“No. I don’t.”
“And you claim to be the smart one,” I joke. “Look, I’m okay with this as-is. I see it for what it is. But don’t go telling me, ‘It’s okay to have feelings for someone, Dominic,’” I mock, “because it ain’t real. You don’t have feelings for something that’s gonna be busted in the days to come.”
“You’ve been with her almost a year,” he tosses out like he’s some kind of genius.
“Okay. Fine. You wanna go with me to meet her family? I mean, let’s just do the family-to-family thing. You’ve already made friends with her brothers, yeah?”
“Fuck them,” he growls.
“My point. That’s before they even know our uncle is the guy that almost tanked Barrett’s campaign. How’s that gonna look in their press release in the next election cycle?” I point out. “Look, I hate Nolan too. But that doesn’t matter. It’s all about appearances with these people, Nate. This would be a PR nightmare, and they’re all about avoiding the problem.”
“Again, fuck them.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “And then the shit about—”
“Don’t tell me you’re going there. Our piece-of-shit father has nothing to do with anything.”
“But he does.”
“But he doesn’t,” he hisses. “Use whatever reasoning you want for not locking that girl down, but don’t let that motherfucker play a part. That’s not fair to her or you.”
“Fair or not, it’s life,” I say, feeling defeated.
He yawns through the line, saying something I can’t make out.
“I’m guessing you said you’ll see me tomorrow,” I say, glancing at the clock. “I gotta try to get some sleep.”
“Me too. I’ll start moving our stuff in tomorrow?”
“Sounds good. I’ll be working up north, but you have a key, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks again, Dom.”
“No problem. See ya tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Dropping the phone to the blankets, I lie back again. My head feels foggy like it usually does after a sparring session.
Closing my eyes, I see Camilla’s face. The fact that I’m beginning to associate her with my life—that she’s what I envision when I have six seconds of quiet or how I automatically hope to see her in my bed—worries me a little. No, it worries me a lot.
I get why. She’s the full one-hundred percent. The problem? I’m not.
Camilla
“CAMILLA, WOULD YOU WAIT A moment, please?” My mother gives me her best no-nonsense look over her clasped hands.
“Sure.” I fight the anxiety in my chest as I say goodbye to my sisters-in-law and watch them walk out of Picante, a restaurant nestled inside a ritzy hotel downtown. We had lunch and discussed a charity launch the family is putting together through Landry Holdings. It’s been a nice afternoon . . . until now.
I know the look on her face. This isn’t Mom wanting to get pedicures tomorrow. This is her wanting to talk. Real talk. The kind I’ve been avoiding.
Smoothing out my dress, I retake my seat. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to see how you were, sweetie.”
“I’m fine,” I say, furrowing my brow. “Why would you ask?”
It’s a rhetorical question. There’s no doubt why she’s asking. The only thing I’m unsure about is why she hasn’t done this before now. Still, I’m not offering information freely. If she wants something, she’s going to have to ask for it.