Chapter 46 I Can wait

Chapter 46 I Can wait
Holland’s grip on the leather wrap of the steering wheel tightened until her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. This woman. This utterly impossible, boundary-blind woman who made a sport of testing the exact perimeter of Holland's restraint. Every mile of the journey had become an exercise in endurance, a slow-burn battle where Holland was rapidly losing ground.
The asphalt stretched out ahead of them into an unbroken line, slicing through the rolling countryside under a sky so clear it hurt to look at. Afternoon sunlight caught the slant of the windshield, fracturing into blinding, golden streaks that washed over the dashboard and illuminated every grain of dust suspended in the air between them. Holland should have spoken up miles ago. She should have ordered Camille to sit back in her seat, snap her seatbelt flat against her chest, and keep her hands to herself. She should have reminded the younger woman about professional boundaries, about the rigid architecture of hierarchy, about personal space, and about the hundred different reasons why this casual proximity was an absolute, unmitigated mistake.
Instead, Holland’s gaze flickered sideways.
Just once.
A momentary lapse in discipline that lasted less than a second.
Her eyes dropped to Camille’s mouth—to the easy, upturned curve of her lips and the bright, persistent grin that seemed permanently settled there. And Camille, quick as a hawk catching a shift in the wind, caught the movement instantly. Her smile deepened, dimpling her cheek in a display of pure, triumphant realization.
"Well," Camille said softly, her tone dripping with quiet satisfaction as she extended her arm a fraction of an inch further. The silver fork, holding a translucent wedge of pear dripping with citrus juice, glided closer and closer to Holland's face. "Trust me, Chief. It's worth it. I promise."
Holland’s breath caught in the back of her throat, hitching for a fraction of a second before she managed to lock her ribs tight. She blinked once, then twice, the muscles in her forearms straining as her fingers flexed hard against the leather wheel in a silent, desperate bid to reclaim total physical control. Every line of her posture remained rigid, her shoulders drawn back and her spine pressed flush against the leather seat, attempting to project absolute indifference while every nerve ending on her right side burned with awareness of the warm presence leaning just a little too near.
“Ms. Lustrelle,” Holland managed to say, the syllables coming out clipped and tight, held together by sheer, unyielding pride.
Camille didn’t draw the fork back. She didn’t hesitate, nor did her hand tremble. If anything, that gleeful, victorious shimmer in her hazel eyes expanded, glittering under the bright cabin light.
“I can do this all day,” Camille said, her tone smooth and airy, as casually cheerful as if she were offering a bouquet of wild flowers rather than orchestrating the systematic destruction of Holland’s composure. “Really. I don’t mind.” The angle of her head, the tilt of her chin, and the curve of her mouth made her intention unmistakably clear: this was no polite gesture. It was a challenge wrapped up in a ribbon of sweet concern.
“What is wrong with you?” Holland hissed, her neck swiveling just enough to deliver a glare intended to reduce any subordinate to ash. In a boardroom, under the sharp fluorescent lights of corporate headquarters, that look had brought full-grown executives to a standstill. On anyone else in her professional orbit, it would have halted the conversation entirely.
On Camille? It had zero effect. None at all.
Camille merely absorbed the glare with an insufferable grin, looking for all the world as if Holland had just handed her a coveted prize. She had been waiting for that exact crack in the armor.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Camille replied, her shoulders lifting in a careless little shrug while her tone remained buttery smooth and far too pleased with itself. She looked completely relaxed, leaning against the center console with her knees angled inward, as though balancing a piece of dripping fruit inches away from the driver of a vehicle traveling at highway speed was the most natural thing in the world. “Just eat. It’s easier for both of us.”
Holland remained motionless. She didn’t utter a word, nor did she blink this time. A thick, suffocating silence settled over the front seat, tightening around her jaw like a vise.
“Ms. Lustrelle.”
Camille’s smile only widened, completely unbothered by the warning tone. The tines of the fork dipped a tiny fraction closer, encroaching upon the final inch of Holland’s personal space with the breezy confidence of someone who had never encountered a refusal she couldn't bypass.
“Nana made this for the both of us,” she said, her voice lifting into a light, melodic lilt. “She makes the best fruit mix. She’d cry if she knew you didn’t enjoy what she prepared for both of us.”
