There.The man he recognized was in there someplace. He lifted his shoulders as he stepped back into the house. To ensure he hadn’t lost himself completely, James would attend to a few business matters when he got back to his room. He was already two steps into the home when he heard Camila’s reply.
“All right, sir. I mean, Mr. Benton.”
His shoulders fell.
Perhaps Duke’s little assignment wasn’t so harmless after all. They couldn’talllive wild and free. James had been willing to hop on the train of spontaneity, as long as he could say where it went and when it stopped. But the pull he felt toward Camila—there was nothing intentional about it. Yet it was there all the same. And giving into it could spell disaster. James couldn’t afford the risk. Not now, anyway.
No, James decided as he stepped back into the office. He’d save that behavior for Duke and get back to what he did best: work.
Chapter 8
Camila folded her arms over her chest and sighed as she took in the ocean view. Bright morning sunlight contrasted blues in the ocean and sky alike, creating a heavenly display.
The steady push and pull of the tides added to the bliss with sounds of serenity. And then there was that terrific ocean breeze, filled with mist and hints of salt that were—along with the humidity—causing the beach-type wave in her hair since she’d arrived.
Two days.
Two full days had passed since she and James Benton ate breakfast together on the patio. Which meant they’d almost been there a full week. Camila had been hesitant to join James that morning, worried he was asking her out of obligation. But he’d put that thought to rest with ease.
From what she could tell, James had taken a genuine interest in what transpired from Adel’s careless post. The thought always led Camila to another musing:Adel Bordeauxwasn’this girlfriend.
Camila liked knowing that. Liked it a lot, actually. Perhaps he really was a decent guy. Discouragement crept in as she reflected on the shift in James’ behavior. The way he’d darted out of his seat, hurried into the home, and requested his lunch in the office once more.
Part of her had been relieved at first; she needed time to digest the interaction they’d shared. But when he texted her that evening asking her to do the same thing with dinner, Camila worried she’d gone too far in comforting James over his brother’s loss. She had felt a connection with him in those moments. A deep one.
Sure, she was relieved that her own story hadn’t led to questions about who raised her and why. But beyond that, she’d been honored that he opened up to her the way he had. Perhaps though, after the fact, James regretted it. After all, it wasn’t easy to appear broken in some way. And death—a loss like that—it had a way of breaking the best of them.
Yesterday, for the second day in a row, James requested his meals in his office. Even worse, he’d asked her to leave last night’s dinner on the hallway cart for him to retrieve once he’d conducted his business. So much for presentation.
Today, she half expected to see his portion of the mansion roped off with a sign that readSet the Meal Down and Back Away.
“What do you think about our boss here, huh?” Gretta asked, breaking into her quiet musing.
Camila glanced over her shoulder to see the sweet woman polishing a side table beyond the open french doors. Gretta had told Camila a few fun facts about herself: She was from Hungary (which was evident by her accent), she’d been housekeeping since her only child went off to college fifteen years ago, and she was enamored with actor Michael Douglas, and had been for years.
Camila set her mind back to the woman’s question. “I think he’s nice.” Sure, it was sort of a kindergarten answer, but Camila hadn’t exactly figured the guy out yet. At this rate, she never would. Which seemed to be his objective.
“He sure is a busy man, I’ll tell you that much,” Gretta said with a humph. “He barely spared a few words to say what he wanted done in the master suite. I had to practically pry him out of there to attend to it, as if there is not enough room in this villa or the entire beach for that matter. He stays put in that office all day long.”
Camila grinned at the woman’s candor. “How about you tell me how you really feel,” she joked.
“How I feel is that if a man must work so steadily while on vacation in order to remain a billionaire, he shouldn’t be a billionaire.” She flung her arm in the air while walking to the other side of the table, her polishing cloth waving like a distress flag. “What else do you get all that money for if you can’t take time to enjoy it, huh?”
“That’s a good point,” Camila said, but secretly she worried that James might overhear their conversation. He hadn’t texted her yet this morning, and it was just twenty minutes until breakfast. Which meant he might finally crawl out of his hideaway.
On the menu today were freshly baked cinnamon rolls, Spanish-style eggs, and a fruit smoothie. In fact, it was time for her to put the rolls in the oven, she realized. “I’m making extra cinnamon rolls,” she said to Gretta as she stepped through the open double doors. “Would you like one?”
“I’ll say I would. Sadly, I’m on a cabbage soup diet for now. That means no sweets for me for six more days.” Gretta gave an exhausted look heavenward and groaned. “I don’t know why I torture myself so. In case I run into Michael Douglas, perhaps?”
Camila chuckled under her breath. “You never know. We are at the Royal Palm. Tell you what, if Mr. Benton enjoys the cinnamon rolls, I’ll most likely make them again. You can have one then.” She opened the pantry door, pulled one of her aprons off the hook, and looped it around her head.
“That sounds wonderful,” Gretta said. The woman was quite pretty. Red hair with the slightest hints of gray streaked throughout. Her fair skin held very few wrinkles. That, combined with her sharp wit and sarcasm, added a girlish quality.
Heat poured over Camila’s face while she slid the tray of cinnamon rolls onto the rack. As she closed the oven door, the spicy sweet aroma toyed with her senses.
“Good morning, ladies.” A voice came from behind. James’ voice.
“Good morning, sir. Mr. Benton,” came Gretta.
