“There are mountains much closer to Georgia than the Rockies.” I hope that’s a safe response. If it was about livingin the mountains, she could’ve moved somewhere in the Smoky Mountains. If she’s running, I really want to understand what drove her here to my small town in northern Montana.
“True.” She lets out a soft chuckle. “But when your life changes drastically, distance is sometimes needed.”
Damn. There’s so much to unpack in that one sentence. She just confirmed she is running from something, and that something was bad. Bad enough that she had to get away. I’m more intrigued with her now than I was before. “What about your family? Won’t you miss them?”
“I’m not really close to my family.” Her body tenses, and her face hardens. She clearly doesn’t want to talk about those personal details of her life. But there’s a story there, and I can’t help but think if I knew what it was, it’d help me figure out if there’s room in her life for a man like me.
Where did that come from?Is that what I want, to earn a place in her life? I hardly know this woman.
I’m about to ask her more about her family dynamics when she turns the question on me. “How about you? Have you always lived here?”
“Yep, born and raised.” I smile, and her shoulders relax. “My parents own a horse ranch just outside town. I left for several years for college in Chicago, but couldn’t stay away. I love it here.”
“Well, then.” She walks over to grab the coffee pot and refills our mugs. “You’re going to have to show me around sometime. I’ve hardly left this house since I arrived.”
“I’d love to.” My insides warm at the idea of acting as Camille’s local guide. Between working on her house and showing her around, that should provide me with plenty of opportunities to get to know her better and see if there’s anything to these feelings she invokes in me.
I finish taking the measurements, and Ricky finalizes his assessment of the electrical work required to bring the chalet up to code. We say our goodbyes and head on our way.
I have a week to create the kitchen and bathroom design of her dreams. I usually love it when clients give me this much freedom, but I’m nervous. Disappointing Camille is not an option. Thankfully, with this stack of design books in hand, she’s given me lots of inspiration to work with.
I can’t wait to get this project underway. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel as I drive Ricky back to Sweet Cakes. I feel energized and more alive than I have in a long time and the excess energy isn’t from all the coffee.
CHAPTER 4
CAMILLE
Itake one last look at myself in the mirror, smooth my hair down, and pinch my cheeks. I look tired—like I haven’t slept in days.
Maybe that’s because I haven't.
Being alone in this small town has been harder than I expected. I spent most of my time back home alone. Elizabeth would visit weekly, but otherwise I didn’t see anyone unless I went grocery shopping. I’d taken to avoiding all my family and friends. I thought the distance would be a relief—that it would give me a peaceful kind of solitude and a break from the looks I’d get every time I ran into an old friend at the store.
It has to a degree. But I’m lonelier than I expected, and that has given me more time to think than I need. Thinking is dangerous for me. Especially now that a handsome man has invaded those thoughts alongside all my other issues. Adam—and my reaction to him—has thrown me for a loop.
I grab my scarf and rush downstairs. At least today I won’t be alone. Adam has the designs ready for me to look at. I can’t wait to see what he’s come up with even though I’m nervous to see him. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told him I loved his work. He’s very talented. I know I’m going to love what he’s done.
With my purse in hand, I check to make sure I have everything I need. I don’t need much, but I like to be prepared. Before I make it two steps, my phone rings. I pull it out of the side pocket of my purse and frown.
My instinct is to ignore it, but if I do, she’ll keep calling. “Hello, Mother.”
“Oh, Camille. I’m so glad I caught you. I was prepared to leaveanothermessage.”
I roll my eyes at the way she emphasizesanother. No subtlety where my mother is concerned. “I’m kinda in a hurry. I’m meeting the architect about the renovation designs this morning.”
“Are you still doing that?” She huffs. “Come home, Cami. You need to be with family.”
“I told you, I needed to get away. Start fresh.”
“No, you need to behere. Where we can take care of you.”
You mean control my life and all my decisions?Mother’s never taken care of me a day in her life. She had nannies for that. “Mother, we talked about this.”
“And all you spouted was nonsense. You just have to decide to let yourself heal, and then you’ll heal. Stop being so difficult. Nothing is holding you back except yourself.”
I fight the urge to scream. She’s always telling me what to do, and I hate it. And I hate that she often finds ways to say things to get me to agree. We’ve had this conversation so many times since Mark and Alex died, and I can’t take it anymore. There isn’t some magic switch I can flip to make myself heal. It’s not that easy.
In her own sick way, she means well, and she actually thinks she’s being helpful. At least I think she does. She’s anything but. Her words make me feel small. She wants me to get out and be normal again, whatever that means, but her words make me want to retreat.
