Too late.
My mom slides her hand gracefully along the side of her hair that’s perfectly pinned up without a hair out of place. She has a softer green than the harshness of my eyes and not a flaw on her, not even a freckle daring to mark her face. The black-and-white-houndstooth skirt and white blouse under a striking yellow sweater complete her Haywood look—country clubs, charity events, and society parties. She fits right in when we’re here. I prefer how she dresses—more black, sleeker styles, “casual” days as she calls them when she wears jeans with a designer jacket—in the city better.
“Camille,” I say. Even I can hear the boredom in my voice, and we haven’t even exchanged formal greetings. As for “stopping by,” that’s not Camille’s style. From her expensive clothes to the jewelry she wears, from dates to daily life, she never does anything unplanned. There’s not a wild bone in her body. It was one of our greatest conflicts, though our match didn’t rival it. It surpassed all other issues to become the barrier I relied on when I broke up with her last July.
She was never a girlfriend. She wasn’t even really a friend of mine. Camille Arden was brought in for damage control. I just wish I would have figured it out sooner.
The perfect agent to pull off the job, her hair was styled long with no curls, her eyes as blue as mine are green, startling if you’re not used to them. Taller than average, she’s done some modeling but prefers hosting conversational dinner parties for twelve instead. But that means landing a husband in Haywood or waiting for her wealthy parents to pass away.
Right before I broke it off, I found out that a deal was struck between our two families years prior to my high school graduation. My arrest for disorderly conduct that landed me in a drunk tank overnight made them skittish about the commitment.
I take a long pull from the glass before I—fuck it. I don’t have the energy to play these games.
My mom sidesteps while adjusting the sweater draped around her shoulders. “I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone.”
I glare at her as she disappears down the corridor to my parents’ wing of the house before I can correct her. I’m sure that’s another piece of the plan.
Camille says, “You look good, really good, Coop. School’s going well?” She gets compliments on her blue eyes all the time, but she’s hollow inside with no soul to be found beyond the coloring. I’d almost forgotten.
And though it’s not fair to compare the two, Story’s eyes hold a world of depth. The thing is, I don’t hate Camille. She was another pawn in the game. She just hasn’t realized it yet, not like I have. “It’s going. How’s Huntley College?”
“It’s such a bore, and since the university is small, it doesn’t offer much either.” She comes over to me, takes the glass, and holds it under her nose. “Bourbon always made you do bad things if memory serves. Interesting you’re drinking again, or did you never give it up?”
“I was never an alcoholic, Camille. I was on a mission to destroy this town one bar brawl at a time.”
She pulls a bottle of Dom Pérignon and starts ripping the wrapping from around the cork. “I’ve traveled a lot, but not much compares to home. So, I never did understand why you hate this place so much.”
“Because the Haywoods are and were awful people.”
“You’re a Haywood, so what does that say about you?” she asks, handing me the bottle to open like our old routine is still in play.
“I was born with all their terrible deeds running through my veins.”
Popping the cork, I then set it on the counter, thinking this isn’t the war I’m waging with her. She gives me a look, and though she tries to hide it, I see the slight roll of her eyes as she starts filling the champagne flute. “Your history is wasted on you.”
“It’s not wasted. I’m the product of it.”
Pressing the 18k carat gold rim of the glass to her bottom lip, she stares at me over the crystal and the bubbly liquid inside. Camille always loved to pause for dramatic effect and the attention it allowed to flow in her direction. She sips, and then her gaze turns to linger over the furnishings. “Your mom’s redecorated. I like the beachy vibe.”
For her whole life, Camille has had dreams of a home full of valuable antiques and a baroque and depressing art collection. And she’s not shy about putting that out there to any suitor who shows interest. I witnessed it for years before I thought I’d try stepping in line to please my parents and get a trust fund owed to me from my grandparents back in my name.
Like a tiger trying to hide its stripes, it’s impossible. I would never fit into the mold just the way they wanted. Not interested in my mom’s new couch, I finally ask, “What are you doing here?”
She gingerly sips her champagne. “I heard you were back and wanted to see you.”
I raise my arms out from my sides. “Here I am. Are we done now?”
“Rude, Coop.” She finishes her drink and begins to refill it.
Pouring just a finger more of the bourbon into my glass over the melted ice, I wonder how much I want to entertain her.
If I’m hiking or running in the snow, pushing my lungs to open while I work through my life, that contract, and the deadline they’ve added of Christmas Day, I spend hours in my room where my patience has worn thin by the lack of human contact.
They’ve tried to tame me my entire life. Glancing at Camille, I know it worked for a short time. I just couldn’t hack the confinement of the prison they’d constructed for my life before I figured out what they were doing.
I move to the window to stare outside at the sky that decided to dump snow like there’s no end in sight. I grin, hearing Story’s voice inside my head. “I don’t mind it so much . . . it’s more the images it conjures.” She’d love this snow and sitting by the fireplace keeping the living room warm.
Six days of little ways of touching base keep us connected. I’ve gotten a photo every day of things that remind her of me. A photo of rain through the window of the coffee shop somehow brings me comfort. Another of the note I left her that looks like it’s been read a thousand times from the rough edges and bends in the paper. My side of the bed because yes, I’ve already claimed that. And some others of the world we’re building together—the empty bottle I left on the floor after we had sex for the first time, a glove that stayed behind. I tore my apartment up looking for that.
All these things have me smiling.
Story has me feeling different about myself, the man I am here versus when I’m with her. I miss it—all of it—her, that bed, the dim coffee shop that feels like a second home to so many.
A difference in our schedules has left us fumbling to bridge the gap in time. She works late, and I’m up early, so we find ourselves somewhere in between.
There’s no sexting, but that’s understandable since I just took her V-card. Fuck. Guilt riddles through me, and I shake my head. Until I make that right, it just feels wrong to have it play out the way it did. Not that it wasn’t great, but just not what it should have been.
But yeah, sending photos on the illicit side or even getting off on a live connection seems like something she might not be ready to do. I’m craving her—touch, the taste of her lips, the feel of her silky hair running between my fingers, being inside her, and spending time together.
Is it witchcraft? Or sorcery that has me feeling empty without her? What kind of spell has Story cast on me?
“Christmas morning and presents under the tree.”
I turn back to find Camille staring at me. “What?” I ask.
“The tree is beautiful.” She studies the ten-foot noble fir in the corner. “I was asking if you’re looking forward to Christmas.”
Not really. “Sure. It should be better than the four days since our family meeting.”
“Sounds serious. Do you want to talk about it?”