Suited (St. Martin Family Saga) by Gina Watson

his thoughts and tuned in to her words. She was talking about balustrades and damask linens. Camp didn’t care about the details, just the overall look and above all, the cost.
    “How much is the cost per room?”
    Her phone beeped again, and she picked it up to check the screen. Her lips thinned and her forehead creased. She straightened herself up and looked Camp square in the eye. “I don’t have that information completed in detail just yet.”
    Camp cut her off with a raised hand. “I don’t have time to meet with you until you have all of the details in order. You come highly recommended, but maybe you should tend to whatever it is that’s distracting you so you can focus on what I’m paying you for.”
    She started to speak, but he cut her off. “You may go.”
    Her phone continued to beep. Camp loathed cellphones and especially people who couldn’t live without being attached to one. She stepped into the hallway, ignoring his directive to go. With a worry-tinged voice, she answered her phone.
    Camp sat on the couch near the windows. He couldn’t believe the nerve of this woman. Did she really conduct herself like this at all her gigs? He couldn’t see how she would have created such a following if she did. He listened to her say, “It’s in his backpack—did you check there?”
    He assumed she had a child, but he didn’t see a ring. Not caring about her privacy, since she didn’t seem to care, he listened to the one-sided conversation.
    “Did he drink it already?” Her voice was full of concern. “Put him on the phone, please.” Her voice calmer, she said, “Hey, Andrew. What’s going on?” When she caught Camp’s eye, she pivoted, turning her back to him. “Well, I can’t do that; I’m in Lake Charles until Sunday. Remember I wrote it for you on the calendar?” She sighed. “So will you please just drink the grape?” She inhaled slow and deep. “Thank you. I love you.”
    She slipped the phone into her pocket and returned to stand in front of Camp. “Mr. St. Martin”—she overenunciated every vowel of his name—“have you ever had a bad day?”
    She was tapping her foot, waiting for a reply. The audacity of the woman. He’d give her an answer. He stood and said, “Everyone has bad days, but one mustn’t let personal life interfere with business. It’s all about balance.”
    Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened on an arrested exhale. “Balance. Really?” She cocked her head. Her voice was louder and clear when she said, “Funny you should say such a thing because I heard when you found your wife in bed with another man, you botched a crucial element in the Dunbar development that ended up costing them thousands of dollars.” She started to walk toward the table but whirled around and jabbed a finger toward him. “Haven’t you ever heard those who live in glass houses mustn’t throw stones? Honestly, who even talks like that?”
    Camp was seething mad and jumped up, advancing on her with an anger-fueled pace. What she said was true, but he thought no one knew about the fuck-up since his father had diligently worked to cover it up. He wanted to wring her smooth ivory neck for mentioning the flaming fiasco.
    “Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t speak to me like that.” Camp’s voice was a shout.
    Her voice was raspy when she said, “You can’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” She gathered her things and hurried to the door.
    He grabbed her upper arm, jerking her back. “Hey, we’re not done.”
    She yanked her arm out of his grasp. “Oh yes, we are. I’ll send you a bill for my initial sketches and quotes.”
    Camp narrowed his eyes at her. Still yelling, he said, “You didn’t give me any fucking quotes.”
    She turned and stomped up to him. “You want a fucking quote? Here’s one!”
    She slapped his face. Hard.
    Camp couldn’t believe what had just happened. He held his palm to his warm cheek. The crazy bitch had slapped him. Her eyes