Page 6 of Bad for Business (Pembroke Hills #2)

SIX

RYKER

“I can get them,” Camille demands, bumping her hip against mine to edge me away.

“So can I,” I respond, not letting her attempts to move me out of the way work.

We just made it to the Hamptons house. Instead of using a driver, I’d opted to have Dad leave a car for me at the private airport.

Turns out, having an SUV for both of us was necessary because of the amount of luggage Camille brought.

“This one’s heavy and stuck. Let me help you,” I tell her, pointing to her largest suitcase that we’d wedged on top of the others. I’m attempting to thaw her icy demeanor by grabbing her bags for her, but it seems like trying to help is only making her more upset.

“They’re my bags, not yours,” she hisses, tugging on the handle of the suitcase. It doesn’t move despite how hard she appears to pull.

I shake my head. There was a slight moment on the plane ride here where I thought spending time with her might not be so bad.

For a few seconds, I remembered the woman I met at that party.

The one who opened up to me and briefly let me in.

I thought I saw a glimpse of her on the plane, but I was wrong.

The one glaring at me right now clearly doesn’t like me for reasons I’m not confident about. And because of her obvious dislike of me, I don’t know how much I like her right now.

My hand brushes against hers as I grab the same suitcase handle as her. I’m not even trying to help her at this point. I’m just trying to get this one suitcase out so we can get the rest out as well. “Let me at least get this one,” I get out through a clenched jaw as I pull on it.

“No,” Camille argues, elbowing me in the side.

I let out an annoyed sigh and throw my hands in the air.

I don’t know why I’m even trying to help.

She’s been pushing my buttons from the moment we landed.

She spent the entire car ride here trying to give me directions on where to go, no matter how many times I reminded her that this was my family’s home and I didn’t need any help to find it.

“Just so I can prepare myself, are you always this stubborn?” I ask, watching closely as she plants her feet on the driveway and places a second hand around the suitcase handle.

Camille side-eyes me. “I’m not stubborn. I just don’t need your help.”

I laugh. She’s turning out to be the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, but I keep that thought to myself, not wanting to ruffle her feathers any more than I already have just by existing.

“Okay, fine, you’re not stubborn,” I lie.

“Once we spend a little more time together, will you let me help you, or will you still tell me no?”

Camille pulls her gaze from mine and focuses on the suitcase once again. “Oh, so now you want to spend more time together?” she mumbles under her breath. It’s said so quietly and rushed I almost miss it.

I furrow my eyebrows, wondering what she means. Before I can ask her, she’s speaking up. “If you want to help, you can listen to me when I say I don’t need your help.”

I give her a tight smile and take a step back. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she mutters, mimicking me with a shrill voice. She tosses her hair over her shoulder before shifting her weight. I bite my tongue, wanting to tell her that maybe the heels she’s wearing aren’t the best for what she’s trying to do.

Camille pulls on the suitcase a few more times before it happens.

One moment, the suitcase is still firmly wedged between the ones around it.

The next, both the suitcase and Camille are flying back. She keeps her hands wrapped around the handle, even as she crashes toward the ground.

“Oh shit.” I try to close the distance to Camille, but it’s too late.

She tumbles to the ground with a scream and a loud thud as the suitcase lands on top of her.

“Are you okay?” I ask, crouching down to help her.

I try to grab the luggage from on top of her, but she shoves it to the side before I can. “I’m fine,” she grits out, pushing herself into a sitting position.

I roll my eyes, gently grabbing her arm and looking at her elbow. “You’re bleeding,” I announce, my eyes traveling over her injury.

To my surprise, Camille doesn’t recoil from my touch. Her eyes follow the same path as mine as she looks at the scrape on her elbow. “It’s small. I’m fine. But it’s your fault.”

“My fault?” I ask in disbelief, letting go of her arm. If she isn’t going to make a big deal out of the scrape, then I guess I’m not either. “How is you falling on your ass my fault? I offered to help.”

I hold out my hand to try and help her off the ground, but she just pushes it away.

I raise my eyebrows and shake my head as I stand to my full height. She follows suit, straightening her clothes as she gives her body a once-over.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me how it was my fault.” I close the distance to the SUV and pull out the rest of our luggage before she can protest. Surprisingly, she keeps her mouth shut.

