Tempt Our Fate: A Small Town Enemies To Lovers Billionaire Romance (Sutten Mountain)

“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to feel my feet after this,” Lexi whines from my side. I’d recruited her and Bri’s help the moment Camden waltzed out of my kitchen, knowing I’d need more backup to execute my plan for the night. I hated asking Bri to stay past closing, but we needed the help, and she was excited for the extra money.

The two of us work at twisting dough into mini soft pretzels. The dough has been enriched with garlic and rosemary in a way that makes the baked goods seem more luxurious. Camden’s gallery opening officially started an hour ago, but we’ve been serving a couple of different finger foods at a time to allow us to offer a variety of options.

So far, people seem to be enjoying the food, but I agree with Lexi. I’m exhausted.

“At least you had the day off,” I counter, brushing butter mixed with rosemary on each of the shaped pretzels. “I’ve been on my feet since four this morning, and there’s a great possibility that my feet will fall off.”

Lexi laughs, grabbing a pan filled with precooked pretzels in each hand and walking them over to one of our ovens. We managed to call in Lauren as well, and she and Bri are busy over at the gallery, serving the food and making sure it all goes smoothly there.

With the pretzels in the oven, I turn to the pesto mozzarella rolls I have cooling on a rack. I put my hand over them, satisfied with the temperature they’ve cooled to. “Okay, I’m going to go run these over,” I tell Lexi. It’s my turn to pass them out, even if I really don’t want to go next door because I’m far too interested in watching Camden in his element than I should be. I can’t help it. The guy is a raging asshole—probably the biggest one I’ve ever met. But damn, I don’t know how he turns on the charm when working. It’s intriguing to watch everyone in his vicinity gravitate toward him. They eat out of his palm. It’s transfixing.

“Good luck over there. Those people are feral for the food,” Lexi warns.

I can’t help but laugh at her remark. The people at his opening are ravenous for everything we’ve made tonight. We’re trying our best to keep up with their hunger, but damn, spending money apparently makes people starved.

Before I go, I look at my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator. My cheeks are flushed from working so hard, and my smooth hair from earlier in the day is gone. Left in its wake is a frizzy mess. Sighing, I take two seconds to try and tame it. I attempt to pull it back in a chic, slicked-back bun. But it doesn’t look as chic as I’d imagined it would.

“Would you rather me take this round?” Lexi asks from behind me.

“No.” I sigh, wiping a bit of flour from my forehead. “This is just going to have to work.”

“I think you look hot as hell. The bun looks good.”

“I don’t have to look hot. I just don’t want to look like I just got electrocuted as I walk around a bunch of people with expensive blowouts.”

“Honestly, they could look better. I feel bad for them if they’re paying good money to have their hair look like that.”

I laugh because she has a point. “I just wish I didn’t look like I’m about to go to church in this outfit.” Luckily, I keep an extra outfit at the shop just in case I have an event I forgot about. Unfortunately for me, I forgot that my spare outfit is a dress that does nothing to accentuate my body. It’s tight around my boobs, and the fabric hugs me oddly in other places. It’s like wearing an ill-fitting paper bag. Just another reason I feel severely out of place at Camden’s stupid opening.

But the people there probably won’t even spare me a second glance while I serve them, so it doesn’t really matter. At least that’s what I tell myself as I pick up a platter and rest it on my shoulder. Every single person at the event feels like they don’t belong in this, and I hate it. I want the rooms to be filled with locals, people who could tell you who makes the best lasagna in town or who is sleeping with who despite being married to other people.

That’s what it was like when the Richardsons still owned it. Sure, people vacationing would stop in. But it still felt like a little piece of Sutten. What Camden has created doesn’t feel like home. Not in the slightest.

Lexi follows me out of the kitchen, holding the door open as I walk over to the gallery. The awning is black with boring block letters. It looks funny next to my bright pink awning. I’ve got greenery outside the front, vines crawling up the fixture to make the atmosphere feel even more cozy.

Next to me sits Ms. Lori’s flower shop. It’s also full of life and color. Camden’s place sticks out next to our buildings like a sore thumb.

A rush of hot air hits me when I walk through the open door of the gallery. With all of the lights shining on the art and all of the people, it feels way warmer in here than it does outside. It’s part of the reason I threw my hair up, needing it off my neck as I carry around the tray and serve people.

These rich people are hungry vultures. The moment they spot me with a tray of new food, they beeline for me, all of them picking the food off the tray before I even have a chance to tell them what it is.

“Are these gluten-free?” one of the women asks, eyeing the rolls like she’s starved.

“Uh, no,” I answer.

She pouts, jutting her bottom lip out so far that it leaves a lipstick stain in the cleft of her chin. “There should be gluten-free options here,” she tells her friend. All her friend does is nod, her mouth too full of the mozzarella ball to say anything else.

I step away from them, hoping to leave the conversation behind. There are plenty of people who don’t care what’s in the food, and they take it without asking any questions.

I didn’t know art could make people so hungry.

