Page 86 of Finding Forever

It was the only way to retain any control over this impossible situation.

Fern nervously pickedat the fabric of her mint green Ralph Lauren day dress, with a fitted thin strapped top and a knee length lace trimmed skirt.

Cade reached over and covered her restless hand, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. Fern jumped in reaction to his touch. It was the first time he’d voluntarily touched her since she’d given him that head massage two weeks ago.

“You okay?” he asked beneath his breath and she slanted him a queasy little smile before nodding.

“I think so. I mean, I worry I’ll throw up all over Mike Holmes, or something equally humiliating,” she confessed wryly, before adding, “but I have hope that if it comes to that, I’ll be able to just swallow it back down.”

Her words surprised a bark of laughter from him, and it jerked her gaze up to his face in wonder. She couldn’t recall ever making him laugh before.

“If it’s any consolation, I feel pretty much the same. This isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse, you know?”

“But you handled those other interviews so well,” she reminded him, thinking back to their Zoom interviewswith journalists from WSJ and Bloomberg. There’d been others as well, smaller financial publications as well as daily newspapers in the UK, US, and South Africa. They’d even done a voice only interview live on one of the more well-known international news media channels.

“So did you,” he said in answer to her comment and her brow furrowed.

“That wasn’t in front of live studio audience,” she pointed out.

“Exactly.” He nodded as if he’d proven a point.

“You’re nervous about the audience?” she asked in surprise. He always seemed so self-assured, like nothing could faze him. She’d had him pegged as a confident public speaker.

“I’m not a celebrity, Fern, this doesn’t come easily to me. Nobody will know who the hell we are. And nobody will care. We’re going to bore the audience to tears, while they wait for whomever the big-ticket mystery guest is.”

The Mike Holmes Show was famous for its frank, cozy chats with world famous celebrities. Pop divas, socialites, movie stars. Like Cade, Fern had serious misgivings about doing this. Although until this very moment, she hadn’t realized that Cade shared those misgivings.

And that only made her more nervous.

“You’re not instilling me with a great deal of confidence here, Cade.”

He gave her a wry little smile, before shaking his head.

“Sorry. But we’re in this together. Remember?” he prompted with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Surrounded by anacondas and great white sharks,” she agreed with a solemn nod and he gave her hand another reassuring squeeze.

They’d muddled along together well enough over the last couple of weeks, it had been mostly a whirlwind of interviews, with little space to ruminate or fret over their living situation orwhat the future held. The interviews had, indeed, instilled a sense of camaraderie with him in Fern. A belief that they truly were ‘in this together’.

It hadn’t really changed much between them, but it had made her feel like part of a team. Even with this final—she hoped—hoop they had to jump through, knowing that he harbored the same doubts about this particular interview as she did, she felt less fearful and more able to face the horrible hour to come.

They’d been ushered into the Green Room—after being slathered with make-up—where a young, harassed looking production assistant had pointed them to the snacks, offered them drinks, and had run through what to expect. He’d fired a plethora of distracted information at them, his eyes trained on his tablet, asking iratedo we have an ETA on their arrivaltype questions into his headset. After a few more hurried instructions he had left Fern and Cade alone in this massive, lavishly outfitted room with life-sized posters of previous megastar guests on the walls.

“Maybe we could just leave? I feel like a clown. That guy really caked on the make-up,” Fern said, getting up to pace the length of the room, wringing her hands and worrying at her upper lip with her teeth.

“You look beautiful,” Cade reassured. He’d remained seated on the burgundy leather couch, watching her movements the way a lazy cat would an agitated mouse. He was wearing all black, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d had his hair cut just after their arrival in London the day before. And whenever Fern looked at him, her palms itched to stroke that sleek, military short pelt of black hair.

She found him utterly diverting. So beautiful it physically hurt to look at him. She could only glance at him for a few seconds at a time, afraid that if she allowed herself to stare for too long, she’d simply never look away again. She longed tocurl up in his lap, unbutton his shirt and snuggle up against his warm, hard chest. She ached to feel his arms around her again, she’d never felt more secure than when he’d held her.

And she hated her weakness for wanting all of that.

To distract herself, she summoned up the guts to inspect her reflection in one of the many full-length mirrors dotted around the room. Fern hated to admit it, but—even though it felt like the make-up had been pancaked on—she looked nice. The make-up artist had added a slight rosy flush to her pale cheeks and soft blush pink color to her lips. While he’d used more products than she’d been able to keep up with, it didn’t look like she was wearing much make-up at all. He’d given her a very light smokey eye, enhanced by the black of her lashes, and a dewy fresh complexion with minimal, flattering pink tones everywhere else. The soft, pretty green of the deceptively simple A-line dress with fitted long sleeves and a high collar, that she was wearing deepened the color of her eyes and complemented her skin tone.

Cade couldn’t stop staringat her. She was his opposite in every way. Light to his darkness, slender and fragile compared to his bulk, air to his earth, water to his fire. And despite the fact that only a few of those things could coexist harmoniously, he was drawn like a moth to her moonlight. Ironic, really, since he’d once thought of Fern as the moth. Now all he saw was a beautiful butterfly with translucent wings, too fragile to fly solo, but too lovely to cage.

He knew that her morning sickness had mostly disappeared over the last couple of weeks and with its departure, her skin had started to glow with health. Strictly rationed—by him, despite her protestations—daily exposure to the sun, had added the faintest undertone of honey to her complexion,enhancing that beautiful healthy glow. He found it extremely hard to look away from her these days and even harder to keep his hands to himself.

She started pacing again, chewing her lip, wringing her hands, muttering to herself. He didn’t like seeing her like this. He’d read that stress—which could wreak havoc on even the healthiest of immune systems—could play a role in pregnancy complications and he hated that he’d been unable to protect her from the anxiety of the last couple of weeks.

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