The Bad Guy
I let the “wooing” comment go. “What’s the problem?”
“Women don’t act like you just described.” He scratched the gray stubble on his cheek. “Things would be a lot easier if they did.”
“No? How do they act, then?” I matched his posture, leaning forward. “What do I need to do to reach this goal?” He’d always taught me to set goals for myself. This was just another one.
“A woman can’t be a goal.” His tone was explanatory, but his words didn’t make sense to me. “Not the way we’ve used that term.”
“Why not? I’ve laid out a clear plan of how to achieve what I want. This girl will have sex with me if I do the things I just said. That’s the plan.”
He wrung his hands. “I’m not sure how to explain this.”
“Why not?” I’d never had a problem getting help from him before.
“This is different.”
“How?”
“It just is.” His tone changed, took on a note of irritation—one that was new to me. “Women are tough to read, especially in the context you’re looking at.”
“Are you mad?” I never wanted to upset him. He was my one true ally.
He sighed and dropped his gaze. “No, it’s just that I don’t want you to get in trouble, and I’m trying to figure out the best way to help you while at the same time give you some room to grow up. I just don’t want you to treat this girl like a goal.” He caught my eye again. “Like something to overcome. Do you understand?”
Though reading between the lines wasn’t my forte, I understood what Dad was trying to say for once. “Dad, I’d never do anything without her consent.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s…good. But you’re so young—”
“How old were you when you had sex for the first time?”
He coughed. “That, ah, that doesn’t matter.”
I smiled. “Younger than me, huh?”
He waved a hand at me and sat back, his papery cheeks turning pink even at his age. “None of your business, young man.”
The tension eased in the room, and I could tell from the way he pressed the tips of his index fingers together that he intended to help me. Classic Dad tell.
“So, what is my plan missing?”
“God, this brings up some old memories.” He almost smiled, and a cocky glint shone in his eyes. “Or as I used to call them—strategies.”
Now that was a word I could get behind. “Did they work?”
A full-blown smile lit his face in the orange glow from the fireplace. “I landed the prettiest woman in the state of New York, your mother, so I would damn well say so.”
That must be what love looks like. I made a note of the warmth that suffused him when he remembered my mother and catalogued it away in my mental filing cabinet. That look meant love. Check.
I was more than ready to learn the ways of women. “So, what’s the strategy?”
“It’ll seem simple when I tell you.” He chuckled. “But I promise you it isn’t. The one thing you absolutely must have before you bed a woman? Trust.”
I pulled my hand away from Camille, though it took all the willpower I possessed—quite a considerable amount. I rolled onto my back, jostling her the slightest bit as I put a narrow strip of space between us, though her hand still lay on my bicep.
Her eyes fluttered open. She jerked back, withdrawing her hand from me as if burned.
“You touched me.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
“I was asleep.” She yanked the blanket up and tucked it under her chin. “I could have cozied up to a porcupine when I was unconscious.”
“But you didn’t. You cozied up to me.”
She popped her head up and scanned the area behind me. “Because you’re on my side of the bed. You creeped over here while I slept.”
“Maybe, but you’re the one groping my arm in your sleep.”
“Let me go and you won’t have to worry about it.”
“And miss this friendly morning banter?” I tucked my hands behind my head. “Certainly not.”
“Ugh.” She pulled the sheet over her head.
“How’s your ankle?”
“Stiff.”
You and me both. “How about a warm bath?”
“With you?” Her scoff was muffled by the fabric. “No way.”
“With me would be nice, but I assumed that was a no.” I rose and walked into the bathroom. “I’ll run you a bath. I have something to take care of in the shower.”
She grumbled something unintelligible into the sheet. I hadn’t jumped her like I wanted, and I wasn’t even going to insist on bathing with her.
Trust. I’d get it. And once I did, I’d take my time and savor her.
I checked Camille’s messages as Rita served breakfast. My eyes almost rolled when I read the message from poor little Minton Baxter.
Mint Baxter: Did I do something wrong?
How would Camille respond? I was glad I only had to keep up the texting for a few more weeks before Camille had her “accident” in the Amazon. A quick web search told me the name of an endangered plant that would get Mint off Camille’s back.