When I place the last suitcase in the driveway, she’s standing right behind me with her arms folded across her chest. “It’s your fault because I shouldn’t have to be here in the first place.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I could point out that if she had just let me help her, she wouldn’t have fallen to the ground. But her blaming me for having to be here tells me everything I need to know. Nothing I say is going to matter.

“Would you like me to grab some of these and take them to your room, or do you want to take them yourself?”

Camille gives me a smile, and even though it’s forced and not in the slightest bit genuine, I revel in seeing the slight upturn of her lips. “You’re learning fast. I like it. I’ll get them myself.”

I nod, grabbing my luggage and walking toward the front door.

I’m trying to be nice despite how hard she’s making it for me, but I’m not going to go out of my way.

If she doesn’t want help, then I won’t give her any.

“Have at it, then,” I yell over my shoulder, knowing that the sloped driveway won’t pair well with her stiletto heels.

I tried helping. It’s her loss if she doesn’t want to accept it.

She curses under her breath as she deals with the consequences of her stubbornness. I try not to smile as I walk up to the keypad and type in the code to get in.

The smell of fresh flowers hits me immediately. I take a deep breath in, remembering the many memories in this house that all involve the scent of fresh-cut hydrangeas.

Mom always used to make sure the house was filled with the flowers every time we visited.

I swallow, the constant ache in my chest over the death of my mother intensifying.

It’s almost been a year since we lost her to breast cancer and as I walk into the empty Hamptons house—the one she loved so much—the loss of her cuts deeper.

My eyes rake over the space. The light blue walls, the furniture she picked out herself, everything reminds me of her. I hadn’t realized how hard it would be to be back at this house without her until this very moment.

A loud grunt interrupts me from my thoughts. I turn in the kitchen to find Camille hoisting her final piece of luggage over the threshold of the front door.

“You good?” I ask, noticing her hair sticking to her face from the struggle of getting her suitcases in.

Camille nods. She pushes her shoulders back and plasters an unbothered look on her face. “I don’t know why you’re asking. I’m fine.”

I laugh and shake my head.

Damn, she’s frustrating. Right now, I welcome it. Being annoyed with her is better than being sad about being back at this house without Mom.

“So this is the house,” I begin, holding my arms out and waving them around.

Camille nods, her eyes roaming over the space. I wonder if she likes it. I don’t know her well enough to know her taste. Does she like the coastal vibes of the house, or are her tastes more modern?

I shake my head, wondering why I even care if she likes it. Her opinion of the house doesn’t matter to me…at least, it shouldn’t.

“It’s gorgeous.” Her voice is soft as her eyes continue to take in the space. The staff did an amazing job of getting the house ready for us. I haven’t been to any of the other rooms, but I’m sure they’ve done great at preparing them for us as well.

It’s quiet as Camille looks around the main living space.

I take the opportunity to really look at her.

I tried on the plane, but she kept catching me and glaring in my direction.

But now, she’s too focused on taking in the house that was my mother’s pride and joy to even realize I’m looking at her.

She looks exactly the same as she did on New Year’s Eve.

Her hair is still long, and the strands are still so dark they’re only about one shade away from being black.

Her eyes are still mesmerizing. Although now that I’ve seen them in the daylight, I’m realizing they’re more of a mix between blue and green instead of being just blue like I originally thought.

Camille runs her hand over the countertop.

For a moment, her features soften as she looks around the kitchen.

I compare the woman standing here to the one I met at the party.

I remember thinking she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on—and that was before I finally earned a smile from her.

I want to ask her why she left that morning. To me, the night we shared was perfect. It was so perfect that I wanted to spend the next day with her and steal as many nights from her as she’d give me. But she didn’t want the same thing.

She left.

And now, when she looks at me, it isn’t the same. She looks at me like I’m the last person on this planet she wants to be stuck with, and I can’t deny that it stings a little to be looked at that way.

“Which room is the farthest from yours?” Camille asks, setting her purse down on the counter and meeting my gaze.

I swallow, wondering why it even matters to me that the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about isn’t the same one standing in front of me.