Page 7 of Best Part of Me

Maybe rescuing Camille Martin wasn’t such a good fucking idea. But when she hightailed it out of that vineyard, something clicked inside me. If she was leaving Chris at the altar, she had to have a damn good reason. An animalistic impulse overtook my body, and I acted without thinking.

Clearly.

As I drive the backroads with the iconic vineyard in my rearview and return to Maple Ridge, regret twists in my gut. Without feeling it or hearing it, I know Jones is blowing up my phone. Explanations of why I did what I did battle in my mind.

Shit. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him.

I’ve had a boner for Camille Martin for as long as I can remember. It started as an adolescent friendship, then grew into more. Being three years older, I’ve tried to protect Cammie since we were kids. But unlike Jones, it wasn’t an older-brother protectiveness.

Camille captivated me in a way no woman ever has. She can make anyone in a room feel like they’re the guest of honor. I could be having a shit day, and Cammie would find a way to have me not only smiling but laughing.

And don’t even get me fucking started on that body of hers.

Her decision to leave Chris at the altar gave me fresh hope I’d stuffed down years ago. And as she sits behind me, her arms clinging tighter around my waist and her thighs squeezing against me, it not only is making me hard, but it feels right. And even though this will be fleeting, I try to relish in this moment for as long as possible.

I pull my Harley into the first gas station I come to. My bike isn’t low on fuel, but I want to delay our destination. The only place I can think to take her is back to my apartment, but that feels like an obvious place for Jones to look. And after fifteen minutes of riding, maybe she’s having regrets and wants me to take her back.

“I need to get gas,” I holler over my shoulder before I turn the bike off. When I slide off the seat and head to the pump, I finally look at her. “You okay?”

She shakes her headnobut says, “Yeah.”

Her tone is jittery and her voice unsure.

It half kills me to ask the question, but I do anyway. “You want me to take you back?”

“What? No. I made my decision.”

The relief that inflates in my chest makes me feel like a prick. But the fucking truth to the matter is, I’ve never liked Chris. He’s always treated Cammie like shit and she deserves better.

I’m not better.

As much as it hurt, what Cammie said about me at her engagement party was the truth. I am a fuck-boy. Though I prefer the term fuck-man or playboy. Cammie needs a one woman man and hell if that aint me. Never say never, but the prognosis does not look good.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, the ability to feel it now that I’m off the bike. Anxiety burrows in my gut, but I tug my phone free and check the screen anyway. Jones. Fuck. I don’t answer and stuff my phone back into my pocket instead.

“Jones?” she asks.

I nod.

“You’re not gonna answer?”

“Not yet.” I shrug. “Any idea where you want me to take you?”

She opens her mouth then closes it, shaking her head as if she has something she wants to say but thinks better of it. “No. But I’m starving. I didn’t have a chance to eat anything before and just assumed I’d get something at the reception.”

My mind can hardly process any of her words after she says she’s starving. I imagine she’s starved of attention from a man. Maybe even starved of a fucking mind blown orgasm. Chris is a trust-fund little shit, and walks around like he’s got a stick up his ass. He’s probably someone who’s never had to work hard for anything in his life, so I can only assume he’s a lousy lover.

I’ve busted my ass for more years than I can count. Everything I own is the result of determination and perseverance. Nothing’s been dropped in my lap or come from pure luck. I’m the unluckiest son of a bitch I know.

I clear my throat. “I’ll run into the gas station and pick you up something.”

She doesn’t argue. Exhaustion smears her face. I don’t even want to try to empathize with what she’s going through and pretend I understand. I don’t. All I know is, it took a hell of a lot of courage to do what she did.

Inside the food mart, I pick up a couple of Lunchables, the “fresh” sandwiches looking like anything but. I go to the drink cooler and grab a bottle of water, Gatorade, and a six-pack of local beer. With the state Cammie’s in, I have no idea what she’s in the mood for.

Back at the bike, she’s on her phone. My heart slams against my ribcage. If she’s texting Jones, I’m screwed. My mind spirals, contemplating which direction I should speed out of here.

“Rosie,” she says by way of explanation, and my heart settles back in its place.

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