The emotional trap closed in with that infuriatingly soft precision Camille had perfected. It was weaponized sweetness, plain and simple—a calculated play on obligation that left Holland with almost no clean exit. Manipulation: wildly effective.
Holland released her breath in a long, measured exhale, a quiet surrender masked as deep irritation. Her foot pressed down slightly on the accelerator, the engine responding with a low thrum as the vehicle surged forward, as though increasing their momentum could somehow drown out the prickle of heat crawling up the back of her neck. Outside, the wind rushed over the sleek frame of the car, roaring softly past the slightly open window and tugging wild strands of dark hair across Holland's cheek, as if the elements themselves were conspiring to undo her neat, controlled exterior.
Camille’s laugh bubbled up from her chest, bright, amused, and maddeningly warm. “You know, we’ll never get there faster if you keep this up,” she teased, her wrist making a small, idle turn that sent the little silver fork twirling between her thumb and forefinger like she had an eternity to waste. “But that’s fine. I’ve got strong arms. I can hold this for three… maybe four hours, give or take.”
Holland silently swore to herself that she would not break. She would not glance to the right, she would not acknowledge the piece of fruit hovering in her peripheral vision, and she certainly would not give Camille the satisfaction of winning this ridiculous game.
It was a simple task. Don't eat the fruit.
She was a woman who navigated corporate crises, negotiated complex high-stakes acquisitions, and held her ground in boardrooms dominated by men who tried to talk over her. She possessed unwavering discipline, a formidable backbone, and a lifetime of carefully guarded pride. All she had to do was maintain her focus on the double yellow lines dividing the asphalt ahead.
Just breathe.
And force her mind away from the fact that the girl sitting next to her was leaning in so close that the faint, sweet scent of citrus and vanilla drifted across the gap.
She could feel Camille waiting.
She could feel that distinct, humming energy of mischief radiating off her like thermal waves rising off summer pavement, a fire Holland refused to draw near, yet found impossible to ignore. Ignore it. Ignore her. Stand firm.
Holland turned her head just a fraction of a degree, intending to deliver a brief, stern lecture that would put a definitive end to the display. But as her chin turned, her warm exhale brushed directly against the cool skin of Camille’s fingers resting on the handle of the fork.
At that tiny point of contact, Holland's train of thought shattered entirely.
Before logic could reassert its control, instinct took over, driven by a chaotic mixture of impatience and a sudden desire to end the standoff. Holland leaned across that last, impossible gap. Her lips parted, and the pear slice slid cleanly from the silver tines into her mouth.
Her lips closed around the fruit.
Heat flooded upward instantly, rushing behind her ears and burning across her cheeks so fast it felt like a complete physical betrayal. She was chewing. She was actively chewing a slice of fruit that Camille had just hand-fed her in the middle of an afternoon drive.
She stared straight through the glass at the empty highway ahead, her heart hammering against her ribs with erratic, heavy thuds while humiliation tangled with an unsettling, nameless sensation deep in her chest. And the pear piece made matters infinitely worse by tasting extraordinary, cool, crisp, bursting with bright citrus and sweet juice. Of course it tasted delicious. Of course Camille would shatter her carefully constructed peace using something completely delightful.
Camille remained still, her lips parted slightly and her hazel eyes wider than usual. She was watching the movement of Holland’s mouth with an intense, unblinking focus, as though observing something far more complex than a simple gesture.
“What?” Holland snapped, her throat tight, her voice catching on the single word as the heat spread down her collarbone. She kept her eyes locked on the road ahead, knowing that if she dared to look to her right, her remaining composure would disintegrate entirely.
“I… thought you’d take it with your hand. But that’s… much better,” Camille said, her chest rising as she swallowed hard.
The statement hung in the small cabin, heavy and charged with an unspoken weight that made the air feel suddenly dense.
Holland felt her stomach drop away into a cold void. She wished for nothing more than a sudden fissure to open in the pavement, swallowing the car whole. Why hadn't she used her hand? Why had she leaned in like that? What bizarre impulse had overtaken her disciplined, logical mind, causing her to act with such complete disregard for her own professional distance?
She cleared her throat, though the rasp was too faint to disguise her underlying agitation. The warmth in her face burned hotter still. Taking a deep, deliberate breath, she tightened her grip on the steering wheel until her wrists locked, attempting to force a sense of rigid order back into her body.
