Things We Tell Ourselves

Chapter 5

It’s nine in the morning when Camille walks out of the upstairs guesthouse, feeling renewed. She woke up at eight, vaguely remembering her dream about the Toronto meeting but feeling empowered. Drawing on that, she is determined to make a good impression. With a cool shower and fresh hair, she opted for lip gloss instead of lipstick. With the warm sun beaming down on her, she is ready for the day.

The pool is as beautiful in the daylight as it was last night. She watches herself in the reflection of the main house’s patio door. When she gets under the back patio, she can see Leah standing at the stove cooking omelets. She walks inside, appreciating the smell of freshly diced vegetables. Next to the stove beside her are tomatoes, onions, ham, mushrooms, bags of various cheeses, and an eighteen-count carton of free-range eggs. Camille’s mouth is watering before she can even see what Leah has in the skillet.

“Good morning,” she grins, eyeing the omelet Leah folds in half on the skillet like a professional chef.

“Good morning, dear,” Leah greets her dreamily from the stove, not looking away from the skillet. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Camille steps closer to her to admire the fluffiness of her omelet.

Leah lets out a little gasp when she sees her. “Oh my,” she whispers. Camille raises an eyebrow, following her gaze down to her outfit.

“Oh, no. Do I have a stain?” Camille asks, running a hand over the front of her shirt.

“No, you look…good. So good that I’m a little sad.” Leah turns her attention back to the stove, lowering the temperature.

Camille glances down at the boot on her foot, no scooter in sight.

“I was hoping my youngest son would be coming in this weekend so I could introduce you, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of him.” She takes a plate from the stack on the counter.

“So you really are trying to hook me up with your son?”

“Oh, no,” Leah laughs. “It would just be nice to see Easton realize what is possible in one’s youth. But despite what my older son may have lead you to believe, I don’t do that passive-aggressive management, especially not where their love lives are concerned,” Leah huffs, moving the omelet from the skillet to the plate and then sets it down. “They may act like I try to control them, but little do they know what true dictatorship is like. Back in my day, my parents controlled where I went and who I was seen with. Every remotely life-changing decision I made went through my parents first: what college I’d attend, what sorority I’d join, and most importantly, whom I dated. My father was never prouder than the day I brought Wade and Easton’s father home to meet him.” She prepares the skillet for another omelet, adding more butter. “But as much as meeting you—a college graduate who saw a need and went out and created a way to fill it—could be motivational for him, I would never dictate either of my sons’ lives. I know too well how detrimental it can be.” She picks up the eggs, glancing at Camille. “How many eggs would you like in yours?”

Camille pauses, unsure how many eggs were needed for an omelet the size of the one she just made. “Can I have one just like that?” she asks, pointing at the plated omelet on the other side of Leah.

“My pleasure,” she beams, laying a paper towel on top of the plated omelet to help keep it warm. Camille watches as she cracks three eggs into the bowl sitting next to the stove, whisking them before pouring the eggs into the skillet, looking every bit the experienced housewife with no sign of being the owner of a multibillion-dollar corporation that caters to the needs of hospitals and private facilities alike all around the globe. Camille hesitates.

“So, do you run Bloom and Bloom by yourself?”

She watches as Leah runs her tongue over her front teeth, tossing in the tomatoes, cheese, and ham Camille requested for her omelet. “I have a board of executives who oversee our daily duties. When my father passed away, they hoped that I’d be more of a figurehead,” she smiles slyly as the omelet takes shape in the skillet, “and they were wrong.”

“Speaking of execs,” Wade announces, emerging from the hallway next to the kitchen.

Leah and Camille glance over at him. “And where did you sleep last night?” Leah asks.

He gives her a lazy grin. “In the guest bedroom, where I can control the thermostat.”

“You can control the temperature in every bedroom,” Leah retorts, eyeing him as he checks to see what she’s cooking.

Camille takes a step back away from Leah as Wade leans over Leah’s shoulder. Camille inhales, catching his warm, soapy scent as he grabs some tomatoes and ham.

“I know,” he says, tossing it all into his mouth. He leans against the side of the island opposite them, “but I’m thinking about moving upstairs so I don’t have to deal with Easton when he gets in.”

“He’s out of the country,” Leah corrects matter-of-factly. “I tried calling him before my surgery.” She lifts the skillet from the burner.

Wade stops mid-chewing to glare indignantly at the back of his mother’s head. “You called Easton, but you couldn’t call me.”

