“Ah, really?” I have no idea what to say to that. I might be great at reading people, but expressing my sympathy or empathy in a way that doesn’t sound ridiculous is another thing.
“Yeah.” She looks around the room, focuses her attention on the kids for a few minutes then lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, I can see you’ve got everything under control. Sorry I invaded your home without knocking – or being invited, for that matter.”
“You weren’t invading. And I’m glad you came over and helped me out. I needed it.”
She stands from the couch and puts her arms above her head, stretches, picks at one of her fingernails with her thumbnail.
“The offer still stands for dinner.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass for tonight. I didn’t get my things unpacked yet and I’m pretty beat after traveling the past two days.”
I stand and follow her to the door. “No coat?” I ask, noticing she isn’t grabbing for one that she removed along the way.
“I’ll be fine.”
I frown, not liking the idea of her walking outside not bundled up. I reach for the dark gray lined zip-up hooded sweatshirt I have hanging by the door that leads down the steps for the lodge and hand it to her. “I’m sure you will be, but do me a favor and don’t freeze to death on my property.”
She laughs lightly, her teeth biting down on her plump bottom lip as she does. Cheeks turning a slight shade of pink. “Thank you.”
Slipping it on, I chuckle at how she drowns in it. Her tiny frame getting swallowed up. She pushes the sleeves up so they’re bunched around her wrists and grins. “I’ll bring it back to you tomorrow.”
“No rush. I’ve got plenty.”
“Bye.”
I watch as she makes her way down the stairs and out through the front door of the lodge and close the door behind her so I don’t worry about Brody walking over to the stairs and falling down.
I don’t remember the last time someone other than family was in my home. Certainly, no women aside from the cleaning people who take care of the cabins and help me out a few times during the busy summer months. And that goodbye. Are they always that awkward?
Noise behind me reminds me that I’m not alone and the babies need attention. Which is good. This way I won’t dwell on the fact that my new guest is incredibly sexy with the voice of an angel.
Chapter Five
Cami
I stare down at my phone in my hand with a scowl that I hope can bore a hole into the phone screen. It would be great if I got that super power right now. Laser shooting eyes. I narrow my blue eyes and concentrate really hard, like I’m a four-year-old determined to will it to happen.
What an ass.
I mean, seriously. What. An. Ass!
My voice drops and I mutter, “Can you put some money in my account?”
I can’t believe he had the balls to just text me that! When it came through this afternoon before Owen went to get my car and move it for me, I almost went into hysterical laughter.
What am I? His mother?
That’s who he should ask. His mother who catered to his every whim our entire marriage.
“I’m hungry for beef stroganoff, Mom. Can you drive the three hours to get here to make it for me? No one cooks the noodles quite like you. Oh, and while you’re here, wipe my ass, too.”
“I’ll be right there, honey.”
It might not have been to the point of her wiping his ass, but it was pretty out of control, her need to coddle and watch over him every second. And her jumping in a car and driving hours to get to our house just to make him a meal is unfortunately true also. And a bonus: while she was in our home, I was lucky enough to be ridiculed by my lack of kitchen skills (which is a lie) and the fact that I don’t cater to my husband (my eyes nearly got stuck in the top of my head from my eye roll) and… not even kidding here… if he cheated on me with a woman who made him more home cooked meals, I shouldn’t blame him. I’ll never forget the smirk he threw my way or how he hugged his mom and reminded her that she was the best woman he’d ever known. How I stayed married to that immature asshole for as many years as I did is a freaking miracle.
No.
Miracle is absolutely the wrong term.
Idiotic.
Stupid.
Foolish.
Asinine.
I bet if I pulled out my thesaurus I’d find a few other words that work, too.
The hysterical laughter after reading that text quickly faded into a range of emotions that settled pretty strongly on sadness. Not because I missed him. Oh, heck no. But because I am pitying myself. Not something I like to feel, honestly.
Self-pity might be the worst.
It’s a hard pill to swallow that I’m currently in the middle of nowhere feeling sorry for myself. What kind of loser am I? No. I’m not a loser. He is.
“Great. Now I’m arguing with myself,” I mutter as I change all the sheets on the bed. It’s just a thing I have about beds. When I was little, my parents went on vacation and came home with a stow away. Bed bugs. It was horrible and awful – everything you would imagine having bed bugs in your home would be.
Ever since then, I have always brought a change of sheets to hotels. And then throw away the sheets like a weirdo because I can’t bring them back into my home.
Just one of the many things that Scott said made me pretty much unlovable. My family always told me my quirks were endearing. Scott said they were annoying.
By the time I signed my divorce papers, I realized I couldn’t let Scott’s opinion of me bring me down. I am who I am. I’m soft spoken and don’t like crowds. I like to eat Chinese food for breakfast and separate the colors of my M&M’s and eat them in the order of the rainbow. I collect ball caps but rarely wear them and can’t go to sleep unless I’ve walked the house and checked the locks five times. I swipe Chapstick on my lips a minimum of fourteen times a day because I hate the feeling of dry lips, I can’t drink out of plastic cups – glass only, unless it’s the absolute only option – and I have a ridiculous addiction to soda. And that’s just the beginning of the list that Scott kept of how I annoyed him on a daily basis.