This was going to be an interminably long drive. The kind of journey that drained years off a person's life, the kind of moment that would resurface years later to provoke a deep groan of regret.
“Round two?” Camille’s voice drifted over again, sweet, bright, and loaded with underlying trouble. She speared another pale wedge from the container, her wrist loose and relaxed, a faint curve returning to her lips as though the outcome was already determined.
This time, Holland reached out her right hand, fingers extended to take the utensil directly and reclaim a sense of normal, rational control. A mature decision to handle the situation properly. But the moment Holland's fingertips brushed near, Camille neatly drew the fork back out of reach.
“Nope,” Camille whispered, her voice low and smooth, her eyes glittering with dark humor. “Just like last time.”
Holland went entirely rigid. She turned her head slowly, bringing her gaze to meet Camille’s. For a long, silent moment, their eyes locked—Camille projecting an air of total innocence and unyielding patience, Holland staring back with sheer disbelief and a desperate wish to exit the moving car.
Camille just offered that quiet, unbothered smile, looking as though she had all the time in the world to wait her out.
Holland closed her eyes briefly, letting out a faint breath. Fighting against this felt as useless as arguing with a storm—exhausting, counterproductive, and leaving her feeling completely exposed. None of her professional training had prepared her for this specific scenario. No corporate manual offered guidance on how to manage fruit-based psychological maneuvers.
She looked back toward the windshield, her back straight, her breathing slow and forced. She leaned her head back toward the right in a controlled movement, resigning herself to the motion.
Bite. Chew. Pear. Shame. Swallow. Her carefully guarded pride lying in pieces on the floorboards.
Camille’s voice dropped into a low, smooth murmur that seemed to vibrate through the quiet space between them. “Good girl.”
The world froze. Holland let out a sound that had no place in any formal setting—a choked, startled gasp as air caught in her throat.
She choked.
A real, physical cough tore through her chest. The pear slice had managed to ruin her dignity first and her airway second. She coughed hard, once, twice, one palm coming down against the top of the steering wheel as her lungs struggled to catch up. Her ribcage heaved, her eyes tearing up as the air refused to flow smoothly, leaving her trapped in a moment of harsh, rattling gasps and overwhelming embarrassment.
“Here,” Camille said instantly, her tone shifting into a calm, gentle focus with all the teasing stripped away.
A dark metal water bottle with a built-in straw appeared right in front of Holland’s face, held steady without a single tremble. Camille’s hand was calm, her arm extended in a fluid movement as if she had anticipated the moment long before it happened.
Holland looked down at the straw positioned perfectly near her mouth. Abandoning any further thought of protocol, she leaned forward, her lips wrapping around the silicone tip. Cold water flowed down her throat, cutting through the raw tightness and cooling the flush that had spread across her skin. Her pulse hammered inside her ears—loud, rapid, and impossible to ignore.
The coughing subsided, but Holland stayed frozen in place. She knew she ought to turn her attention back to the road, yet her eyes drifted upward.
Green eyes met hers, paired with a soft, quiet expression. It was a combination of lingering humor and an unexpected tenderness, a silent pull that drew her in without her consent.
“Chief, I know I’m beautiful,” Camille murmured, her tone rich with a warmth that could soften iron, “but you should focus on the road.”
Holland pulled back sharply as if she had touched something scalding hot. The heat flared again across her skin, her chest tightening as her fingers clamped around the wheel like a lifeline—the only thing keeping her anchored, the only thing preventing her from completely losing her grip.
“Say one more thing like that,” Holland muttered, her voice dropping low, “and you are walking.”
Camille let out a soft laugh, bright and genuine, as though the threat of being left along the highway was the most amusing concept she had ever heard.
“Sure, Chief. But you’d turn the car around in five minutes. You’d miss me.”
“I’d celebrate,” Holland said, attempting to maintain her composure.
“You’d miss me,” Camille sang softly, popping a small purple grape into her mouth, her eyes bright with uncontainable amusement.
Holland stared straight through the glass, her heart beating far too fast against her ribs, her chest locked tight as she tried and failed to restore her internal calm.
It was going to be an excruciatingly long journey. Unsettling, unpredictable, and entirely destabilizing to everything Holland had built. And Camille Lustrelle simply sat back, humming a light, smug melody—a soft, bright force with a sharp edge. Holland swallowed down another heavy breath. She was completely out of her depth.