Page 9 of Bad for Business
I furrow my eyebrows, wondering what she means. Before I can ask her, she’s speaking up. “If you want to help, you can listen to me when I say I don’tneedyour help.”
I give her a tight smile and take a step back. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she mutters, mimicking me with a shrill voice. She tosses her hair over her shoulder before shifting her weight. I bite my tongue, wanting to tell her that maybe the heels she’s wearing aren’t the best for what she’s trying to do.
Camille pulls on the suitcase a few more times before it happens.
One moment, the suitcase is still firmly wedged between the ones around it.
The next, both the suitcase and Camille are flying back. She keeps her hands wrapped around the handle, even as she crashes toward the ground.
“Oh shit.” I try to close the distance to Camille, but it’s too late.
She tumbles to the ground with a scream and a loud thud as the suitcase lands on top of her.
“Are you okay?” I ask, crouching down to help her.
I try to grab the luggage from on top of her, but she shoves it to the side before I can. “I’m fine,” she grits out, pushing herself into a sitting position.
I roll my eyes, gently grabbing her arm and looking at her elbow. “You’re bleeding,” I announce, my eyes traveling over her injury.
To my surprise, Camille doesn’t recoil from my touch. Her eyes follow the same path as mine as she looks at the scrape on her elbow. “It’s small. I’m fine. But it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” I ask in disbelief, letting go of her arm. If she isn’t going to make a big deal out of the scrape, then I guess I’m not either. “How is you falling on your ass my fault? I offered to help.”
I hold out my hand to try and help her off the ground, but she just pushes it away.
I raise my eyebrows and shake my head as I stand to my full height. She follows suit, straightening her clothes as she gives her body a once-over.
“I’m waiting for you to tell me how it was my fault.” I close the distance to the SUV and pull out the rest of our luggage before she can protest. Surprisingly, she keeps her mouth shut.
When I place the last suitcase in the driveway, she’s standing right behind me with her arms folded across her chest. “It’s your fault because I shouldn’t have to be here in the first place.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I could point out that if she had just let me help her, she wouldn’t have fallen to the ground. But her blaming me for having to be here tells me everything I need to know. Nothing I say is going to matter.
“Would you like me to grab some of these and take them to your room, or do you want to take them yourself?”
Camille gives me a smile, and even though it’s forced and not in the slightest bit genuine, I revel in seeing the slight upturn of her lips. “You’re learning fast. I like it. I’ll get them myself.”
I nod, grabbing my luggage and walking toward the front door. I’m trying to be nice despite how hard she’s making it for me, but I’m not going to go out of my way. If she doesn’t want help, then I won’t give her any. “Have at it, then,” I yell over my shoulder, knowing that the sloped driveway won’t pair well with her stiletto heels. I tried helping. It’s her loss if she doesn’t want to accept it.
She curses under her breath as she deals with the consequences of her stubbornness. I try not to smile as I walk up to the keypad and type in the code to get in.
The smell of fresh flowers hits me immediately. I take a deep breath in, remembering the many memories in this house that all involve the scent of fresh-cut hydrangeas.
Mom always used to make sure the house was filled with the flowers every time we visited. I swallow, the constant ache in mychest over the death of my mother intensifying. It’s almost been a year since we lost her to breast cancer and as I walk into the empty Hamptons house—the one she loved so much—the loss of her cuts deeper.
My eyes rake over the space. The light blue walls, the furniture she picked out herself, everything reminds me of her. I hadn’t realized how hard it would be to be back at this house without her until this very moment.
A loud grunt interrupts me from my thoughts. I turn in the kitchen to find Camille hoisting her final piece of luggage over the threshold of the front door.
“You good?” I ask, noticing her hair sticking to her face from the struggle of getting her suitcases in.
Camille nods. She pushes her shoulders back and plasters an unbothered look on her face. “I don’t know why you’re asking. I’m fine.”
I laugh and shake my head.
Damn, she’s frustrating. Right now, I welcome it. Being annoyed with her is better than being sad about being back at this house without Mom.
