Page 6 of Freeing Camila

“I’m currently looking for a job so . . .” She let the sentence trail off, unsure where she wanted to go with it. It seemed preposterous, almost laughable, to ask him if he knew of any job openings.

“What do you do?”

Oh. That question had her suddenly stymied. Whatdidshe do? She’d never had a job while she’d lived with her father. At least not a paying one. She’d been her father’s maid, cook, and slave—a life of drudgery and servitude—without a moment’s peace until the day she wasn’t. With a determined shake of her head, she pushed aside those thoughts and focused on his question.

Her interest in coffee was merely a hobby. She’d never made a living off of the pursuit of the perfect brew, so she was unsure how to answer his question honestly. She settled on, “Barista,” the lie tasting as bitter as coffee on her tongue.

He was quiet for a moment and Cammie thought that was the end to their conversation, but then he said, “There is a bakery in town. The pastries are good, but the coffee is shit. Owner might be hiring.”

His offhand suggestion completely took her by surprise, leaving her momentarily speechless. “Um . . . okay. I’ll have to check it out.”

As they arrived at the parking lot, Wade guided her towards an enormous truck, the sheer size of which prompted a burst of laughter from her. “Overcompensating for something?”

A barely perceptible twitch played at the corners of his lips. “Trust me, sprite. I don’t need to overcompensate for anything.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, a burning red spreading across her skin like wildfire. “Okay, then,” she muttered with a sudden desire to check the validity of his statement.

As he opened the back door and leaned in, she caught a glimpse of a spark in his eye and a slight grin, a subtle clue that suggested he was aware of the direction of her thoughts. She believed that the mortifying experience of being stuck in a tree represented the absolute pinnacle of her embarrassing moments, a high point of humiliation. Clearly, the day promised a wealth of cringe-worthy situations yet to unfold, each one including a fresh wave of awkwardness.

This current state of affairs did not reflect her true abilities; she was capable of so much more. She knew that. It was time to stop letting these little annoyances, these minor indignities, chip away at her peace of mind. She had escaped a harrowing future, a terrifying ordeal that had tested her strength and resilience, and she knew, beyond any doubt, that she was a capable and strong woman who now possessed the freedom to chart her own course in life.

With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and willed the redness in her cheeks to dissipate. Believing she had triumphed, her moment of victory was short-lived as Wade, his deep voice a commanding rumble that sent a shiver down her spine, approached, first-aid kit in hand, and uttered the words, “Turn around and lift your shirt.”

Yep. Those words, like a spark igniting tinder, set her mind ablaze with a whirlwind of fantasies, each more vivid and tempting than the last. The central theme mostly involving him and a bed.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't realize how long she had been standing there until she felt a touch on her shoulders, a gentle nudge that prompted her to turn around. She was beginning to despise that irritating little twitch at the corner of his mouth, a quick flicker she only noticed in the periphery. And only during her humiliating moments. So much for her self-image as a strong, capable woman.

His fingers brushed lightly against her lower back, sending shivers down her spine before warm air caressed her bare skin as he lifted her shirt, revealing the long, angry scratch. “Hold this up,” he ordered.

Cammie tightened her elbows and held the shirt up just below her breasts and waited. Only when the alcohol wipe made sharp contact with her skin did she realize she’d been holding her breath; the sudden, chilling sensation causing a startled exhale. Against her flushed skin, the wipe offered a welcome chill. Yet, as his fingers grazed her skin, a spark ignited, spreading like wildfire, leaving goosebumps and a feeling of intense heat in its wake.

Jiminy. What was that? She’d never felt such a profound, almost overwhelming sensation from another person's touch before. A man she’d just met. This could not be happening.

A man was not the plan.

Staying safe and free. That was the plan.

Anything else was just ridiculous.

With the immense truck looming next to her, Cammie's gaze was fixed resolutely on the distance as Wade carefully applied an antiseptic-soaked cotton pad to the wound on her lower back. She flinched.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp. “Almost done.”

His hands were gentle, careful. It felt oddly intimate—the silence, the brush of his fingertips, the soft warmth of his breath behind her. She hadn’t expected her day to proceed like this: stuck in a tree, rescued by a man who looked like he’d walked straight off the pages of a survivalist calendar, and now half-undressed in standing beside his truck while he played medic.

“Okay, I have to ask,” he said, wiping away the last of the blood. “Why were you in a tree?”

She let out a breath, one that almost turned into a laugh. “Because I never got to be in one as a kid.”

He paused. “What?”

“I wasn’t . . . allowed to do much. My father was strict. Overbearing, really. I wasn’t allowed to get dirty, to be loud, to run wild or act like a child at all. So now, I’m trying to catch up on everything I missed.” She smiled, wincing slightly as he pressed a fresh bandage in place. “Climbing a tree was on my list.”

“Your list?” he asked, stepping around to look her in the eyes.

She nodded, suddenly shy. “It’s silly, I know.”

“No,” he said softly, and there was something in his gaze that made her breath catch. “It’s . . . different. Brave.”

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