Some of these quirks could be considered OCD, but it’s what makes me who I am and I’ll no longer be apologetic for it.
As soon as I get the sheets replaced and smoothed out, I dig my phone out of my back pocket and stare at the screen. I have a choice. No one would blame me if I don’t reply to him. Partly because he would be the only one who would know. I doubt if he’s advertising the fact that he has no money without me handing it over to him.
But I’m curious. When we divorced, there was a settlement. I know how much money he had when we parted so I’m confused as to why he would need anything from me. He’s too much of an idiot to think about using a different password than the one we had when we were married so I’m able to log in to the bank information and snoop.
“What the hell?” I don’t even mutter, I just shout it because that’s what you do when you discover your husband — excuse me, ex, thank goodness — has been spending insane amounts of money on porn sites and… wait for it… male escort services.
How do I know what these discreet charges are actually for? Because in a book I wrote a few years ago, I researched how charges such as these would show up in bank statements — not because I have personal experience. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’ve ventured onto a porn site myself a time or twelve. That’s not the point. I use the free sites like a civilized human. I don’t rack up thousands of dollars using the services.
And what the heck is up with the male escort services? Is he… gay?
Oh.
My.
Gosh.
My ex-husband is gay. Or bisexual. Or just curious?
I’m not judging. Obviously. But I was married to this guy for eight years.
I narrow my eyes when I realize that I was misreading the transactions list.
Those male escort services aren’t charges. They
’re deposits.
“Holy shit! He’s a hooker?!”
I mean… first of all. He’s making bank. I should be the one who got money from him. But then why is he needing money from me? Because from what I see here, he’s doing pretty fucking well for himself.
Second of all. Gross. He’s not… well, my first thought is he’s not Owen and that’s just weird because I’ve known the guy all of two seconds and to think of him as this sexy beast of a man who’d make a better living as a male escort as my ex-husband would.
And I really, really need to stop thinking of the words male escort because it’s just weird — especially in conjunction with Scott. But seriously, he’s not great looking. Doesn’t have that rocking bod that I think of when I think of an escort. Not that I think of it.
I slam my phone down on the table and walk out onto the deck. Stand out here for a second then storm back inside to wrap myself in a blanket, pour a glass of wine, chug it down, pour another and push back through the door.
I’m shook.
How long has this been going on?
Why is he doing this?
Is he sleeping with these women or men who hire him to escort them?
How did this start?
Oh my gosh. Was he doing this while he was married to me? I’m so glad I was asked my doctor to test me for STD’s during my last physical. I take a large swallow of wine wishing it was something much harder. Like tequila. Or a horse tranquilizer that would just knock me out and make me forget the past eight years.
“How fucking long has my ex-husband been a hooker?” My voice carries over the quiet of the lake, echoing off the pine trees surrounding us. I wince and shrink down onto one of the deck chairs, looking around to make sure no one heard. Even though the only one around would be Owen and the kids. And that squirrel who’s currently staring at me from a tree trunk. Judging. Don’t worry, squirrel. It’s nothing I haven’t thought about myself.
How is this my life? I really don’t understand. It’s not normal, right? To be with a man for over a decade and find out he’s a male escort. It’s laughable, really.
I finish off my wine and scowl at the bottom of the empty glass. I’m comfortable and cozy in the bright red painted Adirondack chair covered up by my blanket and frankly don’t want to move. But when shit like this goes down in your life, wine is necessary. If nothing else, just because it tastes good and warms my belly and helps me feel sleepy.
I groan and push out of the chair, go inside and refill my glass, to the brim this time because I’ve learned my lesson (and it polished off the rest of the bottle) and come back outside to settle back into the chair that I’m already plotting on how to steal when I leave here in six weeks. The sun is starting to set, which is something I haven’t watched in a really long time. Oranges and pinks light up the sky and shimmer across the lake. If I cared right at the moment, this is where I’d pull out my phone and let the world know that I’m watching the sun set and it’s beautiful and majestic and reminds me of something I’d see on a postcard. Or, you know, an Instagram story. #sunset #itsbeautiful #nofilter #ilovetodocumentmylifebutimbeginningtothinknoonecares
That last one might be a little confusing but it’s also entirely accurate.
The problem with my career is that it’s based solely on what other people think of me and I’m a pleaser. I want to write the books that everyone is talking about because I want to reach their hearts. Put me on their Top 5 author list. When I was growing up, stealing my mom’s Johanna Lindsey and Nora Roberts books and hiding under my blankets with a flashlight reading until well after my bedtime, I dreamed of one day penning stories that would stand the test of time like theirs. I wanted to be the one whose reader had a daughter secretly hiding away to read her books. I wanted to be a household name for romance books. Oh, my mom is reading another Camilla Moore book again, the daughter would roll her eyes all while plotting on how to snag the copy for herself. Not because of the glory or money or fame. Because I had fantasies to share and love stories that were itching to get out of me and onto the pages. But somewhere along the way, I lost the love for it. I forgot why I fell in love with writing in the first place.
