Making It Last (Camelot 4)

“When are we going back?”

“We have a couple hours to kill. First flight’s at one.”

“You already booked it?”

He nodded.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I talked to him. He misses you.”

She hooked her bra, then stepped closer and rose up on her tiptoes, fingers skimming the back of his neck, and kissed him like she was about to go on a long trip, and she had to fit all her goodbyes into this one moment.

He put his arms around her, tugging her close with his hands on her ass. Her skin felt too warm. Her kiss was too mournful, and he knew she was taking pieces of herself back again. Big pieces. He could feel it.

> He could hardly blame her. She needed those pieces to survive the life he’d pushed her into—this life she maybe didn’t even want. The kids. The husband who never took a weekend off, never whisked her away for a break, never made it easy on her or even thanked her except in the most routine, unimportant ways.

When she broke the kiss, she was breathing hard, and she wouldn’t look at him.

There was a pause as he skimmed his hands down her spine. Her flanks.

Stay here with me, he thought. Just stay.

But that wasn’t possible, even if she’d wanted to.

“What else?” she asked.

“Clark thinks we’re getting a divorce.”

“Who told him that?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s just putting two and two together and getting eight. But he must have told Ant and Jake, because Ant said we’re not coming home, and Jake thinks he’s going to have to pick who he goes to live with.”

Amber rested her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not.” He pulled her closer. Covered her skin with as much of himself as he could. “It’s mine.”

They held each other, unmoving except for the rise and fall of their chests, and Amber drifted away.

He thought that if he were her, he’d drift, too. He’d take any excuse he could find to cut and run.

Even if she didn’t leave him, she was gone.

There was nothing he could do to fix it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

They ordered breakfast in the room. One of the perks of the suite was that a personal butler took their order, delivered their food on silver trays, and waited on them at the table.

It was supposed to be luxurious, but mostly Amber found it uncomfortable. They hadn’t made the bed. Even though the window was open, she was paranoid about sex-smells and the half-empty wine bottle on the dresser.

She thought maybe she wasn’t cut out for pampering, since she felt guilty for not enjoying herself more. The spa had been kind of the same thing—all these supposed luxuries that felt either ridiculously privileged or flat-out odd. Paying people—and no, it was not insignificant that they were black people—to rub scented oils into her skin or find all her hidden zits and squeeze them.

Or the fact that there were combs in the locker room—a jar of combs in that blue disinfectant stuff, like at a barbershop, except come on. Surely no one ever used the combs. No one ever lotioned up with the spa-dispensed lotion or swabbed their ears with the spa Q-tips.

But someone must. Someone had defined this whole experience as luxurious. Lots of someones. So even though Amber couldn’t really believe that anyone could enjoy eating breakfast ten feet from a bed while attended to by a strange man who kept his face carefully blank, she felt as though there must be something wrong with her for not loving it.

The waiter piled up all the dishes on a cart, and Amber and Tony sat awkwardly, watching him go.