Stopping next to a large group of people who all want to take a roll, I let my eyes roam the space. It feels so…clean in here. The walls are white, the concrete has been painted white, and the only splashes of color are the art.

And even a lot of the art is void of color. It’s charcoal or black and white paint. The little bit of color on the walls catches my eye. There’s a section with three different paintings that are vivid. If I didn’t have a swarm of people around me, I’d take a step closer and take a look. Not a single piece of art on the walls has caught my attention tonight except these.

Just then, I see a large figure step into my eyeline. He stands with two other people, the three of them staring at the same pieces I was just admiring from afar.

Camden is magnetic. I can’t look away. I credit it to the fact he appears so different tonight. He seems actually charming. He speaks to a couple, but the woman looks like she wants nothing to do with the man standing next to her, despite his attempt to pull her closer to him by wrapping his arm around her.

She doesn’t notice; she’s hanging on to every single word Camden says as he looks at the art in front of him. He’s passionate about art, that much I can tell. But this looks like something more. He seems to talk about the art the way I talk about Wake and Bake. Like he’s put his heart and soul into it.

I hate it, but I can’t help but think maybe he’s different than what he seems. At least he is tonight. I’m sure around me, he’ll go back to his true personality of being an asshole. Even though I can tell my tray is empty and I should go get another round of food, I can’t tear my eyes away from him as I wonder…what is his true personality? Is it the raging asshole I’ve encountered a few times? Or is it this man tonight? The one who actually cracks a smile when the woman clearly asks something about the piece they’re looking at.

I’ll probably never know for sure. Our relationship has been established, but it’s fun to wonder.

I’m so lost in watching him do his thing that I don’t notice the three men who walk up to me.

“You’re out of food,” one man says, his tone rather rude. His voice takes me by surprise, making me jump and lose my grip on the tray for a moment.

“It appears I am.” The tray is completely empty except for one sad mozzarella ball that’s been unraveled, the pesto dripping out all over the tray.

“So are you going to get more, or are you just going to stand here looking clueless?”

My jaw snaps shut. Oh no he didn’t.

The guy who I’m tempted to put into his place looks to his friends. He laughs, running a hand over his protruding gut. They laugh with him, even though it seems forced and they both appear rather uncomfortable with his harsh words.

“Hunter really needs to get himself better help, doesn’t he?” the man continues.

“What was that?” My pulse angrily thrums through my veins. I can hear the thumping sound in my ears.

The man’s beady eyes widen as he realizes that I’m not some meek human who will let him berate them without sticking up for themselves.

“I said, Hunter needs to get himself more competent help.”

I let the tray slip from my hands with a wide smile on my face. It crashes to the ground with a loud smack to the concrete. The lone mozzarella ball covered in pesto flies in the air and lands with a plop against the pompous asshole’s shiny shoe.

He lets out an inaudible string of curses as he looks down at the mess on the floor.

“Stupid bitch. You did that on purpose.”

We start to catch the attention of people around us, but I don’t care if they’re watching or not. I’m not going to let this man talk down to me because he thinks he’s better than me. “No,” I lie, sidestepping a bit until I grab two full champagne flutes from a nearby table. “But this is.” And then I go against every moral my mom ever taught me, and I toss the champagne on the guy.

He screeches, the sound hilarious.

“You worthless little—”

“Leave,” a voice commands from behind the guy. He steps aside, allowing Camden to come into view.

Even though he’s soaking wet with champagne, the guy stands in place, looking from Camden to me. “You heard him. Leave.” He has the audacity to feel smug. If I knew how to throw a punch, I’d knock him right in his terrible veneers.

A pit forms in my stomach because for a split second, I’d hoped Camden was better than these people. There’s no way he didn’t hear that asshole call me name after name, resorting me down to nothing. But he’s one of them. Of course he’d tell me to go when he was the one who begged me to help to begin with.

I take a shaky breath due to the adrenaline running through my body. I look at Camden, shaking my head at him. “You’re no better than him.” I seethe with disgust. I take a step forward, hitting my shoulder with his as I make my way away from these people who don’t deserve to be in this town.

A large hand grabs me by the bicep, strong fingers digging into my skin and making me come to an abrupt stop. Shocked, I look up and make eye contact with Camden, wondering why he has a viselike grip on me. I hate that I can’t get out of the hold. I hate that he might be able to feel the shakiness of my arms and mistake it for fear instead of what it truly is—rage.

My attempt to make eye contact with him fails because he’s looking over my shoulder at the terrible excuse of a man behind me. “No,” Camden clips, his voice so calm and collected that it’s almost scary. “She stays. You leave, Jason.”

The guy makes a sputtering sound—or maybe it’s from me. I don’t truly know because voices begin to whisper around us. Maybe the onlookers are just as confused as I am.

“Now,” Camden barks, his voice louder this time.

I try to pull my arm from his once again, but he holds on even tighter. This time, there’s a sting from his fingertips pushing deep into my skin. My feet stay planted as Camden stares daggers over my head. Anger sizzles in the air between us as I try to wrap my head around the fact I think Camden—the man who has been an asshole to me from the moment we met—is sticking up for me.