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)
She stares at me like I committed a crime, before mumbling, “I’m glad I’m not the one paying for that.”
Her snicker pulls me out of my thoughts and grounds me in the present. I’ve been too deep in my head, thinking about rules, Anna, and how Camille lights up around this woman that I almost miss how endearing her shock is.
It proves she doesn’t understand my world and how I’d pay eighty thousand if it made Camille smile like this just once.
Hell, I’d give everything I have if it came with a guarantee that Camille would remain this carefree. That’s how much her happiness means to me.
When the cashier hands me the bags, I guide Camille outside with my hand on her shoulder. The blonde follows, still shaking her head.
Once we’re on the sidewalk, Camille immediately drops to her knees and starts dividing the candy into three piles. Her movements are precise and deliberate. One for her, one for me, and one for the stranger.
With one bag filled with a third of her loot, she stands and then thrusts it toward the blonde.
The blonde blinks back tears. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I can’t take your candy. It’s yours.”
Camille shakes her head, pushing the bag into her hands again.
The stranger is overwhelmed. Her swallowing is a laborious process, and her eyes go glassy, but she makes no attempt to take Camille’s offer.
Again, Camille’s bottom lip wobbles. This time, it isn’t in sadness, but more stubborn determination. Stepping closer, she presses the bag into the woman’s chest with both hands.
Her message is clear.
Take it.
The stranger’s body temperature rises. Although she wants to continue teaching Camille that sometimes it’s okay to be selfish, her constant glance at my Rolex confirms her “walk” to work will take longer than the hour she has left until her shift starts.
She doesn’t have the luxury of arguing with a four-year-old who refuses to back down.
“Okay,” she whispers, accepting the bag. “Thank you. Next time, it’s my turn to pay.”
Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence. Camille doesn’t notice. She beams silently, proud of herself.
As the stranger crouches next to Camile and pulls her in for a hug, I signal for the driver to move forward. Though I’d give anything to push the blonde for more time, we’re also on a time crunch. This afternoon is my eldest brother’s baby shower. Giovanni would hang me from the rafters by my nuts if I were to invite a stranger to the festivities.
The last time that happened, his wife-to-be almost lost her life.
That doesn’t mean whatever the fuck this is, is over. It’s merely on the back burner for whatever time is needed to set aside for a baby shower.
The blonde’s chest rises and falls in quick succession when I slide my phone out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“Give me your details.” When suspicion flares through her murky blue eyes, I add, “Then I can ensure you’re compensated for your time today.” It’s the most pathetic excuse I’ve ever given, but when you’re clutching at straws, any excuse is viable.
She pushes my phone back my way. “Not necessary. I was happy to help.”
Even with nothing but honesty blazing from her, my silent command doesn’t weaken in the slightest. I let Camille’s mother walk away from me without exchanging names or numbers, then spent the next four and a half years scorching the earth for her.
I refuse to make the mistakes of my past.
“I insist.”
“Seriously, it’s fine. I don’t need—”
“I insist,” I say again, interrupting her.
Her swallow is audible. It echoes off the tinted windows of my SUV until it’s swamped by the whoosh of her grabbing my phone out of my grasp and the stabs of her nails as she inputs her details into my contacts.
With a smile that’s more fake than real, she thrusts my phone into my chest and then peers down at Camille. “You did so good today, Camille. I’m very proud of you.”
Camille hears the honor in her tone as readily as I do. Faster than I can snap my fingers, Camille hugs her so firmly that her face mushes with her thigh.
I’ve been plotting ways to include her in my daughter’s life since she poked her index finger into my chest, and the desire becomes urgent when a faint whisper claws at my chest.
“Th-thank you.”
The world halts spinning as the truth smacks into me. I can’t fucking breathe.
Camille spoke. Finally.
Six months without a single word. Six long months of only glances, gestures, and the ache of not knowing how to communicate with my child, and it’s fixed with two little words.
Am I dreaming?
I can’t be. The blonde’s reaction is instant. Her eyes sparkle with admiration, and her smile warms my face more vividly than the late-afternoon sun. She has no idea how rare and precious this moment is. She’s simply in awe that someone raised by a brute can be respectful and courteous. Her shocked expression announces this, not to mention the briefest flash of praise she gives me while swooping in for another hug.