Sure, I could blame it on a lot of things but the truth of it is, I shifted my focus and I suffered for it. I forgot that the thing I love most is writing about a man and woman falling in love with each other. How they may have been scorned once or twice before, or maybe they fell in love so long ago and were separated only to come back together for a second chance.
I fell in love with writing because of what I’m staring at right now. Inspiration. The story behind the gorgeous sunset that was dropped to the earth and meant to fall in love watching. I close my eyes and can see it play out so vividly. A beautiful woman with long flowing brunette hair is standing along the shore and a handsome, strong man walks up behind her, wraps his arms around her so she feels safe and loved and wanted.
The man would then kiss her on the neck, whisper sweet nothings into her ear and she’d feel the words up and down her body. She’d shiver and he’d know it, smile against her skin.
She’d look just like me.
He’d look just like Owen.
And my eyes pop open, I sit up straight from the chair, push out of the stupid uncomfortable thing like my ass has Velcro stuck to the chair (which isn’t uncomfortable at all but it’s annoying me now because I realized I fell asleep in it).
Clearly, I need to get back to writing so I can stop fantasizing about the sexy resort owner who’s incredible with his niece and nephew and looks like a freaking lumberjack that could lift me up, drape me over his shoulder, and satisfy every last one of my wanton fantasies.
Is it hot out here?
No. Actually it’s about thirty degrees and I think it might be snowing.
It’s the wine.
And probably the dream I was just having.
Either way, I need to shut that shit down and open my laptop because I’m suddenly feeling very inspired.
Chapter Six
Cami
“You’re not answering my calls.”
“False. The fact that I’m talking to you right now is proof that you’re wrong and I am, in fact, answering your calls.” I almost pat myself on the back for that one.
“Don’t be a smart ass, Cami.”
“Well, it was a stupid sentence and it required a smart ass response. Now, what do you want?”
I can imagine him rolling his eyes and sneering at me. “You got my last few texts?”
I grin and look at myself closer in the mirror. My pores are too big but my stress acne that flared up a few weeks ago seems to be fading away. Thank goodness. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And what? You need money?”
“Yes, I need money! How do you expect me to get by!”
I barely hold back the snicker that’s trying to escape when I say, “Your clients aren’t tipping well? Paying you enough?”
I’m greeted with silence on the other end of the line and it makes me smile wider. I press the phone to my ear and turn my head so it’s wedged between my shoulder and face, pump a few squirts of face lotion on my palm, and rub it on my face.
“Did I lose ya?” I know damn good and well I didn’t lose him. He’s just shocked that I’d bring up his recent new career. “Cat got your tongue? Or has it been too busy lately as you work?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, cut the shit. You’re a male escort, Scott! What the hell!”
“I am not.”
I snort. Scoff. Make a big show of going “Ha! Ha. Ha. Ha. Hahahaha! Oh, you’re so funny I almost forgot to laugh. Didn’t you lie enough during our marriage? Just how long have you been selling yourself?”
“We’re divorced. What I do with my time is none of your business.”
“It is when you bring me into it, asking me for money.”
I flip off the light in the bathroom and go to the kitchen, pour myself a cup
of coffee and add in a splash of cream then grab my trusty blanket and go out onto the deck. It’s freezing out here but the second I woke up after the most refreshing night of sleep I’d had in years, I couldn’t wait to curl up and drink my coffee in my new favorite chair. Plus, I found a little space heater in the closet that will probably start the place on fire if I don’t keep a close watch but it’s emitting a lot of heat in the small space. I plugged it into an outlet right inside the cabin off the deck and turned it on to have it start heating the area right after I woke up.
I take a sip and hum, forgetting that Scott is on the other end of the phone pressed to my ear until I hear his huff of annoyance at being ignored.
“You’re heartless.”
“If me not giving you more money is heartless, then yup. I sure am.”
“You don’t even care that I’m living on the streets?”
I glare at the wall. “Oh, puhlease. You’re living at home with your parents again. I’m not a moron — I know this. And, apparently, at whatever hotel or woman’s home who hired you tells you to meet her at.”
“You seriously have no clue…”
“Shut up,” I interrupt with two words I hate when used together. Sighing, I say, “Just… stop. Unless you’re going to use that mouth to finally speak some truth, I don’t want to hear it.”
I watch as an eagle soars high above the lake and take another sip of my coffee, laying my head back against the chair. Majestic and graceful. Peaceful. Beautiful. I used to want to be a bird. Then I realized that they either ate worms or freshly killed animals and I changed my mind. But the flying part will always be fascinating to me.
“Just tell me one thing, Scott.”
“What’s that?”
“Do I need to be tested?” He doesn’t know I had my doctor run every test imaginable but this is my way of getting more information out of him.
Staying For You Page 5
