Tristan swirls the remaining bourbon in his glass. "I think we found the source of that look in Camille's eyes when I mentioned his name."
"What the hell happened in Antigua?" I wonder aloud.
"Exactly what you’re thinking," Tristan says quietly.
I let that sink in. Alex Kingsley—confident, controlled and calculated—doesn't run from anything. Except, apparently, a petite blonde interior designer.
Chapter 14
Camille
Isquint at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark circles frame my eyes, and my skin has a sickly pallor that even my most expensive makeup can't hide. Something's off. I woke up feeling like hell—exhausted and emotional—like I'm coming down with something.
"Girlfriend!" Izzy's voice filters through the bathroom door. "If you don't come out in the next thirty seconds, I'm eating all the croissants I brought."
"Coming," I call back, dabbing one last layer of concealer under my eyes before giving up. It's not helping anyway.
When I emerge, Izzy is sprawled across my couch, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other digs through a paper bag of pastries. She looks up, and her expression shifts from playful to concerned in an instant.
"Jesus, Cami. You look like shit."
"Thanks," I mutter, dropping into the armchair across from her. "Just what every girl wants to hear."
She sits up, setting her phone aside. "I'm serious. You're, like, green. And not in a cool, eco-friendly kind of way."
I reach for a croissant but the smell—normally enticing—makes my stomach churn slightly. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Bullshit." Izzy leans forward, her eyes narrowing. "You've been 'just tired' for a week now. Ever since Antigua. Ever since Alexander fucking Kingsley."
The mention of his name brings an unwelcome pang in my chest. "This has nothing to do with him."
"Mmhmm." She's using her skeptical voice now. "So you're not exhausted from crying yourself to sleep? Or from obsessively checking your phone to see if he's texted?"
"I don't do that," I lie, avoiding her eyes.
"Your undereye circles tell a different story." Izzy leans back, crossing her arms. "Look, I think you should reschedule this meeting today. You're clearly not well."
I shake my head immediately. "No way. This meeting with Julian Fairfax could be huge for Evoque. I can't reschedule."
"The guy's a retired soccer player turned philanthropist. Pretty sure he can wait 24 hours while you recover from whatever this is." She gestures vaguely at my entire body.
"He's not just a 'retired soccer player,'" I protest, standing to gather my portfolio. "He's building a state-of-the-art community center in Brooklyn. It's exactly the kind of meaningful project I want to be part of."
Izzy follows me into the bedroom, watching as I pull dresses from my closet. "And it has nothing to do with the fact that he's Alexander's friend? You're not secretly hoping to run into that emotionally constipated asshole again, are you?"
Her question hits too close to home. I pause, a red sheath dress clutched in my hands. "That's not fair."
Her voice softens. "You've never been the type to chase after someone who doesn't want you back. Why is this different? I mean, I know he took your v-card but…"
"I'm not chasing him," I insist, though the words sound hollow even to me. "This is business. Alexander may be abastard, but he offered me a huge opportunity. I can't lose that momentum. Not now."
Izzy plucks the dress from my hands and replaces it with a sky-blue one. "This color will help with that whole 'might vomit any second' look you've got going."
I manage a weak smile. "Thanks."
"Just promise me you'll leave if you start feeling worse?" She holds my gaze until I nod reluctantly.
"I promise."
