Page 10 of Cold Feet
His smile – slow, devastating, and,fuck, entirely too knowing – made my knees forget how to function properly.
"That,” he said, “might be the easiest part."
As I walked out of Breakaway Bar, leaving Cam Murphy sitting in our corner booth with that enigmatic grin, I told myself the shiver that ran down my spine was from the October chill in the air. Not from the way he'd looked at me like I was something he'd been searching for his whole life.
I mean, itwasonly 84 degrees.
This was just business.
So why did it already feel like it was going to be everything but?
Chapter 3
Iarrived at the arena a full hour earlier than usual the next morning, needing time alone in my office to prepare. This wasn't just another media strategy meeting or damage control session. This was professionally reckless, personally dangerous, and absolutely, completely unprecedented.
Five copies of the NDA and agreement sat neatly in folders on my desk, each with a Post-it flag marking the signature lines. My laptop displayed a PowerPoint I'd spent half the night creating – " Image Rehabilitation: Murphy Protocol." I'd gone through twelve different titles before settling on one that sounded appropriately corporate and didn't include words like "fake fiancée," "how to lie to America," or "completely insane career move."
The clock on my wall ticked like the countdown timer on a bomb. Each second brought me closer to officially agreeing to deceive the public, the media, and my own family. The PR director in me knew this was a calculated risk with a big upside for Cam and the team, and also, the potential to, you know, destroy my career. The woman in me – the one who still remembered how it felt to wake up alone after that night in Boston – knew this was emotional quicksand.
I smoothed my pencil skirt, checked my reflection in my compact mirror one last time, and headed to the small conference room I'd booked for this meeting – not the main one where anyone could see us gathered, but a smaller space tucked away in the administrative wing, where curious eyes wouldn't find us.
Coach Sully arrived first, as expected. In the fifteen years he'd coached the Slashers, he'd never been late to a meeting. His perpetual scowl softened slightly when he saw me arranging presentation materials.
"Morning, Lana. How we feeling about this circus?" he asked, dropping his worn playbook on the table.
"Optimistic but cautious," I replied with more confidence than I felt.
He grunted noncommittally and took a seat. "Your brother finds out, I'm claiming complete ignorance."
"Understood," I said dryly.
Coach Rocco arrived next, smelling faintly of coffee and the wintergreen liniment he always carried for players' muscle strains. At sixty-eight, Rocco had been with the organization longer than anyone, transitioning from player to assistant coach to hockey Yoda with the kind of grace I could only hope to emulate in my own career.
"Morning, kiddo," he greeted me with his usual gruff affection.
Rocco settled into his chair with a slight grimace, "Been around this game forty-five years, but I’ve never seen anything like what you kids are cooking up. Your pops know about this scheme?"
I froze slightly. "Let's keep Frank Decker out of this conversation for everyone’s continued good health.”
"Smart girl," Rocco chuckled. "Man finds out someone's fake-marrying the Decker princess, there'll be bodies."
Marcus Thompson and Ryan Keller arrived together, deep in conversation about salary caps, and took seats on opposite sides of the table – GM and agent, natural adversaries in most situations, now unusual allies in this scheme. Marcus nodded at me professionally while Ryan flashed his practiced agent smile.
Cam walked in, nodding casually to the rest of us. Gone was yesterday's rumpled post-practice casualness. Today he wore a midnight blue suit and a crisp white button-down that emphasized his broad shoulders and made his eyes look like the water at some exclusive tropical resort that charged $25,000 a night. His hair was styled instead of shower-damp, and he'd actually shaved. Even his socks seemed to have gotten the memo – navy blue with tiny hockey sticks, subdued by his usual standards.
He looked like a man taking this seriously. He also looked like a man who was born to be on the cover of GQ, preferably in his underwear, which made it slightly harder to stay focused around him.
Our eyes met briefly as he took the seat directly across from me. I nodded professionally, ignoring the weird flutter in my stomach. Just nerves.
"Thank you all for being here," I began once everyone was settled, pressing the power button on my presentation clicker perhaps a bit harder than necessary. "I knowthis is an unusual situation, but I believe with proper management, we can achieve our objectives while minimizing risks."
I distributed the folders like I was handing out death sentences, keeping my voice steady and businesslike despite the absurdity of what we were about to formalize.
"What you have before you is a non-disclosure agreement covering the arrangement between Cam and myself, as well as detailed terms of how this... partnership will function. I'd like everyone to review and sign before we proceed further."
The rustling of papers filled the small room as everyone flipped through the document. Coach Sully's eyebrows rose slightly at the clause about physical boundaries, but he didn't comment. Ryan nodded approvingly at the media strategy sections. Marcus flipped straight to the liability paragraphs – typical GM move.
Cam, however, read each page carefully, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. I found myself watching the way his fingers turned each page, remembering how those same hands had once traced every inch of my skin.