Leah tips the skillet over enough for the omelet to slide off onto a plate. “I told Delilah to notify you. Here you go, dear,” she hands Camille her plate, steam curling off of the omelet.

“Thank you,” she grins.

Wade’s frown deepens. “Your assistant left some vague message with my assistant about you having an outpatient procedure, but it sounds to me like you called Easton directly.”

Leah grabs the plate with the omelet she cooked previously. “I love you both equally,” she emphasizes, turning around to face Wade. “Your brother simply requires more hand-holding than you.” She hands him the plate. “Just look at what you did for me so far today.” She waves her hand at the diced-up ingredients. “Easton wouldn’t have woken up early to surprise me by cutting up all of the veggies for Omelet Thursday, much less remembered what day of the week it was.”

Wade narrows his eyes at her for a second before begrudgingly taking the plate and turning to set it on the island.

Camille smiles, examining Wade’s wide back. She loves seeing people take care of their moms. Her mother was taken from her far too soon, and here’s a grown man worth more money than she’ll ever see in her lifetime who’s still considerate enough to wake up early and help his mother cut up vegetables for breakfast.

He opens up the island drawer and turns back around with three forks in his hand. His thumb fans the forks out, offering one to Camille. She blushes.

“Thanks.” She looks up at him, noticing the left corner of Wade’s mouth curling, but he looks past her to Leah.

“Have you made your omelet yet?” he asks.

Leah faces him. “No, I…” her words fade as she abruptly stops. Her hand flies up to grasp the edge of the counter. Wade tosses the forks on the counter, going to her side. He grabs her firmly under her armpit to support her.

“Are you okay?” he gasps, leaning in to examine her.

Leah’s face is pale. “I’m not about to fall,” she mumbles, pulling her armpit free. “It’s the nausea,” she swallows hard. “I slept on my leg wrong last night, so I had to take a pain pill this morning.”

Wade looks down at her booted leg. “Shouldn’t you be using a wheelchair or crutches?”

“I have a knee scooter. It’s in my room.”

“I’ll go get it,” Camille offers.

“Good morning,” Delilah chimes.

Wade’s head snaps around. “Could you grab Leah’s scooter for her?” he asks.

Delilah pauses, looking between the three of them.

“She left it in her room,” Camille adds. “She’s not feeling well.”

Delilah spins around, retreating down the long hallway.

“Let’s go sit down,” Wade says, taking Leah’s arm more gently, turning his mother toward the living room.

Her cheeks regain their color, and she frees her arm from him. “Don’t fuss over me. I can still walk. I’m sick to my stomach is all.” She pats his wrist before turning off the burner. “I’m going to drink a seltzer water and eat some crackers. I’ll be fine.” She limps past them to the refrigerator. “Take Ms. Lee to the upstairs patio, would you? I had it set up for breakfast while you were in the shower.”

The frown returns to Wade’s face as he watches her at the fridge. “You set up the terrace by yourself, didn’t you?” He glances down the hallway. “You walked up and down those stairs. Don’t try to deny it,” he presses. When Leah doesn’t so much as glance in his direction, Wade adds, “And I know you had to use the stairs because you still haven’t had the elevator fixed.”

Leah finally looks over at him. “How do you know what I have and haven’t done in my house?”

“Because,” Wade replies, picking up his plate and fork, “when I heard that you’d be here after your surgery, I called Buck and asked him if it had been fixed.”

Leah limps to the couch, shaking her head. “You know how I feel about people sharing my business. Sounds like I need to remind Buck who pays his salary. I could trade him in for one of those professionals Nancy has—who locked her brother out of his own house until she said he could enter.”

“Don’t give Buck a hard time,” he says as Leah takes a seat on the couch. “He isn’t a company spy. He’s the best security you got. I asked him a simple question, and he answered it. That’s it.”

Leah lifts her hurt leg onto the couch. “I’m not spending a dime over five thousand. Those contractors can suck it.” Delilah reappears in the hallway, totting the scooter.

Wade catches Camille giving her omelet a longing stare. “You ready to go eat? I know I am.” He cuts his eyes over at his mother, but she doesn’t notice him.

She follows him down the hallway overlooking the backyard, feeling the heat from the morning sun through the glass.

“Is there an issue with company spies in the medical supply field I should know about?” she asks.

Wade shakes his head.

