Chapter 27 Starting to fall for her
Camille sank into her bed and pulled the comforter over her head, the heavy fabric swallowing her whole. She wanted to disappear, to vanish beneath its weight, to erase the roar of her own pulse and the memory that refused to leave her. The warmth of her room, usually soothing, felt confining tonight, the shadows curling closer as though aware of her inner turmoil. Her sanctuary had always been this place, the soft fortress of her bed, the quiet hum of life outside her walls, but it could not contain the fire that Holland Larson had ignited.
Her chest thumped, each beat a hammer striking her ribs. Her pulse raced, her fingers curled into the folds of the comforter, holding it tight, trying to anchor herself to something tangible. Her mind refused to relent, cycling over that moment in unending loops, each replay sharper than the last. Holland. The memory of her lips meeting hers was vivid, unyielding, scorching in its intensity. She could still taste it, the heat radiating outward, her body recalling the fleeting contact as if etched into her skin. Every nuance returned, the tilt of Holland’s head, the brush of her hair, and the sudden tension that had shot through her in those few seconds.
What had she done? Her own voice rang in her head, not in words but in a startled echo. What had possessed her to do it, to reach for the chief, to pull her in, to press her mouth to hers? Her hand went to her forehead, as if pressing there could stop the flood. She had been trying to explain herself, to steady the conversation, to make Holland see that she hadn’t burned the world down. But Holland had looked at her like she had. Like Camille had taken something precious and smashed it on the floor. Every word Holland had thrown at her had carried that edge, sharp and relentless, until Camille’s own composure had frayed and split.
She hadn’t planned anything. She had only wanted to be heard. But the air between them had changed, thickened, heated.
Her breath hitched at the memory, at how fast it had happened. One moment she had been speaking; the next, she had been moving. Her fingers had found Holland’s wrist, her arm, the fabric of her sleeve. She had felt the tremor in Holland’s body through her own palm. She had pulled. She had felt resistance, then none. And then Holland’s breath against her face, close enough to taste.
Camille pressed her palms to her face, eyes squeezed shut. She hadn’t even known what she was doing until she was in it, until the warmth of Holland’s lips had met hers. She hadn’t thought. She hadn’t measured. She had just acted, like something inside her had broken free.
A soft knock at the door cut through the storm inside her, tentative, polite, patient. Camille froze. Her hands clenched tighter around the comforter. She wanted to scream, to tell the world to leave her alone, but any noise could summon her parents.
Her mother had already hovered twice, fussing, voice soft but insistent, checking in with that worried love that always made Camille feel both protected and trapped. Her father had come by as well hands restless, and silent concern radiating off him in waves. But she couldn't tell them what she had done. She had fled home with a single purpose, to vanish, to hide in her sanctuary, and to ensure that Holland Larson could not follow her here.
A muffled, gentle voice drifted beneath the door, coaxing, tender. “Camille… dear?”
Camille’s body tensed. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone, to press herself into the bed and shut out the world entirely. She had turned off her phone. She had escaped from the office. And now, here she lay, hoping the familiar four walls of her room could protect her, from herself, and from the aftermath of what had just happened. But even here, even in the dim shadows of her sanctuary, Holland’s presence lingered like smoke in her lungs. The kiss burned in her memory, relentless, demanding attention.
The comforter tugged slightly at her legs, almost imperceptibly at first. She stiffened, gripping it tighter, willing herself to stay put, to hide. But the tug persisted, gentle yet persistent, coaxing her out of the cocoon she had created. Slowly, reluctantly, she let go, lifting her head just enough to see the familiar, warm face peering down at her.
“Nina,” she breathed, relief and apprehension warring in her chest. Her nanny, the woman who had been a quiet constant throughout her life, her presence radiating warmth, and her small frame carrying a calm strength that had always made Camille feel safe. Her eyes held understanding without words, patience without expectation.
“Darling,” Nina said, her voice soft and melodic, “everyone’s worried and we're all waiting for you to maybe come down for supper later. But I thought I’d check on you first.” She moved closer, hand extended gently. “Do you want to talk about it, love?”
Camille huffed softly, half-sullen, half-relieved, pulling the comforter closer around her. She shook her head, hiding back beneath it. “No,” she muttered, but her pulse betrayed her, the corners of her mind still smoldering with the memory she could not shake.
Nina didn’t press. She just settled on the edge of the bed, brushing a loose strand of hair from Camille’s face. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You can always talk to me, Camille. Always. Whatever it is, it stays between us.”
