Page 50 of Best Laid Plans
Elle was a vision to behold as they walked into the apartment together at the end of a long, grueling night. For Cam, at least.
Elle had been so in her element that she was positively giddy now, walking across the hardwood floors while she tried to take her heels off. “Can you believe that Dan Reynolds was there? Of Reynolds Consulting? Like, what are the fucking chances?”
Cam shut and locked the door behind them. “Right. Reynolds Consulting. How could I have missed that. He was the medium height guy in a suit with the salt-and-pepper hair, not the medium height guy in a suit with the gray hair, right?”
Elle gave him the most adorably judgmental look that it took all his self-control not to cross the few feet of space between them and drop to his knees in front of her. “It’s a big deal, Cam. I could have sent a thousand applications and never have gotten facetime with someone like Dan Reynolds. Even if I’d have been hired at his company!”
After a quick pit stop in the kitchen to grab two bottles of water, he walked back into the living room and handed one toElle. “Well then, I’m happy for you,” he said, trying to mean it. Because Elle was now one step closer to getting another job. Which meant she was one step closer to getting back to her old life.
“Happy for us, you mean.” Elle extended her water bottle to cheers him. “They couldn’t stop raving about the food. I’m pretty sure any of those suits you seem to not be able to tell apart would happily invest in a new restaurant with you.”
He had been given a handful of business cards from men, mainly, who’d been interested in ‘diversifying their investment strategies.’ Which to Cam, screamed mid-life crisis. There was no way in hell he was taking money from someone with too many ideas about how things should be done but zero practical experience in the restaurant world. He wasn’t going to mention that to Elle, though. “We’ll see. I’m keeping my options open.”
As the night had wound down, Elle had allowed herself a glass, or three, of the exorbitantly overpriced champagne being served, which had led to Cam driving them both home. And that had been the right call, given how she was doing a twirl like a Disney princess on the living room rug. “Commitment issues?” Elle teased when she rounded back in his direction, bright, playful eyes tracking Cam.
He’d started to love that she pushed things. That she called him on his evasive bullshit. Which is why he found himself being more honest with her than anyone else in his life these days, even Wyatt. “More like quality issues. It would be like hiring a mechanic to do my taxes. Doesn’t make the most sense,” he explained.
Elle studied him. She moved to stand in front of him, her hands finding their way back to his jacket. “I didn’t peg you as such a shrewd businessperson.”
“When it comes to who gets to tell me what to do and not do in the kitchen, I’m as shrewd as they come.”
“A man of discerning taste,” she flirted. “I like that.”
Heat flowed back and forth between them. Heat that Cam desperately wanted to engulf himself in. Elle had been at his side all night. Her smell. Her voice. Her body.
She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, but he looped his hands easily, lightly, around her wrists to stop her. “This again?” She pouted.
He tried not to think about how good her wrists felt encircled in his hands. “You’re drunk, Elle.” God, that was a difficult sentence to get out, when all he’d wanted was to drag her into the bedroom and ease her dress higher up her thighs.
And for as much as he’d been fantasizing about ripping his new favorite dress off since he’d seen her in it, he didn’t want anything she was willing to give him unless she was in the right frame of mind to offer it.
When had he become such a martyr?
The scoff died in his throat when she pushed in closer.
Elle shook her head forcefully, before her lips shifted into a delicate pout. “I’m not drunk, I'm… happy. After more than a month of having metaphorical doors shut in my face, you made it possible for me to meet the exact right people. In a way I wouldn’t have been able to achieve on my own. And I didn’t even have to sacrifice my dignity to my asshole ex to do it.”
Jealousy and anger flared through Cam in equal measures, battling for dominance. “That wasn’t going to happen. Ever,” Cam said, more aggressively than he’d intended. He’d had the displeasure of locking eyes with Grant Thompson IV at the event tonight, Chelsea on his arm. After the display on the tennis court yesterday, it seemed like the message to stay away from Elle had been received loud and clear.
But just in case, he’d also put his arm on Elle’s lower back as they’d talked with an inhumanely boring group of guests. Cam had set his jaw and stared Grant down until he’d looked away first, just like he’d known that a little pissant like Grant would. Someone like Grant Thompson IV had probablynever thrown a punch in his life unless his boys were already holding his intended victim in place. And if given the chance, Cam would have loved to go a single, decisive round behind the venue. A few empty spaces in Grant’s too white smile would have been a decidedly fine end to his evening, even if it would never make up for the hurt Grant had caused Elle.
Elle, who saw the anger flash across his face, moving even closer instead of farther away. She really was going to be the death of him, as her chest brushed against his forearms.
Where Elle and her perfect body were concerned, Cam’s control was all just for show, which they both knew as Elle pulled her hands together and reached for the top button on his chef’s coat. She was a woman who got what she wanted. “Exactly. Which is why there’s only one person I’m interested in thanking for their help.”
“Elle,” he said in warning. He needed her not to push this.
She popped another button open. “Montgomery, Juneau, Phoenix, Little Rock, Sacramento.”
“What are you doing?” he husked, blood pulsing through his body at the simple sound of her voice.
“I’m listing the state capitals in alphabetical order.” She looked at him seriously, her eyes clear and deep, pulling him in. “By state of course.”
His hands loosened but didn’t let go, even as he found their faces moving closer together. “So you have a good memory,” he argued, worried at how much self control he had left.
Elle was torturing him. The soft, playful tone in her voice. Those fucking lips, which were begging to be kissed. Her fingers flexed against his t-shirt, like a brand on his skin. “I want this. Please, Cam. I want you.” It was the soft, imploring tone in her voice that made Cam lose the tether of restraint that he’d managed to cling to like a buoy in a storm.
Because Elle wanted him.Him. Not some idealized version that had been created for mass market appeal on some stupid tvshow. Not because he was an acclaimed chef, who someone like Michael used for his own gain, so long as Cam knew his place in their relationship.
