Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
I reach over and take the handle, brushing her hand innocently. I freeze, as does she, before she pulls her hand into her chest on a little gasp. We both remain motionless, my hand poised on the door, my spine tingling. Jesus, this is getting worse—the atmosphere, the innocent touches…my reaction to them.
I peek down at Camille, finding her eyes darting wildly. I quickly pull the door open for her, standing back to eliminate the risk of us touching again. She rushes through without any thank you or acknowledgment, and breezes into the lobby like I’m not even there.
I breathe in deeply and follow behind, but come to a stop when Camille does, a few feet in front of me. She turns to face me, but refuses to look at me. “Keep me in sight if you must, but can you do it at a distance so my mother doesn’t interrogate me?”
“She doesn’t know?” I ask.
“No, and I don’t want her to. She’ll only worry and proceed to annihilate my father. She does that enough already.”
I run a quick scan of the area, assessing every nook and cranny, every person in the vicinity, storing it all to memory. “Where will you be sitting?”
“She has the same table at the back of the restaurant every time.” She’s still refusing to look at me, but indicates the restaurant entrance.
“Looks like I’m eating alone.” I gesture for her to lead on, which she does, ignoring my cynicism.
I allow her to get a few feet away from me before I follow, holding back while the maître d’ greets her before leading her to a table. Camille’s mother looks exactly like she has in every picture I’ve seen. A well-turned-out woman in her mid-forties, with blond hair that matches Camille’s and topaz eyes that are a little less bright than her daughter’s. Apart from the uncanny likeness, I sense no other similarities. She looks overbearing and self-important. A diva, in fact. The same table every time? A driver? All that’s missing is a Chihuahua in a frilly pink jumper and a diamond-encrusted collar.
They greet each other with hugs and double kisses as I make my way to an empty table a few feet away from Camille and her mother. It’s about as far as I’m prepared to be. I sit on an angle, the whole room in view, turned away enough to look inconspicuous, but just right to see her.
“Sir?”
I look up and find a smart waiter hovering at the edge of my table for two, a questioning look on his face. “I’ll have a water, please.” I resist ordering the Jack that I so desperately need.
“I’m sorry.” He looks nervous. I’ve hardly said a word, and I was polite. What’s his problem? “Do you have a reservation?”
That’s his problem. This place doesn’t look like the kind of joint you just breeze right into and expect to be fed. “Yes,” I answer smoothly, taking a menu from his hand on a smile that suggests he should accept my answer and hurry on his way.
“Your name, sir?” he asks.
I sigh. “Check your little book on that stand up front.” I wave a finger toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Whatever name you have down for this table, that’s me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This table is reserved.”
I sense Camille watching me warily, aware of the potential upset I might cause. And that’s the only reason I begrudgingly relent. “Do you have another table?” I ask politely.
“Yes, sir.” He smiles and indicates across the restaurant. “If you’ll just come this way.”
I follow his pointed finger and spot the empty table he must be referring to. Then I scoff. Too far. “I’ll be staying here, thank you.”
“But, sir, I’m—” His words cut dead when I look at him. I can only imagine the threat in my eyes. Don’t make me get mad, I say to myself. “Sir.” He nods and backs away. “I’ll get your water.”
“You do that.” I have a quick peek across to Camille and find her watching me, her mother chewing her ear off. I see her mouth murmuring the odd agreement here and there, her lips soft and inviting, moving slowly.
I’m unable to stop my line of sight drifting up from her mouth when I feel her eyes burning into me. She quickly looks away, shifting in her chair and sipping some champagne, focusing on her mother instead of me. The loss does things to me beyond my comprehension. I mentally slap myself as a jug of water, laced with slices of lemons and limes, lands in front of me.
“Sir, have you made a decision from the menu?”
“Whatever you recommend,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket, finding no calls or messages.
“The Lobster Thermidor is famous, sir.”
“Then I’ll have that.” I pull up my contacts list and Abbie’s name flashes up at me. I frown, waiting for the inevitable twisting of my stomach. It doesn’t come, and I find myself glancing across to Camille as my frown deepens. I try to think of what I’d even say to Abbie if I did call. Hi, did you miss me? I laugh.