by Emma Tharp
He stares at me, silent and unmoving for a moment. “I assure you, you won’t have any regrets,” he says, his tone sheet-grabbingly sexy. It’s a promise. One I know he’ll make good on.
His gaze is almost predatory and for the first time since I’ve met the man, a thick sexual current prickles between us.
Swallowing hard, twice, I say, “Okay.”
“Good. We can discuss more details tomorrow.” He leans back in his chair. And suddenly, the power seems to swing back to Garrett.
“Sure,” is the last thing I say before going back to my desk. Sinking down in my chair, a shiver runs up my spine. Is it excitement or a warning? I don’t have the answer to that, but either way, things are going to change. And maybe that’s just what my life needs. A change.
Seven
Garrett
I'm going to wear a hole in the carpet of my office. Getting here early this morning, I'm finding it difficult to sit still. I barely slept last night, tossing and turning thanks to fitful dreams of this arrangement blowing up in my face, alternating with erotic dreams of all the things I want to do to Camille as soon as she's healed and the doctor gives us the okay.
It's still hard for me to believe that I actually propositioned a woman for a weekend away with me in exchange for money. And she didn’t slap me across the face, quit, and sue me for harassment. The events of yesterday don’t even seem real. Seeing Adriana with her round, pregnant belly—that I didn’t give her—started the downhill slide. And signing the divorce papers, making it all so final didn’t help. Donovan coming in here and claiming that I need to move on and sleep with a woman—and then bringing the possibility of Camille into focus was the catalyst for it all. And yet, even with my shrewd business acumen, I don’t know why I thought I could act the way I did with her yesterday—asking her to take off her glasses and let her hair down. And I wonder if on any other day I would’ve asked the unthinkable. Sex for one hundred thousand dollars.
What if she changes her mind?
Waiting for her to get here might just drive me crazy.
What is this woman doing to me? I need to chill the fuck out.
Last night while eating my sushi alone, I made lists and planned how this all is going to go down. As far as I'm concerned, one thing is obvious.
The office door swings open and as soon as my eyes land on Camille, I rush to her side. Her hair is slightly askew—some pieces have fallen out of her perfectly tight bun. "We need to go see your doctor," I blurt out.
Camille shakes her head, and wrinkles her forehead. "I'm sorry. What? Why?"
"So we can schedule the surgery. And I can pay." I attempt to act casual and lean against the doorway.
"Can I get in the door first?" She breezes past me, sets her large bag down on her desk, and sinks into her chair.
She’s clearly uncomfortable. I can't stand seeing her this way. "You seem winded. Is everything okay?"
Camille nods. "I'm okay. My car is in the shop so I have to take the subway and walk several blocks to get here. I woke up earlier than I normally do when my car is in working order to get here on time. You know I’m never late. That's all." She smooths her hair back and tucks a loose piece back into her bun.
Damn, this woman can't seem to catch a break. "And we’ll fix the car. What's wrong with it?" I ask.
"Pothole." She throws her hands in the air.
"So, doctor and the car. We’ll make them both happen. Rearrange my lunch if you have to. Or the afternoon. Whatever it takes." I clap my hands, turn, and go back into my office.
It's a good thing I'm wearing a black shirt today because if I weren’t everyone in the office would be able to tell that I've broken out in a cold sweat. How exactly is she so calm? I really need to get this planned so I can stop obsessively overthinking it.
There will be a recovery period. And also downtime from work. And it's the strangest thing; I can barely stand having her out of my sight. What the hell happened to me?
It's like someone flicked a switch in me and it just so happened to be the same day that my divorce was finalized. It's the only thing I can attribute it to. Or…
Rushing across my office, I shut the door between Camille and I and pull out my phone to call Donovan. "I hate you so much right now,” I grumble over the line.
"Why this time?" He makes an exaggerated yawn sound in my ear.
"Are you sleeping? Did I wake you at nine in the morning?" I've been up for hours now and clearly have had too much coffee, but this ticks me off.
