by JC Harroway
In some ways he’s a conundrum, in others an uncomplicated man—no agenda, what you see is what you get.
What am I doing with him and why do I feel as if I’m in over my head when this was my idea?
My phone pings for the umpteenth time and I pull it from my pocket with a sigh of regret that I have to look away from Cam’s sexy show-and-tell.
It’s from my number two back in Sydney. I quickly scan the message, my equilibrium returning at the good news. The lawyers have finished with the paperwork, and the Jensen’s deal snatched from under the nose of my father has hit the international financial headlines, the ripple effect so predictable, I can almost see the zeroes at the end of my net worth multiplying. The kick of satisfaction I always feel at a job well done is there, but today it’s muted, its potency somehow diminished, as if making money, being the best, proving I, a mere woman, can do anything my brother and father can, no longer holds the same all-consuming appeal.
Perhaps the news would taste sweeter if shared. Perhaps the shine of my success would return if I had some of Cam’s balance. Perhaps he’s right about me, after all—I don’t know how to have fun...
My head jerks up from the screen of my phone in search of him, my good-luck charm. He’s striding my way with a Jack Russell in tow. The dog has abandoned the ball and seems content to simply follow him to the ends of the earth.
I swallow hard. I know that feeling. It’s the same feeling—dangerous and terrifying—that I get when I open my eyes and find him asleep next to me in the morning.
Cam sits opposite me at the rough wooden table and the dog settles at his feet. ‘I’m sorry I’m neglecting you. I got carried away. Some cowboy builder has left the sheds half built and they’re not sure if he’s going to come back to finish them.’ He spots my phone. ‘Is it work? Do you need me to take you back into the city?’
I shove my phone away and try not to focus on the attention Cam lavishes on the delighted Jack Russell’s ear rub.
Nice one, Orla. Jealous of a dog.
‘No, I’m sorry—breaking news in the financial world—money never sleeps.’ My attempt at humour, designed to cover my embarrassment that I can’t even enjoy half an hour off to be in the moment, falls flat and a chasm opens up between us across the scarred and weathered tabletop.
His quiet scrutiny makes me wince, not that he’s judging, but I see acute awareness in his intelligent eyes. He sees me all too thoroughly. And even before he asks, I know his question is coming.
‘Can I ask you a personal question? I know we’ve avoided too many details up to now, but I’m...curious.’
As if sensing the tension radiating from us, my own new doggy friend curls up against my foot and promptly closes her eyes, as if all she’s needed this whole time was a warm leg to lean up against while she sleeps.
‘Sure, although I reserve the right to not answer.’ I keep my voice light-hearted, although my tummy is tight with nerves for what he might ask and, worse, for what I might expose.
One of his big hands stretches across the table and covers my hand, his thumb rubbing back and forth over my knuckles, and I want to curl into him and admit that, just like these dogs, I’m a little lost and in need of a new direction.
But he’s not my rock. I don’t need a rock. He’s not even my boyfriend. I’m just using him for sex.
I shudder inside—I can almost see the grins on the faces of my married girlfriends, hear the cackles of excitement over cocktails and the names they would bandy about if they could see me now—toy boy, man toy, cougar. A protective streak slices through me, even as the words it’s not like that ring hollow in my head. Because it is like that—that’s what I wanted. Sex on tap. No feelings. No personal details. No consequences.
Was I naive, or just deluding myself, because sex, even sex as hot and liberating as the sex I share with Cam, is bound to come with consequences? And they’ve already begun. I feel it. He’s changing me. Just by knowing him I’m different, more open to new experiences, wanting to challenge myself and emulate the person I’m beginning to admire.
‘I just wondered why.’ Cam’s voice is low, gentle, as if he doesn’t want to spook the slumbering dogs. Or perhaps he’s worried about spooking me.
‘Why what?’
‘Why you work so hard. Why you put in the hours you do. The travel, the lack of sleep. I...’ He looks down at the table as if embarrassed. ‘I looked you up on the internet. I wanted to know more about you without prying into personal stuff.’
