Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Camille shakes her head as she clutches my hand. My heart aches when she blinks up at me with pleading, watery eyes. She doesn’t speak, but her message is clear: She’s still terrified.
“It’s okay to be scared, Camille,” I assure her, brushing away a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Everyone feels that way sometimes, even grown-ups.”
She peers up at her dad, incapable of imagining someone as big and strong as him being scared, and my smile turns genuine. It isn’t solely his nod of confirmation that even he sometimes gets scared that makes me grin like a clown. It’s also his vow to protect her from harm.
“You’re safe with me, Camille. It’s a father’s job to protect his children, even more so when she is his little princess. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
When the words I would have sold my soul to the devil to hear from my father don’t stretch beyond Camille’s fear, he bribes her with the very thing that most likely caused her cavity.
“We’ll be in and out in under an hour, and then we can use the rest of our time to visit that sweets shop Uncle Elio told you about. You can get anything you want. The sky is the limit.”
Camille almost succumbs to peer pressure—the call of endless candy too overwhelming even for a child—but she is as stubborn as I wish I’d been at her age.
She stands her ground, and I admire her tenacity.
The world would be a better place if we all recognized our self-worth.
After glancing at her father, who appears as lost as I feel, I throw caution to the wind. “Would you like me to come with you? I don’t start work for another two hours, so I have time.” I clear my throat to soothe the jitters in my voice before saying, “If it’s okay with your father, of course.”
She snaps her eyes to her father so fast that my neck muscles protest on her behalf before she silently pleads in a way no morally ethical father could deny.
A silent shriek escapes her when he stares at me for three terrifying seconds before he bobs his chin.
Faster than I can blink, Camille jumps forward and leads us toward the dental clinic, her strides surprisingly confident. Our walk down the sidewalk is silent but held together by a misunderstanding and, strangely, a shared sense of purpose.
I feel her father’s eyes on me the moment Camille reaches for his hand, wordlessly requesting to link us together. The gesture is so simple and innocent, yet it sends a jolt through me.
We’ll be a chain rather than three individual links.
I anticipate some form of resistance. I get nothing close to that. Instead, with a smirk that could stop traffic, he curls his fingers around Camille’s tiny hand, and for a moment, around my heart as well.
His commitment to ensuring his daughter’s happiness blindsides me as much as my inability to walk away only minutes ago. I’ve never met a man so willing to disregard every belief that his gender is the superior race, and my mouth dries.
The knocks keep coming when he brings his eyes back to mine. He doesn’t fill his watch with the false flattery I typically get. It isn’t hungry, fleeting, or transactional. He scrutinizes me with a focus that’s almost analytical. There’s warmth beneath it, but also a curiosity that unsettles me in ways I can’t explain.
I should be nervous, possibly even defensive. Instead, it’s something else entirely.
I could be wrong—I have little to base this on—but it feels like the sensation of belonging. I don’t know him. We’re strangers tied together by a misunderstanding and a child who clings to my hand as if I’m her lifeline. Yet as his gaze lingers, my anxiety softens.
I’m accustomed to being judged by men who see only what they want. His scrutiny is different, however. It’s searching but not cruel, as if he’s striving to see past the layers I wear to hide the real me.
I shouldn’t feel comfortable or safe after being ruefully stripped of my cloak of anonymity, but for some insane reason, I do. It’s weird, like stepping into a house you’ve never visited and realizing the decor fits you perfectly. I want to be enough to hold his attention, even with every instinct urging me to keep my head down and stay invisible.
I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length, convinced that closeness only leads to pain, but Camille’s firm grip and her father’s heart-stuttering watch make me wonder what could happen if I granted myself permission to be a part of something bigger, even if it were only fleeting.
Inside the clinic, Camille still won’t release my hand. While her father fills out the paperwork I was worried about earlier, I sit beside her in the waiting room, my backside precariously hanging on a chair unsuitable for adults.