Page 16 of Unwrapped
While I worked hard for my pharmacist license, my intellectual valor doesn’t hold the same weight as it used to. Yes, I’m proud of myself for finishing the program when there were so many times I wanted to quit. The problem is, my perseverance no longer feels like much of an accomplishment. At least, not since the coveted psychiatric pharmacist position slipped through my fingers.
Unlike my friends, my heart isn’t in this profession anymore. Pharmacy isn’t my calling—it’s a job. An obligation. Jude was sweet enough to pay off my loans. While he claimed it was a gift, I feel like a fraud for accepting his money. How selfish would I be to stop practicing when he did that for me? Not to mention, it wouldn’t be the first time he came to my rescue.
Shuddering, I push memories of that drunken night back into the darkened corners of my mind. Jude was my literal savior, and I’ll forever be thankful for his friendship. Until I have enough money tucked aside to repay him, I’m stuck going through the motions in a career I’ve grown to hate.
Sighing, I pour myself a cup of coffee, then resettle on the stool at the island. It’s three o’clock in the morning. The cabin is silent, save for the gurgling coffee maker. After tossing and turning for hours, I figured I should be productive instead. Books don’t write themselves. I need to put in the work, even if it’s only a paragraph or two during my early morning writing sprints. I keep telling myself one day things will be different. My unfinished manuscript fills my laptop’s screen like the beacon of hope I ache for.
One way or another, I’ll make my dream a reality.
For the first time in ages, my fingertips fly over the keys, the words pouring out of me like a waterfall. Last night’s run-in with Dean ignited the angsty flame my tears had no hope of dousing. Even now, my eyes still sting from crying myself to sleep.
A noise from overhead makes me perk up. Someone is moving around upstairs, probably making a bathroom trip. I turn my focus back to my words until I hear the stairs creak a few minutes later.
Footsteps approach, pausing in the doorway. “It’s the ass crack of dawn. What the hell are you doing?”
I glance over my shoulder at Dean. “Using my laptop.”
He chuckles and closes the distance between us. “I can see that.” My stomach flutters when he rests his hip against the counter. “I thought the goal this weekend was for everyone to disconnect from work.”
“This isn’t work.” I force myself not to ogle at how sexy he looks in a white T-shirt and pajama pants, his thick hair a tousled mess. “It’s for pleasure.”
“I think most people’s idea of pleasure at three a.m. is vastly different from,” he motions to the computer, “whatever it is you’re doing.”
I shrug and meet his gaze. “What can I say? I guess I’m unique.”
His warm smile reaches the corners of his eyes. “That goes without saying.”
I give him an exaggerated eyeroll. “Yeah, OK.”
His smile fades. “Why are you being so cynical?”
“Don’t you know? I’m Camille Monet. It’s dictated by my last name.”
“Huh?” He frowns and tilts his head to the side.
“I guess you never watchedClueless.” I release a bitter sigh. “Like a Monet, I’m moderately interesting and appealing from afar, but boring and sloppy up close.”
“What the fuck gave you that idea?”
The vehemence in his tone startles me, but I shrug it off. “Your brother. Pretty sure he used those words more than once.”
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his hands into fists. “I know you don’t want me apologizing for him, but I’m really sorry he said that. It couldn’t be further from the truth.” His eyes fly open and burn into mine. “If it wasn’t a blizzard out there, I’d drive up to Albany and punch him in the face.”
“I appreciate your offer,” I touch his muscular forearm, “but he’s not worth the assault charge.”
“I’m serious, Camille.”
When his intense gaze doesn’t falter, I shift on my stool. “Thanks, but it’s fine. I’m over it.”
“Well, I’m not. It’ll be a long time before I forget what I just heard.”
I sigh and drag a hand over my face. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so bitter. I slept like shit, and I’m a little cranky.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He points to my computer again. “What are you writing?”
“A book.”
My weak admission earns me a nudge. “You say that like it’s not the coolest shit ever.”
