Page 13 of The VIP Package

“Thanks again.” Camille licks ketchup off her fingers. “This is delicious and I’m grateful.”

“But?”

“Why do you think there’s a but?”

Because I’m a gentleman, I don’t comment on her butt. Or the fact that I noticed several anal enchantments on her intake form. “Your voice tipped up at the end of that sentence,” I say instead. “Like there was more you meant to say, but you held back.”

“Interesting. You’re very observant.”

“I try.”

“Okay, well—like I said, I’m grateful. I was ready to chew off my own arm, so I appreciate the food.”

“Clearly.”

“But I have to admit, it’s not what I expected when my brother raved about the five-star culinary scene at this place.”

I blink in surprise. “Your brother’s been here?” We don’t allow male guests, so I can’t fathom that’s possible.

“Kit Plier—er, Dr. Christopher Plier, PsyD.” She stuffs another chicken nugget in her mouth. “He’s a research psychologist you hired a few months back.” Chewing an apple slice, she pauses for a sip from her juice pouch. “The profession runs in the family.”

“Ah, I see.” I hired Dr. Plier to study the overall job satisfaction and mental health of sex workers at this resort. To my utter shock, he insisted onbeingone to thoroughly enmesh himself in the study.

I doubt his sister knows that.

“You remember my brother, right?”

“Certainly.”

Camille grabs another apple slice. “He came here expecting to fuck a lot of people as a consort but wound up falling in love with my bestie instead. Eve Goodrich?”

“Oh. Interesting.” Apparently theydoshare intimate details in their family. “To answer your question, my culinary staff has the week off with the rest of the resort employees. The only thing I could find to prepare on short notice with limited ingredients was the menu attached to our DDLG package.”

Camille’s brow furrows. “DDLG?”

“Daddy/little girl kink. It’s quite popular among women.”

“I’m aware.” She looks down at her plate with renewed interest. “And while I’d certainly never kink shame, I’m not above culinary shaming. Daddy can’t serve his little girl some fettuccine alfredo or something?”

I try to hold back a chuckle. When I fail, I cover it with a cough. “If I hadn’t feared you might drop dead from hunger, I probably could have rounded up something more pleasing to your palate.” I’m trying to sound sarcastic and haughty, but it winds up sounding more sympathetic.

There’s a story behind this ridiculous meal. It’s one I prepared years ago for a child I will not discuss in this context. Or any context,ever.

As my dead, blackened heart twists itself into a ball, I try to reroute the discussion. “If it helps, the chicken is all-natural and organic. The apples are sourced locally, as is the passionfruit.”

“Fabulous.” Camille bites into another chicken nugget. “I’m just grateful you stuffed me with something besides your cock. Both were terrific, but only one saved me from hypoglycemia.”

The mouth on this woman. “Are you this gauche with your patients?”

“Not typically,” she says with surprisingly good cheer. “But I do find using coarse language—particularly in the context of human sexuality—can prompt others to open up in ways they might not if I used purely clinical terms.”

“That makes sense.” And it does. Once, in a past life, I attended marriage counseling. Shocking, I know, and it’s not something I’ve told anyone before.

Nor will I. “Any luck booking a new flight?” That was her task while I prepared food.

“Ugh, no.” Camille picks up her phone and frowns. “There’s one flight out in less than two hours. Even if that shuttle boat were still running, I probably wouldn’t make it tonight.”

“How unfortunate.”

---