‘And what did you discover?’ I’ve been tempted to do the same myself and research him, only every time I open my laptop, work snatches my attention.
‘That you’re worth a fortune. That you probably don’t need to work ever again,’ he says.
‘Just like you, then.’ I wince, scrunch my eyes closed for a second to block out the wounded look on his face, because I already know that was a low blow. He told me it was complicated. He told me his inheritance came with conditions and I know he’s come from a very different background.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that.’ I try to lift the atmosphere I’ve created with levity. ‘I was kind of hoping you hadn’t noticed that I get up in the early hours to work.’ I stroke the dog’s silky head as I formulate my answer, because for once it doesn’t come easily. Cam wants the real answer, not the throwaway flippant version that rolls off the tongue.
No, it’s not a crime to be driven. But that’s not what he’s asking. He wants to know the motivation behind my success beyond wealth and status and security, and that’s harder to define or admit, especially when examining too closely what pushes me to be where I am brings up painful emotions.
‘I’ve always worked hard, just like you.’ I turn his hand over and rub at the calluses across his palm. He looks up from our hands, answering my smile with a watery one of his own.
He wants more. And, while it’s not what we’re about, I can’t help but give him a piece of myself I don’t normally share. With anyone. He’s given me so much—his time, his generosity, his joie de vivre. It’s as if his energy is contagious.
‘When I joined my father’s firm after university I felt like I’d found my niche. The work was exciting and everything I wanted in a career, but it was never about the money. I was lucky. I’ve always had a privileged life. But my father is old school. When he talked about succession planning I felt confident I’d be the next CEO. I’m the eldest. I worked hard for him for five years.’
I look away, watch the dogs roam and sniff, the remembered betrayal tightening my throat. ‘When he overlooked me in favour of my younger brother I realised I had no choice but to leave and start my own firm from scratch. Ever since then, I’ve put in the hours, but the difference is I’m doing it for myself.’
It sounds so shallow, so single-minded, that a new wave of defensiveness courses though me, although he’s in no way attacking, just asking in his gentle, insightful way. But I rear back from the vulnerable place I’ve exposed with my confession, bringing my motivations back to general rather than personal drivers. ‘And it’s a competitive field—I didn’t get to the top without working harder and longer than anyone else.’ I shrug. ‘Some sacrifices are inevitable.’
He nods, his mouth a flat line, and even though he’s still I sense the tension coiling in him. His thumb resumes its hypnotic swiping. ‘You mentioned you’re divorced. Was your marriage one of those sacrifices?’ There’s no censure in his expression, but his eyes are hard and the reminder of my failure forces heat to my face.
‘For my part, I rushed into that marriage without loving Mark. For his part, Mark thought he was fully evolved, but at the end of the day he didn’t want a wife who worked as much as he did, and I can’t say I blame him. I guess he expected I’d change after the honeymoon. Perhaps he wanted his shirts laundered and a prop on his arm to make him look good.’
‘Don’t you know?
Didn’t you ask?’
I swallow hard, admitting, not for the first time, that my emotional distance, a trait I learned from a lifetime of trying to meet my father’s standards, likely contributed to the breakdown of my marriage. ‘No, I guess I wasn’t any good at being the kind of wife he needed.’
Cam’s fingers flex into mine in silent support. ‘Couldn’t he launder his own shirts?’
I shrug and laugh at the image of my ex working a washing machine or an iron. ‘He’s happily remarried now.’ I swallow hard, old bitterness foul-tasting. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so caught up in proving my worth to my father, in trying to project an image of having it all, I might have evaluated my relationship with Mark more thoroughly. ‘I’m happy with my decision. He’s happier married to someone else. And I learned a valuable lesson—I’m good at what I do. That’s nothing to be apologetic for.’
