with her to give me a chance—to let me win her date—she turns, opens the door, and runs away.
The words echo in my mind, you’re an ass, Holden Masters .
That’s part of the problem with Cammie. She’s bought the façade I’ve put on for everyone because it’s been easier to hide behind it.
Ass is the last word I’d use to describe myself.
It’s one of many I reserve for Oliver, and I have to find a way to prove it to her before she makes the biggest mistake of her life.
Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I rush through a back door and into the only room that’s probably vacant, the bridal suite.
My heart’s pounding in my chest, and it’s not just from running. The irony isn’t lost on me that in just three short months, I’m supposed to be dressing in this room to marry Oliver.
Closing and locking the door, I fall onto the couch as my shoulders quake, my lungs and throat tighten, and my hands are soaked from the tears that are steadily trickling from my face. How can I go through with a marriage to someone I’ve already betrayed?
It was an accident.
But if I’m honest, I liked the accident.
My chest aches, and I bury my head in a pillow to muffle the cries as my sobs intensify.
Holden’s an ass. He’s a bad-boy heartbreaker. In five minutes he’s already got me crying.
Oliver cares more about his career than me. He would never worship and adore my body the way Holden just did. He never has. And I know it. And when will I stop denying the sparks that Holden ignites in me every time I’m near him?
I further bury my face into the fabric and let out a scream.
Get yourself together, Camellia Olivia. You have commitments, and you can’t break them. Pull it together.
After pushing myself off the couch, I stare into the ornate, wrought iron-framed mirror. My green eyes are puffy, my skin is blotchy, and my cheeks are mascara-stained. I look like a scene from a horror movie.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I wave my hands in front of my face, then caress my swollen lips, lips that Holden claimed, tugged, and sucked. My body mourned the disconnection from his the moment he placed me back on my feet and released me. Why did he have to wait until I was engaged to do that?
Pacing back and forth, the scene just keeps replaying. The way his tongue was smooth against mine, how his hair slid through my fingers like silk. The way his eyes danced when he sucked his finger that I know had been in me just moments before. My insides quiver.
Dammit.
My hands ball into fists. I should have known by the hair. Did I know? Did I ignore it because I wanted it just as much as he did? Fuck. I just cheated on Oliver, and the lingering question that I keep asking is whether or not I’d change a fucking thing. This is so screwed up.
Pulling a tissue from a box on the bookcase, I dab my face as more tears spill down my cheeks. I’m going to look like a train wreck at the auction. This night has turned to shit. It’s a nightmare. Having planned the cabana fiasco early on, I didn’t bring a purse, which would have had a compact and lip gloss. No, instead, I gave those two things to Oliver to put in his coat pocket, using the excuse of not wanting to be burdened with holding something all night. I roll my eyes. He grumbled something under his breath. I let it go because after I surprised him, he’d understand, right? Wrong.
Now, I have to make my way back to him, hoping he doesn’t notice Holden’s woodsy scent. It’s all I can smell. I can’t tell if it’s on my clothes or just stuck in my nostrils.
That’s another sign I should’ve known it wasn’t Oliver, but I just thought that maybe he decided to wear a new cologne. Pulling a strand of hair to my nose, I inhale. My scalp starts to tingle at the memory of his hand being tangled in my hair.
Stupid, Cammie.
You can’t like his cologne.
And you certainly can’t be tingly at the mere thought of his hands in your hair.
Maybe I could make up some excuse for