"I'm not you, okay? I can't work like a dog. I'm not an all-work-and-no-play kind of guy. I'm more…all play and no work." He chuckles.
It isn’t true. He does work hard, and he’s very good at his job as an investment banker. He just has way more downtime than I do. It’s a small price to pay for owning a biopharmaceutical company whose flagship drug increased sales again last year and has a second drug that just passed FDA approval early this year. "And this is why you don't own a Caribbean island," I remind him.
"Newsflash. Not everyone wants one. I'm happy. I'm also sleepy. Remind me why you're bothering me right now?"
I pick up a pen and start tapping it on the desk. "Yeah. You planted a seed. And now I think I'm fucking obsessed with my personal assistant. I hope you're happy." I add extra emphasis on the last sentence.
"Ecstatic. Talk to you later." Then Donovan ends the call.
Why did I even bother wasting my time calling him? He and I are two different men. He's right. He is more play than work, and he’s always about dating a woman, partying with a woman, or hooking up with a woman. And what really gets me is his nonchalance and his endless optimism. He never seems to take life too seriously and even when the road takes a sharp turn, he seems to make it out unscarred.
The only thing that's going to help me get my mind off Camille is diving headfirst into work. I study some files and make a few business calls. I clear my unanswered emails and check my calendar. This day couldn't get anymore torturous. After closing the door during my conversation with Donovan, I decide to open it again, just a crack. Half an hour later, I casually open it a bit more. Finally, around eleven thirty in the morning, when I'd about decided to quit for the day, which I can do since I'm the boss, Camille knocks on my door.
"Yes?" I glance up from my desk, attempting to mimic my brother’s air of disinterest, but awareness of her tingles up the back of my spine.
She watches me, those green eyes sparkling in the daylight shining in through the windows. "I spoke to the doctor's office."
"And?" I start tapping my pen again.
"We can go see her in an hour. She’ll answer your questions. We’ll set the date. All the good stuff." She shrugs her shoulders and returns to her desk.
And for the first time since she walked into the building, I feel like I can breathe.
Eight
Camille
The edge of my thumbnail is nearly bleeding. I'd like to quit chewing on it, but it's the only relief I'm getting.
We’re taking Garrett's town car to my doctor’s appointment and the ride is painfully quiet.
I don't have it in me to try and make casual conversation. I really don't want to bring him to the doctor’s today. First, he seems too twitchy, which is mildly annoying. Second, I'm still paranoid about what they're going to find when they cut me open and biopsy the cyst.
Last night, I settled into the idea that taking Garrett up on his offer is the best way for me to get my surgery and fix my finances. Get ahead, even. I’ve made peace with my decision and refuse to feel guilt for it. And other than some harmless, consensual sex, there is nothing he really gets out of this. He's stunningly handsome, successful, and deep down a good man. I'm not sure why he isn't just picking up the pieces after his divorce and moving on to find a suitable woman to replace his ex.
The driver drops us out front of the office and before I can open my door, Garrett is there getting it for me. “Thanks,” I say and lead the way.
&nbs
p; There’s a couple walking in front of us; they’re holding hands and she’s pregnant. It’s hard for me not to focus on the stark contrast that is Garrett Monroe and myself. He’s my boss, who’s paying me to have sex with him, so I can have surgery to remove a cyst.
Once inside, instead of getting called back to an exam table, this time we sit across the desk from Dr. Lin.
My toe taps a steady rhythm on the carpeted floor while my heart races in my chest and a thin layer of sweat forms on my palms. All I want to do is get this over with.
"How soon can you get her in?" Garrett asks the question as Dr. Lin is just taking her seat. He's sitting up straight and he's all business. Somehow now, in front of Dr. Lin, he's calmed down and pulled himself together. This relaxes me, even if only for a little bit.
She folds her hands in front of her. "I don't do scheduling. Someone can call you about that."