‘Absolutely not. Mark sounds like an asshole who didn’t know what he had, if you don’t mind my saying.’ He smiles that secret smile he uses in the bedroom, the one that makes me forget I’m older than him.
‘Thanks, but I played my part. I’m sure I wasn’t easy to be married to. You said yourself, I’m always working.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’re not working now, and it sounds like he had expectations you had no desire to fulfil—good on you. You’re a person, not a puppet. No one likes to feel they’re being controlled.’ He’s more animated now, his eyes ablaze with defiance, as if my confession has pricked some wound inside him. Easygoing, carefree Cam has his own demons.
Who doesn’t?
‘You were probably that way when he met you, right?’
I nod.
‘So he was arrogant enough to want to change you, to squeeze you into some mould, to try to make you perform to his expectations.’
‘I guess, although I have to take my share of the responsibility—I’m pretty stubborn. As you’ve witnessed, I push myself hard, without compromise, something I learned from my upbringing. And at the end of the day, marriages—the ones that last—are about compromise. I guess Mark and I both failed. If you know anything about me already, it’s that failure doesn’t sit well with me, which is why I’m single. That’s why what we’re doing suits me perfectly—we get all the good bits of a relationship like spending time together, having fun, amazing sex, without all the heavy stuff.’
‘Lucky me,’ he says with a wink, and I know he’s letting me off the hook. That my confession is enough to satisfy his curiosity about the woman he’s sharing a bed with, for now.
‘Lucky me, too.’ I look down at our hands, moved by his solid, refreshing presence in my life, albeit temporarily. I want him to know that I appreciate him and everything he does to enrich our time together, even if I’m not always present in the moment.
‘Thanks for this. The dogs. For taking the time to organise everything—the clothes, the opera, the skiing.’
‘Wait until you see what I have planned for Dubai.’ He winks.
‘I’m serious, Cam—thanks for bringing me here. You were right. It was just what I needed.’ I bend down to stroke the coat of the sleeping beagle cross, wishing I could take her home, to a home I’m hardly ever at myself.
‘Want to go back to the hotel and remind ourselves how clever we are to have come up with such a perfect situation?’ I ask, shying away from pressing him for his own secrets, telling myself that, despite my confession, this is still about sex.
‘Absolutely. Sounds like the next best plan short of adopting all these dogs and transporting them home to Sydney in the jet.’ He grins and tugs me to my feet, slipping his hand into the pocket over my ass as we head inside, a trail of dogs in pursuit.
I laugh nervously. Knowing Cam, he just might do something that awesome.
CHAPTER SIX
Cam
I LOOSEN THE bow tie around my throat and roll up my shirtsleeves. I went all out tonight with the full tux. For Orla. I reserved the M Club box at the Zurich Opera House, and just as I predicted she looked sensational in the green beaded gown, so I felt compelled to play my part, even if it meant dressing like a trussed-up penguin.
I pour a glass of chilled white wine and loosen the top few buttons of my shirt, tempted to strip off completely and join her in the bath. But she looks beat. Perhaps I’m pushing the after-work agenda too hard. Now I understand why she’s as driven as she is, everything makes sense. She pushes herself, almost as if she still has something to prove to her traditional father and perhaps even her ex-husband. Neither of whom seem to have any concept of her true worth.
She made light of it but she’s proud. I understand the emotion. Her failed marriage bothers her, not for the man himself, but in the sense that she sees it as a black mark on her track record, perhaps even uses it as a reason to avoid getting involved in another relationship.
Not that I should care outside of the fact some asshole might have hurt her, although it seems I need look no further than her own father to find the source of that damage. Who behaves that way in this day and age? Fuck, I thought my father was bad, but at least he simply took off. At least he didn’t stick around to inflict daily damage on my self-esteem. At least I don’t have to prove a damn thing to the man.
Of course she’s driven by success, of course she needs the success. Somehow it’s all tied up in her self-validation. But to what degree? Could she loosen the reins, live a more balanced life and still be herself?