The assurance in Nina’s words wrapped around Camille like a soft, protective blanket. Slowly, she shifted, inch by inch, letting herself move. Her fingers clutched the comforter at her knees as she sat upright, exhaling a tremulous breath. For a moment, the fire of Holland’s kiss mingled with Nina’s calm presence, the tension in her chest easing slightly, enough to let her feel grounded.
“I… I did something really silly today,” Camille admitted, voice quiet and fragile, “something that… might… cost the company.” Her gaze fell, shy, hesitant, but defiant in its small way. “But… but I don’t regret it.”
Nina laughed softly, warm and teasing, reaching out to run a hand through Camille’s wild hair. “You don’t regret it?” she asked, eyes sparkling with affectionate curiosity.
Camille’s lips quivered into a small, guilty smile. She could still feel the memory pressing against her chest, the heat and pressure, the reckless boldness. “No,” she murmured. “If I had the chance… I’d do it again.”
Nina chuckled, tilting her head. “And what exactly did you do, silly girl?”
Camille twisted the edges of the comforter, nerves and excitement tangling. The room seemed smaller, the night deeper, the shadows pressing closer. Finally, she met Nina’s eyes, finding only warmth and patience, and the words spilled out. “I… kissed someone I shouldn’t have.”
Nina’s laughter rang light and musical, filling the room. Camille’s cheeks burned crimson. “Nina! Don’t laugh at me!” she exclaimed, mortified, hands clutching the sheets.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Nina said, raising her hands, but a giggle escaped her anyway. “I can’t help it. But… who was it?”
Camille groaned, hiding her face, but the truth pressed past her lips before she could stop it. “It’s… someone important.”
Nina leaned closer, teasing, eyes sparkling. “Who, love? Don’t hide it from me.”
Camille hesitated, fumbling with her fingers. She finally looked up, locking eyes with Nina, seeing only love, patience, and the quiet certainty that she would not be judged. “I… kissed... I... I can't tell you yet, Nina,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “She’s… one of a kind.”
Nina gasped, exaggeration lacing her tone. “Oh my! Are you… starting to fall for her, Camille?”
The words landed like a weight in Camille’s chest. Time stuttered. Her stomach twisted. Her pulse surged. The room felt impossibly small, the air thick, every heartbeat deafening. She froze, unable to speak, mind scrambling. Slowly, she shook her head. “No,” she said, reflexive denial masking a growing truth she wasn’t ready to confront. Her gaze darted away, then back, caught between herself and Nina’s knowing stare. Was it for Nina she denied it? Or for herself?
Camille sank back against the pillows, clutching the comforter, eyes shut, letting the memory crash over her again. Holland’s lips, the daring, the warmth, the bold insistence, it was as if her body remembered what her mind could not. She could feel the pull again, the lingering heat in her chest and fingers, the trembling that had followed the kiss, now replaying like a loop she could not stop. Every detail, every sensation, returned in waves, crashing over her awareness and refusing to relent.
The soft creak of the floor beneath Nina, the distant hum of the house, all became background to the blaze Holland had left in her mind. The kiss was electric, alive, insistent. It demanded acknowledgment, looping over and over, daring her to regret and desire it at the same time.
Nina’s hand rested gently on Camille’s shoulder, soft and steady, grounding her. “Whatever it is, darling,” she said, “We’ll face it together. You can tell me anything, and it stays here. Always.”
Camille exhaled shakily, letting her body relax against the warmth. The fear, the heat, the longing, they softened slightly under Nina’s presence, and she dared a small, tremulous smile. “I… I did something reckless,” she murmured again, the words grounding her, making the memory tangible. “Something that might have shaken everything up.”
Nina laughed gently, brushing another stray strand from Camille’s face. “And you don’t regret it?”
“No,” Camille said, voice steadier, cheeks flushed. “Not at all. If I had the chance… I’d do it again.”
The memory of Holland, the warmth of her lips, the daring that had sparked a fire inside Camille—each detail pressed on her, bright and consuming. And yet, with Nina there, with her hand on her shoulder, she could endure it. She could let the memory exist without letting it burn her whole.
Camille hugged her knees, pulling the comforter tight around her once more, letting Nina’s steady presence fill the spaces left by the chaos of her thoughts. The fire, the boldness, the forbidden taste lingered, insistent, yet she could finally breathe again. For a fleeting moment, she could hold the memory without being consumed by it. Would Holland hate her for this? Or remember it differently?
Camille couldn’t answer, but the thought twisted in her chest.