I look back to her as she sits up. “Are you okay?”
She stares at me with bleary eyes, her hair a mess of knots and tangles from what was clearly a restless sleep.
She doesn’t answer me.
I press, “Did you fall out of bed?”
It makes sense. The thumps I heard … thump, thump … Holy fuck, I was having a sex dream about Camille.
That was Camille in my dream.
Christ.
I banish that thought and set my gun on her bedside table. Crouching, I ask her again, “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me piteously and says, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Camille makes a gagging sound deep in her throat, and I move at the speed of light. She’s too wrapped up in her sheet to disentangle herself, so I scoop her off the floor and run into the bathroom. I manage to get her on her knees, bent over the toilet, and a big hunk of her hair wrapped in my hand to hold it back before she starts vomiting.
Behold Princess Camille Winterbourne.
It should be enough to turn off any man, but I notice as she’s retching her guts up, I’m still sporting a massive hard-on tenting my sweatpants from that dream.
Luckily, she’s too sick to notice.
CHAPTER 7
Camille
“Can I get you something to drink, Your Highness?” Lydia, one of my usual flight attendants, asks. She’s in her late forties, single, and no children. She likes to mother me, and I don’t mind it. I return a fond smile but shake my head. “Thank you, but no. I’m fine for right now.”
Lydia bobs her head—not in formality as I don’t require that, but in kind understanding—and turns to move to the front of the plane. I watch as she bends in toward Jackson and Paul seated in the front club chairs that face each other. Jackson is in the seat with his back to me, Paul across from him. She’s clearly asking them the same thing she just asked me, and they both engage her in a short conversation before she bustles off to the galley.
The minute she leaves, Paul and Jackson start talking to each other, or perhaps they’re resuming a prior conversation. I’m not sure as I’ve barely looked past my little area since boarding. They’re too far away, and with the hum of the engine, I can’t hear what’s being said.
Not that I care.
We’re on an evening flight across the Atlantic to New York City, and we’ve not been in the air long. It’s roughly an eight-hour flight, and we’re scheduled to touch down in the Big Apple around 7:00 p.m., factoring in the time difference.
Dinner is going to be served in about an hour, and I have no idea what the crew has planned, but it’s always scrumptious. Lydia will have a selection of appetizers and practically any form of drink you could ever want, alcoholic or nonalcoholic. I am indeed hungry, but that’s a recent development. Most of the day I’ve battled low-level nausea and only managed some toast for breakfast and dry crackers since then.
But my stomach finally seems settled, and I’m pretty much past my hangover. While I still have a slight headache, the massive amount of water I’ve been drinking since waking up has helped tremendously. I make a mental note for about the tenth time today to never drink again. I know I will break this promise in the future, but at least for now, I’m pretty sure I can keep it.
This morning was rough. My head felt like it was being split in two with a blunted ax, and I could taste the bitterness of vomit deep in my throat. The minute I sat up, my stomach rolled and flipped, and I had to concentrate not to gag. I moved gingerly off the mattress and made my way to the bathroom. I looked like death warmed over in the mirror, but I immediately guzzled bottles of cold water from the suite’s fridge.
Some of last night is clear, some is a bit fuzzy, and other parts are completely black. I make another mental note to stay away from mixing wine with martinis.
I have clear memories of Rachel’s wedding. It was emotional and lovely, and watching the nuptials enough to make the trip worthwhile. I remember the beginning of the reception and the sumptuous meal. I love long dining experiences where you eat small plates slowly so you can concentrate on the conversation.
After dinner, I remember the men—traditionally only the groom, father of the groom and best man—making their toasts and the guests sipping from their Pimm’s Cups, which I didn’t partake in as it’s too sweet for me. The wedding cake was delicious and I definitely remember that the lemon buttercream frosting was so good, I made Rachel promise to get the recipe for me from whoever made the cake.