It’s almost six when Camille comes down the staircase, and when she walks into view, I have another moment—they’re happening quite frequently—where I look at her as if for the first time, and my breath catches. You’d think that I would get used to her beauty, her grace, and let’s face it, the one thing I’ve noticed more and more, her sexiness.
But she’s a fucking vision walking down the stairs in a simple white cotton dress that has a tank top and a loose bottom that swirls around her knees. She wears no embellishments or adornments on her body, not even earrings, and her wet hair is piled on top of her head. Her face is scrubbed free of makeup and she’s barefoot. She’s never looked lovelier.
I know she loved my parents’ old farmhouse, but if you ask me, Camille is completely suited to quaint tropical island living where she wears nothing but summer dresses and runs around barefoot all the time without a care in the world.
I hate to admit it, but I could get used to living here and just watching her be that way.
And I hate myself for even thinking that. It goes far beyond what I should be thinking about Camille. It also embarrasses me, because I am all about my career. Never in my life did I think, at the age of twenty-seven, I would contemplate retiring to an island off the Keys to just hang out with my woman.
Pretty sure if I ever let any of my single friends in on these feelings, they would call me a fucking pussy. Also pretty sure if I told any of my buds who’ve married or recently fallen in love, they would tell me I have it bad.
So I am not about to admit those thoughts to anyone, not even myself.
Camille comes into the kitchen where I’m pulling the pineapple salsa out of the refrigerator. “I hope you’re hungry,” I say casually, trying to banish my absurd thoughts running amok.
She rubs her stomach in response. “Starved, actually.”
I lead her out to the back patio where I have set the poolside table with plates, ice water, and two wineglasses. Chilling next to the place settings is a bottle of pinot grigio.
I walk over to the table and pull out her chair, and I don’t miss her startled look over my gallantry. In the time we’ve spent together so far, including a handful of meals where she didn’t have set appointments, I’ve never pulled out her chair for her.
I ignore her look and move to the grill. Opening the hood, I pull the skewers of shrimp and veggies off the cooling racks and place them on a platter.
As I set the food on the table, Camille looks around and asks, “Where’s Paul?”
“He went to the mainland to pick up the rental car we’ll use to drive back to Miami. He’ll eat there. We’ve moved an extra agent into his place on the perimeter.”
“Oh,” she says, draping her cloth napkin over her lap.
Before I sit, I uncork the wine, pour her a glass, and then settle it back into the ice bucket.
As I take my chair, she asks, “Aren’t you going to have a glass?”
“I’m on the job,” I remind her.
She looks to the wineglass beside my plate and then back to me in question.
I shrug. “The setting didn’t look symmetrical with only one wineglass.”
Camille bursts out laughing, and to my surprise, she stands and reaches across the table for the bottle of wine. I really should argue when she leans over and pours me half a glass. I should also ignore the fact that when she leans over, it deepens her cleavage, and all kinds of lewd thoughts run through my brain.
She’s not even fully seated before I pick up the glass, wanting to gulp the whole thing down, hoping it will chill me the fuck out. Instead, I wait for her to pick up her glass and then I offer a toast. “Here’s to the end of what I hope was a fabulous day for you.”
We touch our glasses, and they make a faint clicking sound.
I watch her over the rim of my own glass as we sip. She closes her eyes and savors that first taste. When she opens them, she smiles sheepishly. “I have to say, today may have been the best of my trip so far.”
Camille reaches out to the platter of shrimp and asparagus, and using tongs, places the food on her plate. She then passes the tongs to me. “I actually feel guilty for taking a day off. Haven’t even checked my email today.”
As I’m loading my plate with food, I ask, “When’s the last time you took a day off?”
Camille shrugs as she picks up a skewer of shrimp and uses her fork to slide them off. “I honestly don’t remember. I don’t think I’ve taken a vacation since I got out of college. I finished school and went right to work for the family enterprise.”