Chapter 2
1522 Words
Camille made it three blocks before the adrenaline wore off and the reality of what she'd just done hit her like a truck.
'I kissed a stranger,' she thought, standing on the pavement in the cold February air. ‘Damn’
She needed a drink. Several drinks. Maybe an entire bottle.
There was a club two streets over — she'd passed it on the way to the hotel. It looked loud and crowded and exactly like the kind of place where she could drown her feelings in bad decisions and cheap vodka.
She walked there on autopilot, got through the door, ordered three shots in rapid succession, and discovered that she was a significantly lighter drinker than she'd thought.
By the time she stumbled toward what she thought was the bathroom, the entire room was tilting pleasantly and her legs had developed opinions about walking that differed significantly from her brain's instructions.
She pushed open a door.
The bathroom was weirdly empty. And why were there urinals?
'Huh,' she thought muzzily. 'That's weird.'
Someone was standing at one of them. Tall. Dark suit. Familiar.
She squinted.
The man turned around.
It was him. The pretty stranger from the gala. The one she'd kissed.
"You," she said, delighted. "Hi!"
Brent Sterling stared at her in complete disbelief.
She took a step forward, stumbled slightly, and caught herself on the sink. "You're very handsome, did you know that? Like, unfairly handsome. It's kind of annoying, actually."
"You're drunk," he said.
"Maybe a little." She held up her hand, fingers pinched together. "Tiny bit. You have a very nice face." She reached toward him.
He caught her wrist. "This is the men's restroom."
"Is it?" She looked around, genuinely surprised. "That explains the urinals."
"The women's restroom is across the hall."
"Okay." She didn't move. She was looking at his face with the kind of focused intensity that drunk people sometimes developed when trying to have a serious thought. "Did I thank you? For earlier? I feel like I thanked you, but I might have just thought about thanking you, which is not the same thing."
"What you did was wrong," Brent said. "You need to take responsibility for your actions."
"I know. I'm very sorry about that." She didn't look particularly sorry. She looked like she was about to try to touch his face again.
"Your eyes are like…" she waved vaguely "…. winter. But expensive winter. Like the kind of winter rich people have."
'What kind of person is this?' Brent thought, torn between exasperation and something that might have been reluctant amusement.
She suddenly became very focused on something. She looked down at herself, then at the urinal, then back at him with an expression of determined concentration.
She reached for the hem of her dress.
"What are you…"
She started to lift it.
"No!" Brent half-shouted, grabbing her hands. "Absolutely not! Not here!"
She looked at him, confused. "But I need to…"
"Not. Here." He pointed firmly at the door. "Women's restroom. Across the hall. I will show you, but you are not…." he gestured helplessly at the urinal "…. doing that here."
“Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Probably.” Camille’s words were slurred.
She swayed.
Brent quickly grabbed her.
“Security,” he muttered.
She tilted her head back. “Are you going to arrest me?”
His lips thinned. “Considering it.”
She laughed—soft, breathless.
Then the world tilted.
Her body went limp.
He caught her fully. Scooped her up.
Brent Sterling stared down at the reckless woman in his arms.
He exhaled. Long. Slow.
“Unbelievable.”
--
Camille woke up to sunlight streaming through windows that were definitely not hers.
She blinked at the ceiling. It was very high. And very white. And there was a chandelier.
'Why is there a chandelier?'
She sat up too quickly and immediately regretted it. Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted like something had died in it. And she was wearing…
She looked down.
An oversized white dress shirt. Men's. Expensive, from the feel of it.
'Oh no.'
She threw back the covers and checked. Her underwear was still on. Bra still intact.
'Okay. Okay, that's good. That's….'
"You're awake."
Camille's head snapped toward the door.
Brent Sterling was standing there in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt, holding a coffee mug, looking like he'd just stepped out of a very expensive athletic wear commercial.
She stared at him.
He stared back.
"What…." Her voice came out as a croak. She cleared her throat. "What am I doing here?"
