. She isn’t what you would call a morning person, so Ms. Bloom gives her breakfast off, so please be—”

“Be a courteous upstairs neighbor,” Camille finishes.

Delilah smiles. “I see why Ms. Bloom likes you. You catch on quick.”

“She’s just being nice.” Camille shrugs. “We just met.”

Delilah shakes her head in disagreement. “Billionaires like Leah don’t invite just anyone into their home, even if they are vying for their business. You can bet that you’ve been thoroughly vetted, whether you know it or not.”

“That explains how she knew when I graduated college. Whatever she found out got me into this mansion, so … I’ll take it.”

“Mansion,” Delilah chuckles, walking across the living room to the far door. “Millionaires have mansions. Billionaires have compounds with the breathtaking views.”

She swings the door open. Camille follows her inside. One look and her jaw drops.

“Like I said,” Delilah says, smirking at her. “Billionaires have the best views.”

She couldn’t tell from the pool, but the bedroom on the end of the second floor looks out onto a three hundred and twenty-degree view of Los Angeles. Camille stares out from the second floor dreamily.

“They most certainly do.”

“Very nice,” Delilah sighs. “I’m going to go make sure Buck took care of Ms. Ortego and make that appointment for you,” she says, moving to the door. “The top drawer in the closet should be empty, so you can put your things in there if you’d like.” She pauses. “And a friendly reminder: don’t touch the art or try to rearrange anything unless you want Wade to skewer us alive.”

Camille raises her eyebrows in mock horror. “The housekeeper sounds intense.”

Delilah throws her head back in a laugh. “Housekeeper, I like that.” She laughs all the way out of the bedroom. “Have a good night. I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

Camille decides to keep her clothes in her suitcase, minus her pajamas and her meeting attire, which she lays across the back of the tan leather armchair with its matching ottoman facing the lights of Los Angeles. She changes in the walk-in closet, not trusting the tinted glass walls to conceal her even in the low bedroom lights. She pulls her oversized pajama shirt over her head and then realizes that her pajama pants aren’t with it.

It takes her all of two seconds of digging in the dark that she decides she needs more light to properly search for them. A hunt for the remote leads her back to the couch in the living room, where she left it sitting after dimming the living room lights to go to bed. She looks over at the blinds, still two feet above the floor.

“Better shut those,” she mumbles, pressing the top left button as Delilah had shown her.

The blinds touch the floor but don’t stop. The blinds keep going, unfurling further onto the ground. She hurries to correct her mistake and accidentally hits the button below it. The surround sound kicks on as a loud, deep male vibrato sings, “And I would do anything for love…”

Camille quickly finds the volume button, dropping it down to a tolerable level, and then goes back to the blinds, finally pressing the correct button. The privacy blinds roll up. This time, she’s ready, pressing the button just as the blinds are even with the floor.

She sighs, relieved that it was only music that went off and not alarms. At least the song choice wasn’t bad. She walks around the couch, pressing the button for the lights. The warm lighting brightens, so much so that she notices the dark sofa is actually a deep blue and not a brown or black like she’d thought. She steps onto the rug, brushing her toes across it. Happier now that she has proper lighting, she bumps up the music with a new song playing. A gentle male crooner sings, “and she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”

At the sound of her favorite singer’s voice, Camille bumps up the volume, all the while wondering how insulated a guesthouse of this caliber could be until the chef downstairs starts searching for a broom to smack against the ceiling.

“Ooh, it makes me wonder,” she sings along, dancing across the rug.

She needs to decompress. When the guitar solo takes over, she performs her own rendition with her air guitar, pretending the couch is an imaginary audience. She gives it her all. Her fingers flowed across her pretend guitar. The solo ends, and she throws her right arm up in the air.

“Thank you, L.A.!” she cheers at her invisible audience. “Who wants an encore?” she asks, sweeping her right arm across her imaginary audience, imagining them cheering her on.

She grabs the remote to replay the song when she hears, “Unbelievable,” muttered behind her.

Camille spins around, stumbling off the couch as the next song starts to play. A man in loose black sweats is standing at the door, his lower lip hanging open as he gawks at her. Camille snatches a throw pillow up from the couch to cover her underwear, feeling exposed without her pants. Two hard lines form between his brow.

“I’m gonna kill her,” he utters, turning from the room. He charges down the stairs, his voice growing louder. “I am going to kill her.”

Camille’s quick with the remote, moving to the window as the blinds rise to see the mysterious man charging past the pool to the main house. He can’t really mean it, can he?Is he talking about Leah? Camille dives for the bedroom. “Pants, where are my pants!” She races to the closet, grabbing her travel pants, lying crumpled on the floor beside her suitcase. She jumps into them and runs out. Pausing halfway across the living room, she remembers the baseball bat on the wall.

Camille’s down the stairs and across the yard, running at a speed that one should only achieve when running for one”s life.

The intruder left the backdoor wide open. She steps in carefully, not wanting to make a sound; her bare feet make it easy to be silent. The bat is poised to swing as she creeps inside. Through the living room, she follows the distant sound of banging down the smaller hallway–Leah’s room.

“Open up, old lady. I know you’re in there,” the man bellows.

He jiggles the doorknob, leaning into the doorframe. His back is to her. Camille sets her sights on the back of his head, sprinting to get to him before he breaks into the room.

“Leave … her … alone!” Camille shouts breathlessly, running headlong at him with the bat raised high over her head.

The man’s head snaps in her direction, utter shock spreading over his features. He jumps back, tripping over himself to get away from her. He knows this is going to hurt. He falls to the ground, shielding himself with his arms.

“What on Earth?!” Leah barks behind her. “Wade, is that you?”

The man glances around Camille. “Mom,” he pleads.

Camille’s bat stops mid-air. “Mom?”

Camille turns to see Leah standing at the door he was banging on, her robe pulled tight around her midsection.

Leah looks between them, assessing the situation. Her eyes turn solemn as they land on the man partially cowering on the floor at Camille’s feet. “Son, what have you done?”