The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(34)
Daisy shrugged. “I made some before I came over. I had no idea how appropriate and mildly amusing it would be.”
I put up my hands. “I’m not showing anyone my dick.”
“You’re no fun,” Daisy said, popping another kernel in her mouth. “Why is he supposed to show you his baby-maker?”
“He saw my boobs.”
“Then she’s right, big guy. Whip it out and let the lady have a good look.”
I ignored Cameron’s popcorn-eating friend. “Cameron, you can’t have a revolving door right now. You’ve got people and dogs and who knows what the fuck else wandering around your house.”
“Don’t keep trying to turn this around on me,” she said. “I already told you my friends have the code.”
“And I told you I’m sorry for looking at your boobs. I’m just trying to do my job.”
The amusement disappeared from Cameron’s eyes. “It’s fine. What time is it? Are you insanely early, or am I late?”
“I was only about ten minutes early. Brandy told me six.”
She grabbed her phone off the kitchen counter and swiped the screen a few times. “I’m late. Fantastic.”
“Where are you off to?” Daisy asked.
“Art show at Wynwood Walls. I’m supposed to be seen with a bodyguard so the random thug from the parking garage knows I’m being protected now.”
Daisy’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Cameron again. “Or so whoever thought they could fuck with you knows they’d be stupid to try it again.”
I gave Daisy a subtle nod and put her on my mental allies list.
Cameron had her boss face on. No hint of what she was thinking. “D, can you help me pick out a dress?”
“Sure, but it would be more fun if you picked something from my closet.”
“You’re like five inches shorter than me,” Cameron said, heading out of the kitchen. “Most of your dresses won’t cover my ass. Hell, most of your dresses barely cover your ass.”
“That’s what makes them fun,” Daisy said and followed her out.
I slumped onto a stool and ran my hands up and down my face, trying to get the image of Cameron’s fantastic rack out of my head.
14
Cameron
Despite Daisy’s protests that it was boring, I’d chosen a tasteful black sleeveless sheath dress. Maybe it lacked flash, but it was appropriate for the CEO of Spencer Aeronautics at tonight’s event. And my sapphire blue heels spiced up my look quite nicely, if I said so myself.
The Wynwood Arts District was north of downtown in what had once been a rundown neighborhood filled with textile factories. Now it was one of Miami’s artsy hotspots, with edgy street art, galleries, trendy bars, and studios featuring artists in action. Tonight was the premier of Carla Santiago’s latest collection—a local sculpture artist who was known for her vibrant use of color.
Solar-powered lights lit the outdoor courtyard and the permanent installation of large wall murals made for an interesting backdrop. Carla’s brightly colored abstract sculptures sat on concrete pedestals, each with a plaque displaying the piece’s name. I stood in front of one entitled Reflections on the Existential Meandering of Water and Time.
Jude stood at a moderate distance, looking frustratingly handsome in his light jacket and slacks—every bit the bodyguard. Feet apart, arms at his sides, eyes taking in everything.
I didn’t know if he was acting so serious because he wanted everyone in attendance to know exactly why he was here—in case the elusive mastermind behind the parking garage attack happened to see him—or if the distance between us was due to the boobs incident earlier.
Maybe it was a bit of both.
I took a sip of my martini and pretended to study the sculpture. Maybe I should have been more embarrassed about Jude seeing me almost naked. I wasn’t an exhibitionist, but I was comfortable with nudity. In private, anyway. Growing up in Miami, I was accustomed to seeing men and women in barely-there outfits. String bikinis and Speedos were standard attire for much of the year.
At work and in public I always dressed professionally. I was the CEO of an aerospace company, and I was exceedingly careful to maintain the right image. I wore business suits even on weekends if I left the house. But home was where I could let my hair down—or take my top off. Most of my home staff had probably seen me topless at some point. I only hired people I trusted implicitly, and a little nudity didn’t bother me.
But I’d obviously made Jude uncomfortable. I’d thought we’d started to establish a relationship that was a little friendlier. More familiar. He’d started to feel more like a companion than a bodyguard.
Not tonight. He was all business, and I had a feeling that was my fault.
A man I recognized by sight and reputation wandered over to the piece I was pretending to admire. Nigel Houghton was a hotel mogul based in London, if I remembered correctly. He wore his button-down shirt and slate-gray slacks well. Neatly trimmed dark hair. Enough stubble to give him a masculine edge while still looking sleek and polished.
As far as I knew, he wasn’t part of Aldrich’s social circle, but I still felt a flash of worry that he’d seen the sex tape. My eyes darted to Jude, still standing off to the side. He was watching me, but didn’t meet my gaze.