Camille

I’m breathless, sprawled across the bed at the Melrose as my body floats back to earth. Three times in less than a week. I’m not sure what I ever did to get so lucky, but I won’t complain.

The bed shifts, and John–or Keir Montgomery in my mind–moves to my side. I miss his warmth already, his grounding weight. The way he worships and devours me makes me feel sexy, worthy of receiving the kinds of pleasure I’ve only ever given.

I reach for his face, tracing the outline with my fingertips. I take a detour to his mouth, grazing his soft lips until I can picture their shape, and then I move on to his cheek.

“Smile,” I say. “I want to feel your dimples again.”

He sighs, giving in to my silly demand.

“Thank you, John.”

The bed shifts once more. I stay silent, listening as he moves around the room, makes his way to the bathroom, and then returns a minute later.

“Leaving?” I ask.

I find my answer in his hesitation. He never stays.

“I’ve been trying to figure out where we would’ve met before,” I say, sensually drawing my knees into my chest as I sit up. I’m not sure where to look or where he’s standing, so I face forward when I speak.

“Surely you have better ways to spend your time.”

“You shouldn’t have challenged me,” I tease. “If you stuck around more, you might know me better, and then you’d know I can’t resist a good mystery. The more complex, the better.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m a card-carrying member of Mensa,” I say. “How else do you think I got a full-ride scholarship to Georgetown? But you probably already knew that since you did your research on me.”

I hear him snicker, and I mentally pat myself on the back for getting him to laugh.

“I’m sure there are plenty of things I don’t know about you,” he says.

“For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

The clink of his belt is followed by the metallic tug of a zipper. Just a few more minutes of sitting here with my blindfold, and as soon as I hear the thud of the hotel door, it’ll be time to put myself back together and head home.

The scuffing of his shoes against densely piled carpet grows nearer until his scent fills my lungs. His steady hand caresses the side of my face, his thumb under my jaw. In an instant, his mouth is on mine.

John–or Keir–kisses me goodbye. None of the other men have ever done that. It’s a kind gesture and completely unnecessary. While I have him, I run my fingers through his hair, my nails grazing his scalp. His hair is thick and soft as mink, probably freshly cut. He’s a man who cares about his appearance. I trace his jaw once more and then run my finger along his cheek in search of a dimple.

“You and those dimples.” I detect a reserved smile in his voice, but he pulls my hand from his face before I get a chance to feel the indentations.

“I keep wondering...” My voice is a low whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“Any time I’ve seen a man with dimples this week,” I say, “I keep wondering if he’s you. And I keep wondering if I’d know you if I saw you.”

“Probably not,” he says.

“You’ve got to be in the public eye,” I say.

“That would be a logical deduction.”

“You have your own security guard.” I wrap my arms around my knees and trail my palms down my shins.

“As many do in this city.”

“You’re a very important person, whoever you are.”

His lips press into my forehead. “Don’t think about it too much. The less you know about me, the better off you are.”

One million dollars, one million dollars, one million dollars . . .

It’s my new mantra, and it drowns out every hint of a gut check that renders me nauseous when I think about the absurdity of this situation. It was exciting at first. Daring. I told myself it’d be a nice break from the norm, and Araminta guaranteed me it’d be easy money.

I pull in a slow breath and exhale in an attempt to release the worries swirling my head.

“What is it?” he asks. “You’re frowning.”

“Nothing.” I force a smile.

“Camille.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it.” I wave him off. “You have a good night, okay, John? I’ll wait to hear from you again.”

It’s all I’ve done this week–sit around and wait for my phone to ring. He calls from a blocked number. I don’t have his.

“Goodnight, Camille.”

When he leaves, I pull my blindfold away and fix my hair, tiptoeing to the curtained window to glance at the hotel guests leaving the front entrance. Men come, men go. Story of my life, really. Rain beads on the outside of the window, and my breath fogs up the glass until the view below distorts.

I pick up my dress from the floor and stop when I see a little blue Tiffany’s box sitting on the foot of the bed, wrapped with a white bow.

A gift.

My heart catches in my throat. The sight of a Tiffany’s box used to send an instant smile to my lips. It’s hardly original, and I’m well aware that plenty of men shop there.

But so did Trey.

It was kind of our thing.

I sold everything he gave me after things got ugly and we went our separate ways.

My stomach churns, and the room spins. I tell myself it’s just a gift. Pure coincidence.

Pulling on the white ribbon, I let it fall to the floor before cracking the box.

Pearl earrings.

I’m bathed in relief. Trey only ever bought me white diamonds.

I slip them on and check them in the mirror, making a mental note to wear them next time. I’ll wear them tomorrow, too. Just because they’re pretty.

After I dress, I take a moment to text Araminta to let her know I’m on my way home.