“Okay, and will she be all right?” he asks, his tone somber.
“We’ll know more about her prognosis once we send samples to pathology.” Her voice is even and steady.
"I want this done as soon as possible. Have you seen the size of it? She has to be uncomfortable. I want her to be able to get on with her life." There's impatience in his voice and he blows out a long breath.
The way he asks the questions, and how his fingers restlessly tap on his leg, the crease in his forehead, it all shows his level of concern for me and it fills me with gratitude.
"There will be downtime. Six weeks. Limitations." The doctor looks at Garrett pointedly. "No sex until her six-week post-op visit and only after I clear her."
Garrett and I exchange a quick glance and try to act like that was the last thing on our minds.
"Right. Any other questions?" Dr. Lin asks.
"No," I say. "I think that's everything."
Garrett doesn’t say anything, he just glides his finger along the edge of my hand. It’s the slightest touch, but electric nonetheless. A surge of energy glides up my arm and courses through my body, landing at a spot between my legs. I shift in my chair to dull it.
Dr. Lin makes to stand up. "You can talk to my scheduler on the way out. Otherwise, she'll reach out as soon as she has a date and time set up."
We proceed to exit the office. "She seems nice," Garrett murmurs.
I giggle at his joke. "She is very serious. That's all. What really matters is she's an excellent surgeon."
"Good. You’re right. Let's get this scheduled." Garrett takes a deep breath as we step up to the checkout area. "We have a spot reserved for you,” the woman behind the desk announces. "We were ready to schedule you yesterday. We were just waiting for the call from you.”
"We're here today," Garrett says. "Let's make this happen."
The surgery is scheduled for the very next day. This almost never happens, but there was a cancellation.
Garrett hands over a black credit card and secures the time. We are given the instructions and told I need to be at the hospital at six a.m.
On the way back to the office, I read out the key points from the pre-op instruction sheet to Garrett. No solids after midnight. No liquids after three in the morning. The surgery will be at eight a.m. After, I'll need to take special care. No baths. No heavy lifting. Don't be afraid to take pain meds. I can return to work when I'm ready, but preferably not for at least forty-eight hours.
Garrett nods. "You're going to take off as much time as you need. No pressure to come back sooner than you're ready. Do you have anyone to stay with you after the surgery?"
Something in his tone and his concern for me begins to melt my frozen heart. It’s been this way since my ex cheated on me and we broke up, years ago. Before I can stop it, my bottom lip begins to tremble. All I can do is shake my head.
He moves in closer and rests his hand on my knee. "Do you have anyone to take you to the hospital or pick you up?"
I shake my head again. My best friend Lucy lives in Columbus, Ohio, now after taking a job. She’d have driven me, but now, I have no one to ask.
"I see." He nods "Well, it seems like we need to go to your place."
My eyes widen and my stomach sinks. "My cyst. I thought…"
Garrett frowns. "I don't know what you're thinking, but you're moving in with me. I will get you to the hospital. I'll pick you up. And I'll take care of you until you're strong enough to stay alone. At least forty-eight hours. Got it?" There's a finality to his voice I’ve heard in the office, and I know there's no arguing with him.
Nine
Garrett
My mind is working in overdrive. It's not unusual for me, but it's typically about work, not about a woman. Especially since I was married.
If things go as planned, Camille won’t go home until after our arrangement is over. It's my selfish hope, anyway.
This woman has been invaluable to me in my office for the last two years. Loyal, on time, hard-working, and always maintaining the best attitude. And now, taking the time to really see her, my eyes have opened to her as a real possibility as something more. It sounds crazy to my own ears, yet it's my reality now.
My driver takes us to her apartment so she can pack a few bags. It's in an unsavory neighborhood in town and when we walk to the door and she swings it open, I see that she wasn’t kidding when she told me it’s small.
"Should I wait in the hall?" I ask.
Her face pinches up in a frown. "Why would you do that?"