"You don't remember?" He raised an eyebrow.
"I remember a club. And drinks. And…" Her face went hot. "Oh God, the bathroom."
"The bathroom," he confirmed.
"I tried to…"
"Yes."
Camille covered her face with her hands. "Please tell me I didn't actually…"
"You didn't. I stopped you." He took a sip of coffee, completely calm. "Then you passed out in my arms. Very dramatically. I brought you here because I had no idea where you lived and you were in no condition to give directions."
She peeked at him through her fingers. "And the shirt?"
"Your dress was…." he paused delicately "not suitable for sleeping. One of my staff helped you change."
"A staff member."
"Yes."
"Not you."
"You're not my type," he said, so matter-of-factly that it should have been insulting but somehow just felt reassuring. "And I don't touch women without their consent."
Camille lowered her hands. Her head was still pounding, but at least she wasn't going to die of embarrassment. Probably.
"Where are my clothes?"
"Being cleaned. They'll be ready in an hour."
She looked around the room. It was huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Minimalist furniture that probably cost more than a car. A bed the size of her entire bedroom at home.
"This is your room," she said.
"It is."
"Where did you sleep?"
"Guest room." He took another sip of coffee. "There are six of them. I had options."
'Six guest rooms,' she thought. 'Who needs six guest rooms?'
"Listen," she started, swinging her legs out of bed. "I'm really sorry about last night. All of it. The kiss, the bathroom, the…" she gestured vaguely at herself "passing out situation. I'll get out of your hair as soon as my clothes are ready."
"About that," Brent said.
Something in his tone made her pause.
"About what?"
"You can't leave."
Camille blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're going to marry me."
She laughed. It came out slightly hysterical. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You caused a scandal," Brent said, setting down his coffee mug. "Last night at the gala. When you kissed me. I want you to take responsibility."
The laughter died in her throat. "Responsibility. Just because I kissed you"
"Without my consent. It's already online. The kiss." He pulled out his phone and turned it toward her.
Camille looked at the screen.
It was a gossip site. The headline read: BRENT STERLING CAUGHT IN PASSIONATE EMBRACE WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AT VALENTINE'S GALA
Below it was a photo. Crystal clear. Although her face wasn’t visible as she had backed the camera. Her, on her tiptoes, kissing him. His hands caught mid-motion like he'd been about to push her away but hadn't quite managed it.
"Oh no," she whispered.
"Oh yes."
"But I didn't…I mean, it was just a…."
"A random kiss to spite your ex-boyfriend," Brent finished. "I know. The internet doesn't care."
Camille scrolled through the article. It was full of speculation. Who is the mystery woman? Is Brent Sterling's relationship with Lilian Richwood over? Sources say Lilian left the event early after witnessing the kiss.
"Lilian?" Camille looked up at him, confused.
"The woman I was supposed to meet at the event last night — the woman I have been trying to rebuild a relationship with for some time…. saw those same photographs." Something tightened briefly in his jaw. "She is not happy."
Camille felt her stomach drop. "Oh God."
"So you see," Brent continued, his voice calm but his eyes hard, "you've created a problem for me."
"I didn't know…" She stood up, which was a mistake because the room tilted slightly. She grabbed the bedpost. "Look, I'll fix it. I'll make a statement. I'll tell everyone it was a mistake."
"Too late for that."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"Marry me."
Camille stared at him. "You can't be serious."
"My father is dying," Brent said, and there was something in his voice that made her go still. "He needs surgery. He won't have it unless I'm married. He gave me a deadline — three weeks. I was going to marry Lilian. You've made that impossible."
"So find someone else!"
"There is no one else. Not in three weeks." He stepped closer. "But there is you."
"Me," she repeated flatly.
"You caused this mess. You're going to help me fix it."
Camille laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "That's insane. I'm not going to marry you because of one silly mistake."
"Then I'll sue you." Brent’s expression turned cold.
Camille froze. "What?"
- Writer
