"You must be hungry," I say, changing the subject to give her a moment to compose herself. "There's a little place not far from here that makes the best chicken noodle soup I've ever had. Would you let me go get some for you?"
She manages a small smile. "That's really sweet, but I can't stomach chicken right now. Morning sickness is a bit of a misnomer—it's more like all-day sickness."
"Just the noodles, then," I say firmly, standing. "Broth and noodles. Comfort food without the bits that make you queasy."
She nods, seeming too exhausted to argue. "That actually sounds really good."
"I'll be back in thirty minutes," I promise, already heading for the door. "Do you need anything else while I'm out?"
"I'm okay," she says, but the way she huddles under her thin throw blanket suggests otherwise.
The spring air hits me as I step outside, cool and bracing. I flag down a taxi and give the driver the name of the soup place, mind racing with everything Camille has just shared. Pregnant. With what I assume is Alex's child. Holy shit…
I wait while they prepare the soup, specifically requesting they leave out the chicken and go heavy on the noodles. The girl behind the counter looks confused but doesn't question me.
On the way back, I pass a boutique with a window display that catches my eye. Without overthinking it I ask the driver to stop and I duck inside. Ten minutes later, I emerge with a shopping bag containing a buttery-soft cashmere blanket in a pale blue that reminds me of Camille's eyes, a plush robe that the saleswoman assures me is "like being hugged by a cloud," and a box of French herbal teas.
It's extravagant. Possibly overstepping. Definitely not how I'd normally behave with a business associate. But something about Camille's vulnerability, her obvious loneliness in the face of such enormous news, makes me want to wrap her in comfort any way I can.
When I return to her apartment, balancing the soup container and my purchases, she answers the door with surprise that quickly shifts to something like wonder.
"What’s all this?" she asks as I set everything on her kitchen counter.
"Soup, as promised," I say, unpacking the container. "And just a few things I thought might help you feel better."
Her eyes widen as I pull out the blanket, the robe, the teas. "Julian, this is too much. You didn't need to?—"
"I wanted to," I interrupt gently. "Consider it a care package from a friend."
"A friend," she repeats softly, running her fingers over the cashmere blanket. "We barely know each other."
"Well, I know you're talented, brave, and currently growing a human being while trying to manage two major design projects," I say, finding bowls in her cabinet and ladling out the soup. "That seems like enough to start with."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "When you put it that way."
We sit at her small dining table with steaming bowls of soup between us.
"Thank you," she says after a few bites. "Not just for the soup and the gifts. For not judging. For not asking a million questions."
I meet her gaze across the table. "I'm here if you want to talk about any of it. And equally here if you don't."
Something passes between us in that moment—an understanding, a connection that feels significant. As we eat in comfortable silence, I realize that whatever brought me to her door isn’t going to fade away.
Chapter 17
Alexander
Ipress my fingers against my temples, trying to physically push thoughts of Camille from my mind. It's been weeks since Antigua. Weeks since I left that note. Weeks of telling myself I did the right thing by cutting her off cleanly rather than letting her believe there could be something more between us.
The right thing. For her. For me. For everyone.
Then why the fuck can't I concentrate on anything else?
My phone vibrates against my desk—a text from Vince about the zoning approval for the Chicago project. Not her. It's never her anymore. She stopped texting after she thanked me for recommending her to Tristan and Julian. I pull her text up and read it again.
Thank you for recommending me to Tristan Vale and Julian Fairfax. I appreciate it.
Professional. Polite. Distant. Exactly what I wanted, right? I remember staring at those words, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, wanting to type... what? That I was sorry? That I missed her? That sometimes I wake up reaching for her?