“No more than any other competitive industry. Mom had a contract stolen out from under the company once. It had to do with a couple of guys who were working their way up at Bloom and Bloom. She mentioned it at a dinner party. These two brothers who were working their way up in Bloom and Bloom quit the next day, and not twenty-four hours later, the other people pulled out of the contract. Some smaller company got them and low and behold, she learned that those two guys were working for them too. It’s why everyone signs NDAs now.”

A creeping sensation settles over her. It couldn’t be, could it? She glances down the hall keeping her voice light. “It wasn’t Lichtenstein, was it?”

“I’m not following you,” Wade says, glancing at her.

“The name of the brothers, was their last name Lichtenstein?”

He slows as they get to the end of the hall. “I couldn’t tell you for sure. It was years ago.”

She doesn’t press him any farther. What are the odds that the guys he’s talking about are the same ones who she thought were going to give her company its big break? Wade stops, causing Camille to do the same.

“Oh, no,” she voices quickly as he steps to the side so that she can go up the stairs first. “Your house, you lead the way.”

“Don’t let my mother hear you say that,” he grumbles, taking the steps two at a time.

She stares up at him as he goes. This is precisely the view she didn’t want him to have of her going up the stairs. The thought of her backside being in his face makes her cringe, but it’s hard to take her eyes off of him. For a brief moment, she contemplates giving him a compliment. Maybe it will lead to them getting a better deal. How do you tell a guy his butt looks great without sounding like a creep? You don’t, she answers herself.

Camille looks around as the second floor opens up ahead of them. Wade is at the top of the stairs.

“What’s so funny?”

She hadn’t realized that she was smiling at herself until she looks up to see him staring down at her. “Nothing,” she chuckles lightly, “I was wondering if you show-off taking two steps at a time with everyone or if it was just me.”

Wade smiles. “I’m not a show-off, I assure you. It’s a habit, is all. I’ll go down the stairs one at a time with you when we’re done.”

He turns from the stairs as she walks out onto the second floor. She almost regrets saying anything if it means he won’t be taking the stairs as he just did, not that watching him go down the stairs will be as nice as if she was watching him go up.

It’s no surprise that the second floor is just as lovely as the ground floor, keeping with the soft neutral walls. Her attention goes directly to a photo of a youthful Wade, shirtless with his arm slung around an equally attractive, shorter, sandy blond boy, who is also shirtless. Camille follows him out of the corridor and through a balcony door that opens up to a spacious second-floor terrace. She wonders how she didn’t notice it when she came in last night. In the middle is a table set with a plate of fresh fruit, three glasses, a jug of ice water, and a jug of tea.

But it’s the view that demands appreciation. The view of Los Angeles in the morning sun is almost as lovely as its twinkling lights at night.

“Are you still going to tell me that you aren’t showing off?” she asks, staring pointedly at the view.

“Oh, this is definitely showing off, but it’s my mother’s, not mine.” He pulls out the chair facing the view of L.A. for Camille to have a seat, walking around to take the seat next to hers. “I’ll have to remember that you like a good view, though.”

She takes her seat, smiling at him, not sure how to respond. She sets her sights on the jug of tea. “Is this sweet or unsweet?”

“You’re from the south. Of course it’s sweet tea.”

She pours herself a glass. Feeling his eyes on her, she waits a second before taking a drink. In no way would she call herself a fanatic when it comes to how she prefers her tea, but she knows that her face will surely give it away if it isn’t up to par. She takes a bite of her omelet, and it does not disappoint. Her second bite is larger, giving her time to sit back in her chair to enjoy it.

“My mom would love to see your face right now. It’s the best compliment you could give her.”

Camille swallows, sitting up. “This is better than I imagined.” She takes a drink of tea while Wade is busy pouring himself a glass of water. Thankfully, it isn’t too sweet, or does it have that tart aftertaste some tend to have.

“She’s spoiled us with good food, that’s for sure.” Wade takes a gulp of water. “Even when the chefs aren’t around, my mother saw to it that we ate well. Is your mother much of a cook?”

Camille smiles warmly, finishing her bite. “Not that I remember. She passed when I was in middle school. Cancer.”

Wade’s reaction is something she’s grown up seeing anytime she’s asked about her mom. Like everyone else, they’re always surprised to hear the news when they ask about her family. Occasionally, if she didn’t know the person well enough, she would just make something up, but she doesn’t want to do that with Wade.

“And my dad’s idea of cooking is limited to what can be cooked on a barbecue pit or a microwave.”

“I’m sorry,” Wade says, looking pitiful.

