The Mogul and the Muscle - Claire Kingsley Page 0,79

as it had come. “I still have a job to do.”

“Fine. Do your job. I’ll sit here on house arrest so the big bad wolf doesn’t eat me. And I’m not hiding anything from you, so you can drop the interrogation.”

I turned and walked back inside. I didn’t stomp. I didn’t try to slam the door. I didn’t clench my hands into fists or whip my hair around in a show of anger.

I stayed cool and collected. The consummate professional. If he wanted to be a brick wall bodyguard, I’d be the unflappable CEO.

It didn’t matter that I was crumbling on the inside. I didn’t have time to crumble. There were too many people who depended on me. Too many responsibilities for me to see to. I’d hold myself together, like I always did. Keep a tight grip on my feelings and face each problem as it came. As the saying went, I’d put my hair up, put on some gangsta rap—or maybe some eighties pop—and handle it.

I couldn’t afford to be more vulnerable right now.

30

Jude

Cameron walked away like she’d just left an R&D debriefing. I could imagine her strolling calmly to her office to catch up on emails. Maybe taking her laptop out to the upper balcony so she could sit in the shade of an umbrella and get some work done.

Like she didn’t care.

Like I was just another employee.

An employee who’d been dismissed.

Fuck this.

For the first time in five years, I was quitting a job. I didn’t need this shit. She was the one who’d kept information from me. And she had the audacity to get defensive? I was trying to keep her safe—keep someone from screwing up her life, or worse. So much worse.

And she wanted to argue about who was keeping secrets. Who was being guarded.

Yeah, I was fucking guarded. I kept secrets. A fuck ton of them. But that was the nature of my life. I didn’t say the actual words very often because it tended to freak people out, but I’d been a spy. A spook. People thought they knew what that meant because of movies and spy dramas. But they didn’t know. They had no fucking idea.

I went inside, ignoring the prickly sensation that crawled across my skin. Grabbed my motorcycle helmet from where I’d stashed it in a closet. Walked out the front door.

I still stopped and made sure it locked and the alarm set.

But that was it. I was done.

My bike was out front. I jammed my helmet down—why did it feel hard to put on?—gripped the handlebars, and swung my leg over. Turned it on and the engine roared to life.

The muscles in my back knotted and my chest ached. I felt hollow and raw. But I pushed it all aside and tore down her driveway.

Because fuck this.

I skidded to a stop at the first golf cart crossing. It was empty, but I didn’t want to hit anyone on my way out. I paused, checking right, then left. Making sure it was clear.

There wasn’t anyone there. No group of seniors in bright tracksuits doing their walking jazzercise routine, complete with a peppy trainer carrying a boombox on his shoulder. No Mrs. Montecito swerving in her golf cart after too many margaritas down at Bluewater’s beach bar.

I accelerated again, driving by the canal, but slowed, wondering if anyone had fed Steve recently. With all the chaos, Cameron might have missed her turn.

Why the hell did I care if a three-legged alligator missed a meal?

I groaned and pulled to a stop. I shouldn’t care. But if Dr. Whittaker let Schnitzel, her miniature dachshund, too close to the water, and Steve hadn’t been properly fed…

I flipped to my calendar—I’d synced the Bluewater events calendar to mine—but Cameron’s turn wasn’t for another few weeks. Steve probably had a belly full of rotisserie chicken. Schnitzel the wiener dog was safe.

My neck prickled uncomfortably, and I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. A delivery van drove by, reminding me that I was sitting in the middle of the road. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Cameron was what was wrong with me. I never should have taken this job.

I kept going, well aware of how slow I was driving. Took a right I didn’t need to take. Cruised toward the marina, not the Bluewater gate. Because if I left, then what?

She’d be alone.

My stomach was doing uncomfortable things, and it wasn’t like that time I’d gotten some questionable tacos down at