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For a moment, all I can do is take her in, my pulse hammering as I admire every inch of her. But the more I look at her, the more uncomfortable she gets. She wraps her arms around herself, covering her belly.
“No, what are you doing?” I ask, standing and pulling her into my arms.
“Vicente, I’m a mom. I have stretch marks.” Her voice hitches, and I press her closer to me.
She won’t meet my eyes. “You only date models and beautiful women. I don’t feel like I measure up to your standards,” she adds.
My jaw clenches, anger coursing through me. I hate that she sees herself that way.
“That might be true of the old me. But if you notice, I didn’t ask any of those women to marry me. I askedyou. Iwantyou.”
“Yeah, well…maybe because you feel pity for me and Ava.”
Pity?
Instead of trying to convince her how much I’m into her, I decide to show her.
“No, Camila. I don’t feel pity for you or Ava.”
I capture her lips again, this time kissing her with everything I feel—hunger, need, possession. She melts into me as I walk us backward toward my chair, lowering myself into the seat as I guide her to straddle me again.
Her hips start moving, and I thank the gods the moment isn’t ruined. I need this woman as much as I need my next breath.
My hands travel up her spine, fingers reaching for the clasp of her bra, ready to strip away one of the last barriers between us—
And then her phone rings.
Camila jumps up, scrambling off my lap. She rushes over to her bag, yanking out her phone.
“Hello?” she answers breathlessly.
I watch as her body stiffens, her free hand trembling as she takes a few slow, deep breaths.
“I’m on my way. Thank you for calling.”
She hangs up and immediately starts dressing, her hands shaking.
“What happened?” I ask as I pass a hand over my hair, trying to take a few deep breaths to get myself under control.
“Ava fell at school, and I might need to take her to the hospital,” she says frantically, getting her clothes sorted.
Immediately, I remove my tie and button up my vest. Patting my pockets, I make sure I have my wallet and car keys.
“Let’s go,” I say, already heading for the door, but Camila stops in her tracks. Lunch forgotten.
“You’re not coming with me. I can handle it,” she insists, grabbing her bag and stepping in front of me.
I meet her gaze. “Camila, you’re not alone anymore. I can help you.”
She pauses and looks me in the eyes for a bit, searching for something. Finally, she nods and resumes walking toward the door.
We rush to the car park, and this time, I unlock my Rolls-Royce instead of the Aston Martin.
When she glances at me, I shrug. “We need a bigger car so Ava can fit safely.”
Her smile is small, sweet—but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s worried shitless about Ava. And so am I.
By the time we reach the school, Camila bolts as soon as I turn the car off, and I’m right behind her.