“No big deal, it wasn’t your fault.” It’s a reply she’s used countless times growing up. She found that it made people feel slightly better by pointing out the obvious while showing them that she was okay with it, but Wade shakes his head.

“No, I should have done my due diligence. I bet my mom hasn’t asked about her, has she?”

Camille gives her head a brief shake.

“That’s right,” he continues, cutting his next bite of omelet. “That’s because she knows everything there is to know about you and Ms. Sykes.” Seeing Camille’s eyes widen, he breaks into a grin. “I bet she also knows your blood type and the name of your first boyfriend.”

They stare at each other a minute before Wade breaks out into a deep laugh. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

Camille chuckles. As they stare at each other, she imagines a private detective following them around in Dallas. Photographing Camille in the department store buying cellulite cream or stuffing their faces at Evelyn’s parent’s restaurant a couple of weeks back to celebrate hearing from the Flexinburg Group.

“I knew you were joking because it would be impossible for anyone to know all of that about me,” she smiles despite her initial shock. Of course they do some digging, especially since she was brought to Leah Bloom’s private home. She shouldn’t be surprised.

Wade tilts his head at her, swallowing. “Why, because you don’t have blood?”

“No,” she chuckles, “because I’ve never had a serious boyfriend.”

Wade stops while cutting his next bite.

“Not that I haven’t dated around,” she fumbles. “They’ve just….” she shrugs, “never turned into anything substantial.” She turns her attention to her omelet, cutting into the fluffy egg, tomato and ham falling out.

Camille stuffs the bite of omelet into her mouth, hoping this was the end of the discussion.

Wade reaches across the table for one of the slices of cantaloupe. “I bet I’ve dated worse.”

She swallows. “I’m not the betting type, and it wouldn’t be a fair bet anyways.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “How so?”

“For one,” she starts, laying her fork down to grab a slice of cantaloupe as well, “I don’t come from a well-to-do family, so there’s that, and I’ve only ever lived in Dallas, so my dating pool is far smaller than yours, Mr. Jet-setting Executive, who flies to Los Angeles last minute to visit his mother’s mansion in the middle of the night and scares her guests.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he laughs, “and you’ve got the rest of that all wrong. I had and still have a tiny dating pool due to my family’s wealth—”

“All of them beauty queens and under twenty, I imagine.”

He smirks hard, trying not to laugh. “I can’t date just anyone,” he continues, jutting his lower jaw out at her as she chuckles under her breath. “My brother set me up on one date a few months ago, and the photos ended up in the tabloids. It turns out she had just broken up with some rapper the week before. When my mom finds out about things like that, she doesn’t let me hear the end of it.”

“You poor thing,” she mocks.

“I’m serious. Think about it: My grandfather used to warn me about my public standing. In high school, photos of me making out with a girl somehow made it to my grandfather. The next day, Bloom and Bloom’s stock dipped two percent. It didn’t make sense until my mother sat me down to tell me that her father was under investigation for securities fraud. Thanks to social media, making out with some girl at a party could turn into a loss of face for my family. A big enough scandal could mean a loss of jobs for the thousands of people we employ.”

“Okay,” Camille chews slowly, “you may not have as wide of a dating pool as I thought, but I bet you haven’t ever gone on a date with someone just to learn that he has a foot fetish and heard you had nice feet from his roommate who talked to you all of two weeks and then ghosted you.”

Wade’s lips curl into a devious grin. “Did he ask for foot pics?”

“Even better,” Camille chuckles at the once sore memory, “he wanted me to show him my feet right there in the middle of the restaurant. I never had to intentionally keep my feet from view before. It’s harder than you think.”

“I bet.” He turns somber, leaning in over his plate. “I had a buddy who tried to hook me up with the stepmom of a girl I went to homecoming with senior year. She was divorced by then, but still, all I remember is when she chastised us for not using their car service to drive home after we’d gone to an afterparty.”

Camille giggles. “Is that the best you got?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve been shown photos of what our kids would look like, and the waiter hadn’t even taken our drink orders.” Camille’s giggles grow, and Wade raises his brow. “I was genuinely terrified at that point.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“No, I’m serious. It was an app on her phone. It was like she wanted to date me because our ‘kids’ looked semi-normal. And it was an app you have to pay for, not a free one. I looked it up that night after the date. I think it was like four dollars or something.”

“Oh wow. I wonder if I can get it.”

“I’ll tell you if you show me your feet.”

