Page 82 of The VIP Package

I’m sitting in the air-conditioned consort office, sulking like a giant man-baby behind Kora’s filing cabinet, when she and Sybil pull up in the golf cart. I stare through the window, hunched in my chair as I watch them walk past the pool to the office.

The two women converse, Sybil wild-haired and animated, Kora with a stride that suggests she’s eager to get back to work. They hold hands as they walk, Kora pausing to open the door for her wife.

Sybil blows through with her curls all askew, and her voice jars me back to our X-rated zoom chat.

“—just think it’s an asshole thing to do,” she says before skidding to a stop. Her sparkly gray eyes go wide and she looks at her wife like she’s pleading for rescue.

“Sir.” Kora falters for only a second before marching to her desk. “We’ve just finished escorting Dr. Plier to her flight.”

“Good.” I get to my feet, not wanting to addrude prick who doesn’t stand when a woman enters the roomto my list of asshole offenses. “Thank you for taking care of that.”

“Certainly.” She glances at Sybil. “Would you give us a moment?”

Sybil looks grateful for the chance to escape, though she throws me an insolent look as she moves to the door. Catching Kora’s arm, she leans in to kiss her wife’s cheek. I don’t hear what she whispers, but I’m fairly certain I make out the word “dickhead.”

I deserve that.

Kora waits for the door to swing shut before she sits down behind her big desk. “Sir.” She wears a crisp silk blouse and a puzzled expression. “Were we scheduled to meet?”

“No. I just—” God, I’m an asshole. I pace the length of her desk, not sure what to do with my hands. “I wanted to make sure that Camille—er, Dr. Plier—” Fuck, I’m botching this. Dragging my hands through my hair, I pace back the other way. “Did she make it out okay?”

There’s an extra-long pause, and I turn to see Kora regarding me with the same wary look she’d give a crazed bat. Folding her hands on the desk, she nods to the chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

What I’d like is to kick myself in the testicles. Since that’s physically impossible, I settle for taking a seat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Compassion creeps into her voice. “What is it you wanted to know?”

I must be so fucking transparent. “How did Camille seem?”

“It was my first time meeting her, sir.” She looks at my face for a moment. “Sybil knows her better than I do.”

“And?” I wonder what Sybil told Kora. I trust their discretion with others, but I’m guessing there aren’t many secrets in that marital bed. “Did Sybil share any observations about Camille’s state of mind?”

Kora gives me a long, thoughtful look. “With all due respect, I think you’d be better off discussing that with Dr. Plier.”

Dragging a hand down my face, I sigh. “Yes, of course. You’re right.”

Her expression softens. “Far be it from me to pry into your personal life,” she says softly. “But is there something you’re needing to get off your chest, Mr. Holyfield?”

“No.” Except this gigantic weight that hasn’t lifted since I sent last night’s text.

“You’re sure?” Kora tilts her head. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

I absolutely, positively do not want to talk to anyone about anything. Not Kora or Camille or even a licensed, professional therapist with whom I haven’t exchanged bodily fluids.

But this fierce, hollow ache isn’t going away. And Camille has already.

“Sir?” Kora’s expression shifts to one of concern. “Are you okay?”

I open my mouth to say—what?

I haven’t a clue.

And I’m saved by the door flying open. In walks Logan Wilder, looking tanned and relaxed and intent on speaking with Kora. “Ms. Neville,” he says, “we need a new location for the support group. The fresh paint in that office smells—Sir.” He snaps to attention as his eyes dart to me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holyfield. I didn’t see you there. I’ll come back later.”

He’s edging away as I hold up a hand. “Stop.”

In a display befitting a former US Marine, he obeys. “Sir?”

---