"I'm not sure we can both fit in there." I hope that she'll laugh at my joke. It’d be nice if she'd loosen up, but at the moment she seems to have lost her sense of humor.
Inside, her apartment is neat and clean. I'd expect nothing less, since her habits at work are always organized and concise. It's a studio with the bed, a small kitchen area, and a bathroom in the corner. Even with its size and location, she still pays a pretty penny to live in Manhattan. Rent here is astronomical.
She pulls a bag out from underneath her bed and packs some clothing and goes into the bathroom for her toiletries. In record time, she comes out and slings the bag over her shoulder.
Putting my arm out in front of her, I say, "Let me take that."
"I've got it.” It's beyond me why this woman has to be so stubborn.
"I insist. If I take it, it won't bother your cyst."
“You do realize that I’ve been carrying my own bag to work every day. It weighs the same as this and it’s no big deal,” she huffs.
“Camille, I want to. Please.” I soften my tone. This woman is going to take some time to figure out. She reluctantly hands me the bag. It isn't too heavy, but she doesn't need to lift anything when I’m here. Hopefully soon she will accept my help when I offer it.
"Do you need anything else?"
She scans her tiny space and shakes her head. "No, I think I'm all set."
The ride from her apartment to my penthouse passes in silence. I don't know what to say to her as we drive from block to block, leaving behind the smaller and rent-subsidized apartments toward the more affluent neighborhoods. When the driver parks in front of my building, I can't help but notice Camille's face. Her jaw is slack as she takes in the view.
Grabbing her bag, I lead her inside, past my doorman—the new doorman. I give him her name and tell him that she will be staying with me indefinitely. He nods and tells us he will make note of it.
The entire elevator ride up to my penthouse, she won't look at me. I'm sure she's in shock. This building is a far cry from hers. We had to go up six flights of stairs because there wasn't an elevator at her place. Here, there isn't the musty smell that made me think of mold and old garbage.
Outside my penthouse, I key in the code as I tell her what it is. Opening the door for her, I let her walk in first. She makes her way over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. It's exactly what I did when I bought the place. I have stunning views overlooking Central Park.
"It's beautiful here," she says, her back to me.
Setting her bag down, I stand next to her. "I never t
ake this for granted." Never. My father was a hard-ass, but he instilled in me a rock-solid work ethic. And I’ve built my business from the ground up.
She finally looks at me, her eyes full of wonder. "That's good. You shouldn't. You saw where I live."
I have an overwhelming urge to comfort her. To put my arm around her. I don't. “We all do the best we can.”
"I see you're back, Mr. Monroe. Do you need anything?" Eloise, my housekeeper, strides into the room.
Camille and I turn around to face her. "Camille, this is my housekeeper and cook, Eloise. And, Eloise, this is the woman I told you about, Camille. Anything she needs, please take care of her."
Eloise nods and bows her head slightly. "Nice to meet you, Miss Camille. Can I make you some food? Or a cup of tea?"
"Good to meet you, too. I am okay for now. Thank you," Camille says.
Eloise nods and leaves the room.
Camille fiddles with the necklace around her neck. "Will you be taking me back to the office now? I have a lot of work that I'd like to finish before I leave you high and dry for two days."
"Everything can wait." I want her to relax before her surgery. I'm sure she's going to need all of her strength to recover.
She lets out a nervous laugh. "I don't know how to relax."
"I figured as much. But I've already planned for this. Everything will be taken care of." I stare at her beautiful face. "Everything."
She swallows hard and scans my face. This woman is a mystery to me. I wonder what she's thinking. "Okay."
"I'll show you to your room now. You can get settled and rest if you want. Like I said, Eloise will help you with anything that you might need and I will be down the hall in my home office. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything from me." We make our way down the hall and I show her to the guest suite.
The room is spacious and larger than her entire apartment. There are two large windows with the same view as my living room. A king-size bed, a small office area, and its own bathroom. I set her bag down on the bed. "Make yourself at home."