They both break out into laughter. Wade regains control first, picking up his glass of water. “But seriously, you had to have one guy who lasted beyond the first date,” he says, taking a sip.

Camille takes the last slice of cantaloupe, setting it on her plate next to the remainder of her omelet. “There was one guy who made it through the first date without scaring me off.”

“Do tell.”

“He was kind, soft-spoken, and I could tell by the way he carried himself that he wasn’t afraid to go after what he wanted. When he called me the next afternoon for a second date, I accepted. We went on four dates, spent one night together, and then…Valentine’s Day happened.”

Wade sits back, lifting his arms to tuck his hands behind his head, resting against them. “Uh-oh. What happened on Valentine’s Day?”

“I happened. He did nothing wrong. I received chocolate-covered strawberries at work from him that morning with a card asking me to dinner. We had such a good time on all of our previous dates that I thought he understood me. When we talked, I felt heard. On our last date before Valentine’s Day, I talked about my parents. About how I loved the idea of a man sending me flowers at work. I shared with him that during the last year of my mother’s life, my father filled their bedroom with bouquets of pink roses. They were my mother’s favorite flowers. I told him what a special memory that was and how I wanted that too, but then on Valentine’s Day, all I got were chocolate-covered strawberries. No flowers.” The way the corner of Wade’s mouth twitches, she feels silly for bringing the whole thing up. “I know it’s a stupid reason,” she admits, “but I knew as soon as I saw those strawberries—”

“That he wasn’t the one,” Wade finishes.

“Exactly,” she sighs, relieved. When she told Evelyn about the strawberries, she told her that she should have given him another chance, but she’d already called it off by that point.

Wade is still smiling. “That’s why I stick with giving women diamonds instead of strawberries.”

She rolls her eyes, causing him to chuckle. “If you’re out there handing out diamonds, why are you still single?”

“Welp,” his chin wrinkles, sitting up straight. “There lies the conundrum.” He runs a hand down the front of his shirt, straightening it. “I’m a complete catch. There’s nothing not to like.”

She ignores his pecs bouncing under his shirt. “Come on,” she pries. “I gave you an honest answer.”

Wade’s chest deflates under her gaze.

“I work too much, and when I’m not working, I’m following up on my side projects and making sure my mom is taking care of herself. My dad moved on before they even filed divorce papers, but Mom shows no interest in finding someone new. If it wasn’t for her best friend, Nan, I’d be flying here or to the house in Connecticut every other weekend. I’ve had a few decent girlfriends over the years, but I’ve decided to take a break from the dating scene for a while. The last chick I went on a date with turned out to be neurotic.”

Camille leans forward, pushing her plate out of the way to place her elbows on the table. “What do you mean by neurotic?”

Wade pauses, drawing out her suspense. “Twenty text messages over the course of a weekend after our first and only dinner date, neurotic.”

Camille sits back in her chair. “Impressive.” She grabs her fork, using it to stab the cantaloupe. “I will give you this last piece of cantaloupe if you let me see the texts.” She holds it up between the two of them, trying to entice him. To her surprise, he leans back in his chair and reaches into his front pocket.

“You can’t tell anyone about this.”

Her eyes widen in anticipation when he pulls his phone out. She lowers the forked cantaloupe as he opens his phone, swiping over the screen.

“I didn’t even share them with the friend of mine from college who thought I’d love to go on a blind date with this nutcase.” Before he hands her the phone, he pauses. “Now, keep in mind we went on one blind date that lasted less than two hours, and I dropped her off at her place by ten.”

“Got it.”

She raises her hand to take the phone from him, but he keeps ahold of it, staring into her eyes.

“You signed the non-disclosure agreement when you got here, right?”

“I already promised that I wouldn’t tell,” she says, pulling it free from his hand, “but yes, I did sign one.” She looks down at the phone to see a screenshot of the text messages from a “V. Quinn.”

I had such a great time!!! Thanks for an amazing start to a quiet weekend at home!

Camille internally cringes at the use of multiple exclamations points in the first line. One is fine if you’re talking to someone you know, but four in one text to someone you just met … that’s a huge red flag. The messages following were spaced mere minutes apart.

You up for a coffee date in the morning? I make a fabulous home-brewed mocha.

Hope I’m not coming off too forward. I know a good person when I meet him.

Hey!! You’re startin’ to make me nervous. Did I imagine we had a great time??

Camille’s lower lip curls in between her teeth, her anxiety rising as she swipes to the next screenshot.

