His company was on the verge of foundering from too many deals and not enough manpower, and though he wished Christopher the very best of luck with his congressional campaign, his little brother had barely given Cameron enough notice for him to figure out what came next before he was out the door.
Did he want to try to keep C & C Winslow afloat solo? Impossible. He’d have to let some of their clients go and scale back his hours, or he’d work himself into an early grave. He could find someone suitable to take over for Chris, but how was he supposed to get him up to speed while his established accounts still demanded his time? He could sell his company to a larger financial outfit like English & Sons and move on to a new venture, but what new venture? Finance? Or something . . . different?
If Cameron were honest, he’d admit that he had become weary of financing business deals. He was sick of wearing suits and sitting in a stuffy office for fifteen hours a day. Lately the urge to build something of his own from the ground up had captivated his imagination. He wanted to produce something real: perfect it, produce it, market it, and sell it. He didn’t need to invent anything, but he wanted to care about what he offered the world. He wanted his work to matter. What he really wanted was a legacy of his own.
And until he figured out the bones and breath of that legacy, his life wasn’t ready to be shared. Not with anyone significant in any meaningful way.
You can’t invite someone along for the ride when you don’t know where you’re going, he thought.
Besides, the only girl who stood out from the crowd already had a boyfriend, douche bag though he appeared to be.
Cameron put his hands on his hips and slowed to a walk about two blocks from the Newbury Arms to catch his breath. To be fair, he didn’t actually know Shane Olson very well. He seemed overconfident, grinning at Cameron as he kept Margaret obnoxiously anchored against his hip in the elevator, but perhaps he just sensed that every atom in Cameron’s body gravitated to Margaret, and was just defending his territory. Or maybe he somehow sensed that if he was out of the way, Cameron wouldn’t be able to stop himself, wouldn’t be able to help himself. He’d swoop in on Margaret like a hawk diving for a field mouse. It wouldn’t matter that his business was going to shit and needed to be dealt with—if she was available, he’d have no choice but to claim her before someone else came along. Or perhaps Olson gave Cameron that superior smirk to say, You knew her for years and had your chance, chump. Too late now. This woman is mine.
God knows, if he were lucky enough to anchor Margaret to his hip, Cameron would do a lot more than smirk at any guys who came near her. Maybe he should give Olson a little more credit for possessing so much self-control.
So engrossed with his thoughts as he rounded the corner of his building, Cameron didn’t see the petite brunette walking toward him at full speed—her heels clacking against the cement, her nose buried in her phone—until she’d barreled into his chest.
Looping an arm around her waist as he stumbled backward, Cameron dragged the woman against his body, and was suddenly assaulted by the scent of fresh lilacs.
“Meggie,” he breathed, the sound halfway between pleasure and pain as he found himself holding the very object of his desire in his arms.
“C-Cameron.”
Her head was nestled under his chin, and her small, soft body was completely still against his larger, firmer frame, as if she was at home, as if he’d held her like this a million times. She fitted so perfectly against him, it was like she was a missing piece that would somehow make him whole.
Clenching his eyes shut as he memorized the feel of her, it took every drop of strength he could muster to drop his arms and mutter, “You should look where you’re going.”
Her neck jerked back, and her brown eyes flashed with fury as they locked on his. “This is my fault?”
He crossed his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her again. Your life is a mess. And she belongs to Olson. “You came around the corner like a linebacker.”
She straightened her glasses and gave him a murderous glare. “A linebacker! I weigh a hundred and ten pounds!”
“Well, you’re a lot more solid than you look,” he said, desperately trying not to smile at her. She was adorable when she was angry. Always had been, always would be.
The unaware star of his filthiest naughty-librarian fantasies. Check.
Adorable when angry. Check.
“Solid. The compliment of every girl’s dreams.”
“Oh, were you expecting a compliment?”
“From you? Has hell frozen over?”
And then he did smile because she was so quick on her toes, he couldn’t help but admire her.