Page 13 of Cold Feet
"Always the strategist," he said, and now I could definitely hear both amusement and admiration in his voice. "See you at practice, then."
He turned to leave, but paused at the threshold. "Oh, and Lana?"
"Yes?"
"Don't worry about the ring. I have excellent taste," he grinned.“
Oh gawd.” My mind instantly shot back to the massive celebration after we won the Cup, and the light-up Slashers bow tie Cam had worn with his tuxedo.
Before I could respond, he was gone, leaving me with the distinct impression that Cameron Murphy had already managed to veer off-script on our carefully constructed plan.
This was not good.
I gathered my presentation materials, my mind racing ahead to our next steps. As PR Director, I'd orchestrated countless strategic narratives for the team – manufactured rivalries for media hype, carefully curated comeback stories, even the occasionalmisdirection to protect player privacy (Ahem, Logan.) But this was different. This was personal.
This was pretending to be in love with the only man in the world who'd ever made me wonderwhat if?
As I walked back to my office, my heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor, I couldn't shake the feeling that despite all my meticulous planning, this situation was already slipping beyond my control – just like my heart had that night in Boston ten years ago.
Professional suicide or not, there was no backing out now. The NDAs were signed. The plan was in motion.
Chapter 4
The next day was Saturday, but in PR, weekends are just another workday with better lighting.
I pulled into the parking lot of Coconut Charlie's – a beachside bar that somehow managed to be both a tourist trap and a local favorite. With its weathered wooden deck, thatched roof, and unobstructed view of the Gulf's impossibly blue water, it was just secluded enough for our purposes without seeming suspicious.
I'd chosen this spot deliberately: public enough to be seen if we wanted to be, but casual enough that our meeting wouldn't seem staged. Plus, if anyone recognized Cam, it could look like we were just grabbing lunch, not plotting an elaborate deception that could potentially derail both our careers.Okay, fine.Even though I'd written this stupid plan myself I was super hesitant to pull the trigger.
I spotted Cam already seated at a corner table on the deck, sunglasses perched on his nose, baseball cap pulled low – his version of incognito. Even with the disguise, he was unmistakable: broad shoulders, straight posture, that distinctiveI just want to bite youJensen Ackles-esque jawline that had graced so many of my marketing campaigns.
As I approached, he looked up and smiled, rising slightly from his seat in that old-school gentlemanly way he had. How he always stood when a woman entered the room, how he pulled out chairs, opened doors. Small, courteous habits that contradicted the bad-boy public image I'd helped create.
"You're early," I noted, slipping into the seat across from him and placing my oversized tote on the extra chair.
"Figured we should look eager for this date," he replied with a half-smile that did annoyingly pleasant things to his already unfair face. "Plus, I secured us an awesome table. Visible but not center ice."
I glanced around, noting his strategic choice – sheltered enough for a private conversation but with a clear line of sight fromboth the beach and the main bar area. The aroma of coconut rum and grilled mahi-mahi drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the salt air.
"Nicely done," I admitted. "Anyone recognize you yet?"
"Couple of autographs. The usual." He pushed a menu toward me. "I ordered us some drinks. Hope that's okay."
On cue, a server appeared with two glasses – what looked like a beer for Cam and a fruit-filled concoction for me that made me pause mid-reach.
"Mango margarita," Cam explained as I examined the drink. "That's the one you get at the after-game parties, right? Double sugar on the rim, no dorky umbrella?" He shrugged at my surprised expression. "What? I pay attention."
The realization that he remembered such a specific detail from some random night sent an unexpected warmth through me that had nothing to do with the Florida heat. I pushed the feeling aside and took a sip. It was perfect.
"We should get started," I said, pulling up my meticulously organized notes. "We need to establish our backstory. Something believable but not too complicated."
Cam nodded, leaning forward with surprising focus. "So how long have we been secretly madly in love?"
I rolled my eyes at his phrasing. "Eight months seems reasonable. Long enough to be serious, recent enough that keeping it quiet makes sense."
"Eight months," he repeated, nodding. "So we reconnected around February, maybe after the All-Star game? I remember you wore that blue dress at the reception."
I stared at him. Ihadworn a blue dress to that event – teal silk the color of the ocean with an asymmetrical neckline. The fact that he remembered made my heart take an extra beat that I immediately blamed on the frozen margarita.Chilly.