Okay whatever I’m done! Bye

Wade’s response makes Camille grin.

Hey, I left my phone on silent from our date. I’m just getting these. I don’t know what’s going on for you to act like that, but I enjoyed our date. I have an early meeting in the morning, so I’m hitting the sack. Call you later. Goodnight.

She’s impressed by his use of punctuation, not to mention how he handled a clearly unhinged person. The last text on the screen is from her.

K

“That isn’t that bad,” Camille says, handing it back to him.

He shakes his head. “You’re not done.” He eyes the phone. “Keep scrolling.”

She can’t flip to the next screenshot fast enough to see the series of texts, starting at 6:22am.

Still buzzing from last night’s date. Would you want to get together tonight? I’m off work.

I could make you that cup of coffee I promised you…

What’s up with you? lol Did you leave your phone on silent again???

You said all you had was a morning meeting.

Don’t worry about our hot date tonight or texting me. I CANNOT stand being strung along.

Wow, she thinks. The entire screenshot is of her chewing him out with zero response. Camille stops reading and looks up to see him watching her intently. “You could’ve at least responded. Maybe she would’ve chilled out.”

He shrugs. “I was already on the road when the first two came in. I was trying to decide how to respond when I got out of the meeting only to see that I had all of that,” he points at the phone, “and the start of what you’ll see on the next page. By that point, I was done.”

Camille looks down at the texts. He’s right. At the bottom of the screenshot, the woman had officially lost her mind by anyone’s standards.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! Im every man’s dream girl and you can’t even take a second out of your “busy” day to tell me good morning.

Camille swipes to the next screenshot.

Im having a horrible day but forgive me that I don’t like things to end badly. Im glad I met you. I wish you knew how to treat an amazing woman when she falls in your lap

Right there. If she would’ve just stopped right there, maybe it could have been swept under the rug. But, the texts continue.

I can’t stand men like you

I may have messed up but you RUINED your chance

And Camille’s favorite at 11:18am: good thing I’m rich and beautiful. Don’t think I won’t have you replaced come Monday.

Her eyes bulge when she reads the last message on the screen, dated the next day at 7:42pm.

Die

“Oh…my…god,” Camille says, glancing up at Wade gives her a smug grin.

She reads over the last messages one more time. As she scans over them, she picks up her fork, handing him the cantaloupe. He takes it from her and shoves the entire piece in his mouth.

“What’s worse,” she asks, looking up at him, “neurotic or deranged?”

He chews the cantaloupe, having taken too big of a bite to answer without showing her the food in his mouth.

“Either way, you weren’t lying,” she shakes her head, handing him his phone. “So, no second date?”

Wade chuckles, taking a drink of water. “No second date, but I did change my number. I’m sure she loved that.”

He’s so relaxed, laughing at his own nightmare of a date that it’s contagious. Camille snickers along with him. She takes another bite of her omelet and sits back in her chair, gazing at Wade instead of the beautiful view.

“Are you staying the weekend?” she asks.

He stares across the table at her, causing her chest to tighten, a slight curl settling into the corners of his mouth. “Do you want me to stay?”

Her cheeks burn under his gaze, and it has nothing to do with the morning sun. “I…think Leah would love it.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but the door behind Camille opens before he can get a word out.

“Ms. Bloom is laying down,” Delilah says, walking out onto the terrace and around the table to face them. She looks down at Camille, “she wanted me to let you know that a car will bring you to the boutique in an hour.”

“The boutique?” Camille asks, not understanding.

Delilah lowers her voice. “The clothes.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks.” Camille nods, having forgotten about her clothing situation.

“And Leah would like you to be on the conference call this morning in her place,” Delilah tells Wade before heading for the door.

“Then I’d better get going,” he says, finishing off his water and taking one last bite of omelet. He slides his chair away from the table, looking at Camille who’s turned to finish her omelet. “This was nice.”

Her mouth is hanging open, a heaping forkful of omelet about to be shoved inside. Camille quickly lowers the fork, its contents falling onto the plate. She beams up at him. “I enjoyed it too.”

He stands, taking a step toward the door before pausing, turning back to Camille. “Hey, you never said. What is your favorite flower?”

Camille looks up at him, startled. She knew the answer, but with the handsome man staring down at her, it takes her a second. “I don’t have one.”

The corner of his mouth curls. “But no chocolate strawberries.”

She smiles. “That’s right. No chocolate strawberries.”