Along Came Trouble (Camelot 2)

“Yeah, but that was before we negotiated.”

“So?”

He leaned forward. “That was before I painted you with chocolate syrup and licked it off every delicious inch of you.”

Her pupils dilated, and he could swear the pulse at the base of her throat picked up, but she stayed in the defensive posture and shook her head. “I don’t see how that changes anything.”

It stung to hear her say it, though he knew it shouldn’t. He couldn’t expect great sex to change her whole worldview overnight, especially given what he’d learned about her marriage.

“Just think about it,” Caleb said. He stood and walked behind her to put his hands on her shoulders, then leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Will you do that for me?”

She didn’t answer.

He raised her damp, cinnamon-smelling hair and kissed the nape of her neck, then blew gently. She shuddered. “I want to take you back to bed and make love to you again,” he said. “And in the morning, I want to wake up and find you pressed up against me, all sleepy and warm, and I want to touch you and kiss you until you’re making those whimpering, begging sounds that drive me crazy. Then I want to sink inside you, inch by inch, and I want to stay there for a very long time.”

“Caleb?” Her voice had gone all throaty the way it did when she was aroused.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not my boyfriend. And you can’t spend the night while Jamie’s here.”

He slid his hands down to her waist and kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulders. “I know I can’t, honey. Because now that Jamie’s here, I’m going to have to go in to the office and spend the next five or six hours getting ready for more people with cameras to show up.”

“Oh.”

He hoped he wasn’t imagining the disappointment in her voice.

Cupping her face in his hand, he turned her chin up toward him so he could kiss her soft mouth. “Good night, Ellen Sydney Callahan.”

He’d see her in the morning. It wasn’t good enough, but he was a realist. It was as good as it was going to get for now.

Chapter Twenty

“Since when do you drink orange juice?” Jamie asked, rooting through his sister’s fridge for something to eat. All she had was beer, kid food, and vegetables. He’d sort of hoped she’d make him breakfast, but she was already working, and he knew better than to ask.

Maybe he could hire her a service like the one he had back in L.A. that delivered homemade meals directly to his fridge. That way, when he visited, he could just find the container labeled “frittata” or “quiche” or whatever and be done with it.

But Ellen probably wouldn’t approve. She seemed to like fending for herself. If she didn’t, she would have moved to California to live with him like he’d invited her and Henry to do a million times.

Shoving aside a box of baking soda and trying not to wonder why she kept it in the fridge, he found nothing behind it but a carton of eggs. Which he didn’t know how to fix.

He’d never seen the appeal of doing everything yourself when you could hire someone to do it for you. The way he figured it, people should do what they were good at. He was good at singing. Ellen was good at taking care of Henry and being an ass-kicking lawyer. There had to be somebody in Camelot who got his thrills making breakfast. That was the person they needed to locate.

On the other hand, if he knew how to fix eggs, he could be eating right now. He’d have to add it to his list of competencies to acquire, once he got Carly back.

“I don’t drink orange juice,” Ellen said from behind him. “Caleb brought it over.”

“Ah. So you’re at that stage.” He picked up a jar of pickles, then put it back. A man couldn’t have pickles for breakfast, no matter how desperate he was.

“What stage?”

“The stage where he brings you stuff, but he doesn’t know you well enough to know what to bring you. Then, later, he’ll know you better, but he’ll no longer have the impulse to wait on you hand and foot, so you’ll never get the peach juice you deserve.”

He hoped she’d volunteer details about her affair with Caleb, but no such luck. “I don’t like peach juice either,” she said absently. “That’s you.” He only had half her attention. The other half was focused on the fat contract she was reading at the table.

“Really?” He could have sworn Ellen loved peach juice. “What juice do you like, then?”

“I don’t like juice in the morning. It’s too sweet. I like coffee.” She picked up a red pen and made a vicious slash through one paragraph.