Chapter 1 Mountain
“Baking Contest Winner Camille Parker Lands New Bakeware Deal.” I stare at the news headline, frustration tightening my shoulders and neck. Every time I see an article or a story about Cami, it evokes the same reaction. It doesn’t matter if I hate that she’s gone or if I admit I’m the reason. She’ll never come back to Raven’s Crest now that she’s a celebrity. At least, not to stay. Our small town doesn’t have all the glitz and glamor she can find in L.A.
It pisses me off. She should behere. Baking in Butter Bliss with her Granny Jo. Taking her daily jog through the familiar streets. Staying where I can watch over her, my ax ready in case of trouble.
I scrub my hand down my face and over the stubble on my jaw. Cami Parker is a pain in the ass, has been since the day I met her. She’s opinionated. Independent. Headstrong. And. . . my fucking kryptonite.
All it took was one taste of her, and now I can’t get her out of my head. My gaze sweeps over the photo they’ve used for the promo. It’s a synthetic, plastic shot that shows nothing of the passionate, stubborn woman I know. Sure, she’s a fucking knockout with curves that make my whole body ache with want, but the image doesn’t do her justice. It’s some studio-produced bullshit that doesn’t showcase the light freckles across her nose when she’s been in the sun a little too long. Or the dimple in her left cheek when she finds something amusing. There’s no emotion. Nothing that reveals therealCami.
The years of separation don’t change the facts. I haven’t forgotten. I know her in ways those fools in L.A. never will.
Fuck. I’ve never been this hung up on a woman.
And the worst part? She fuckinghatesme.
I know it. It’s my fucking fault.
Folding over the article, I place it in the box where I keep all the articles, newspaper clippings, and information I either print or find on Cami. It’s become an unhealthy obsession—a ridiculous, possessive way to remain close to her despite the distance. I spend way too much time scanning the internet, hungry for anything I can find on her accomplishments.
Camille Parker is the one who got away.
Bitterness sweeps through my chest, and I shove the box up high in my closet, pushing it far back because this time,dammit, I’m not going to add to the collection.
I need a fucking drink.
As I leave my room, I lock the door. It’s a habit more than a necessity. There’s not a single brother in the club who would fuck with anyone’s shit, steal, or enter their room without permission. Even the hang arounds and club girls know better than to tempt fate like that. Our rooms are private and off-limits. Always.
I drop my keys in the pocket inside my cut. My first stop is the bar. On nights like this, when I don’t want Cami consuming my thoughts, I need whisky. The strongest we’ve got. A few shots and I’ll be feelin’ much better. I can shove away the intrusive thoughts that blame me for losing Cami and fucking up my life.
I pick up two shots from the sweet butt behind the bar, forgetting her name as I thank her, and join my pres, Scythe. “Hey.”
“Mountain,” he greets me, using that discerning gaze that tells me he sees more than he mentions, including the dark circles under my eyes from the lack of sleep. “Everything good?”
“Sure.”
“How did it go with Cami?”
I recently took a trip to California just to check on her when I saw an article about some crazed fan who tried to enter Cami’s hotel room. She didn’t appreciate my interference.
We haven’t had a chance to discuss it yet.
“She’s good.” My voice is too tight when I answer.
“You don’t have to tell me your business, brother, but I know when something is bullshit.”
It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him. I just don’t want to talk about Cami or any of the reasons I’m not with her.
There’s no humor in my voice as I answer, tossing back my shot of whisky like it can chase away my bad choices along with my bitterness and frustration. “Yeah. I know, Pres.”
“Is she coming back to Ohio?”
“Fuck no,” I snarl. “She’s too caught up in being a celebrity. Cami forgets I know her.”
He stares at me, cataloging my reaction, like I’m not hiding the way I truly feel at all. I want to punch a fucking wall.
“That’s rough. Give her time,” he suggests.
Time? That won’t make a bit of difference. Not when the issue is me.