I scrub a hand through my hair, gutted that my instincts about her, about our differences, were spot-on the money. I proved myself correct at the dog sanctuary. I’d expected her to be more delighted. Of course, she embraced the visit, even hefting in a sack of dog food like it weighed no more than the designer handbags she loves. But I spied the sneaky looks at her phone, the way she checked her watch as if she had somewhere else to be. She couldn’t relax, couldn’t take off her CEO hat for even a couple of hours.
Not that it should matter. I should focus on the end game, focus on the trip we’re taking together, focus on having a good time at my father’s expense. Isn’t that why I agreed to come along for the ride?
But my aimless bender no longer holds the same appeal, not now I’ve met Orla.
I snag a beer for myself and return to the bathroom with her glass of wine, my own personal dilemmas tucked neatly away behind my smile. Orla looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her, and I suffer a sharp pang of regret at how hard I pushed her to divulge personal details earlier, especially when I’m such a closed book, literally changing the subject every time she probes a bit too close.
I place the glass on the side of the bath and pull up a chair, taking a long draw of my ice-cold beer.
‘Cam, stop spoiling me. I might get used to it and chain you to my bedpost.’
I grin—I wouldn’t put it past her. At least we work sexually. No problems on that score.
‘I wouldn’t complain, as long as I get to see this sensational body naked every day.’
Without moving from her relaxed wallow, she holds out her hand for my beer. I hand it over, my eyebrows raised in mock censure. She’s taken to stealing a sip every time I open a bottle.
‘What?’ she asks, tilting the bottle to her pursed lips for a swallow. ‘I’m just trying them out until I find one I love. Don’t be stingy.’ She takes a second swallow and hands the beer back with a contented sigh.
I grin, my insides on fire for her and the way she makes me feel, like the best version of myself. ‘I don’t care. You can drink all my beer. It’s just...funny.’ Funny, sexy, comfortable. ‘Who’d have thought when we met in that casino that the stunning, classy woman drinking single malt alone would like a regular old beer in the bath?’
‘You should never judge a book by its cover, Cam. Haven’t I proved there’s more to me than the uptight princess I know you had me pegged for the first time we met?’
I laug
h, heat for her burning out of control. She gets me as much as I get her. I want to be a better man when I’m around her. I want us to fit outside the bedroom. But could we? Seriously?
I place the beer bottle on the floor. ‘Drink your wine, princess.’ I wink, trailing one hand along her soapy thigh, down her slender calf. At her soft sigh, I lift her foot from below the surface of the water so I can press my thumbs into the sole of her foot, one after another in a slow, rhythmic massage, because I want to touch her. All the time.
Her head lolls back on the edge of the bath, and her toes curl. ‘Mmm...you are so good at that—another skill to add to the list. Is there nothing you can’t do?’ she says without opening her eyes.
‘I feel the same way about you.’ Having her by my side, persuading her to travel in style and play hard, and the way she’s embracing the sexual adventure too—we understand each other. Just her presence makes me feel like I’ll figure out my own dilemma over the money. Like it’s not as big a deal as I’d fanned it up to be. Like anything is possible.
The pretty constant resentment and bitterness I’ve had since the summons to the solicitor’s office back in Sydney wanes. If only I could bottle the Orla feeling.
‘A good foot massage will help you sleep,’ I say, my mouth twitching because I know as soon as she leaves this bath I’m getting lucky, despite her long day. When we returned from the dog shelter she was visibly deflated to find all the purchases I’d made, including the intimate M Club gift, cleared away, out of sight. She mentioned twice at the opera that I’d promised her a reward for her patience. She’s so fully embracing her sexually adventurous side; I wanted to strip her there and then. But I promised her a night at the opera and a relaxing bath, and I’m a man of my word.
She looks up, her eyelids heavy but in that turned-on way that tells me she has other plans before sleep. ‘What if I’m not tired? What if I feel like squeezing a little more enjoyment out of the day?’
