Page 17 of Cold Feet
"Okay, that's actually amazing," he admitted.
"Told you." I took my own bite, savoring the delicate floral notes against the buttery cake.
Cam pulled out his phone again. "Another photo op. But this one needs to look more... intimate."
Before I could question what he meant, he leaned across the small table, closing the distance between us until our faces were just inches apart. Close enough that I could see all the different shades of blue in his eyes, the creases in his full lips. He held the phone at an angle that would capture us both with the cupcake in the foreground.
"Smile," he instructed softly. "Like I just said something sweet."
My heart thumped unevenly as I managed a smile, trying to ignore how his breath brushed my cheek. The camera clicked.
When he showed me this photo, I almost didn't recognize myself. There was a softness to my expression, a vulnerability I rarely allowed in public. Cam looked at ease, happy, his blue eyes bright with something that looked remarkably like affection.
"These are good," I admitted, suddenly needing air. "Veryconvincing."
He ate another bite of cupcake, and I noticed a tiny dot of purple frosting at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, I reached across and brushed it away with my thumb.
The gesture was instinctive, intimate – the kind of thoughtless touch that happens between people who are comfortable with each other. Cam went still, his eyes finding mine. For a moment, neither of us moved.
"Sorry," I murmured, withdrawing my hand quickly. "I don't know why I..."
"Don't be sorry," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "That's exactly the kind of thing real couples do."
The moment hung between us, charged with something I wasn't ready to name. I cleared my throat.
"Where to next? Also, it's probably time for a wardrobe change so it doesn't look like we took all these photos in one day."
I reached into my oversized tote and pulled out a blush pink sundress – pushing down the three alternate outfits stuffed in there for today's adventure. With a nod toward the restroom, I left to change, grateful for a moment to collect myself.
I wore a simple white bikini underneath my clothes, a strategic decision in case I needed to do a wardrobe change in public. Swimsuits at the beach were hardly a traffic stopper.
When I returned, Cam had transformed as well. The baseball cap was gone, his golden hair tousled and sexy. He was now wearing shorts, and he'd removed his button down, leaving only a fitted dark grayLetters to Cleot-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and chest in such a way that was probably illegal in public spaces.
For once, I let my eyes roam leisurely over him – his high cheekbones, the curve of his biceps, the easy confidence in his posture. When my gaze finally returned to his face, I found him watching me with a knowing smile.
"See something you like?" he teased quietly.
Heat crept up my neck. "Just making sure you look presentable. Uh. For the photos."
"Of course." His smile widened. "Just the photos."
Our selfie tour continued through downtown, each stop carefully chosen for maximum believability: a bookstore where we posed with our heads bent over the same novel, a street musician's performance where Cam dropped a twenty in the guitar case and wrapped an arm around my waist as we listened. A few times we asked strangers to snap the shots, especially in places where Cam was approached for autographs, on the off chance a fan might get the rumor going on social media. Each photo captured a differentfacet of a relationship – casual affection, shared interests, ordinary moments made special by companionship.
With each stop, each casual touch, I found myself relaxing into the role. Cam's hand protectively on my shoulder as we crossed a street. My fingers brushing his arm as I pointed out a passing sand hill crane family that had just leisurely wandered into the street, assuming cars would stop for them as they nearly always did. The way he instinctively put himself between me and a group of rowdy college boys. Small moments, barely noticeable individually, but collectively creating a tapestry of intimacy that felt startlingly real.
Our final stop was a kitschy souvenir shop filled with shell-encrusted picture frames and t-shirts sporting jokes about Florida retirement. Cam insisted we go in, claiming we needed "something quintessentially tourist-y" to round out our collection.
Inside, he made a beeline for a display of t-shirts, rifling through until he found what he was apparently looking for.
"This," he declared, holding up a women's v-neck in soft pink. Across the chest, in glittering silver letters, it read "Hockey Wife Material" with a small puck graphic dotting the i.
"Absolutely not," I said flatly.
"It's perfect," he argued. "Cheesy enough to be believable as a joke gift, but also sending exactly the message we want."
"It's hideous."
"It's strategic." He held it up against me. "Plus, this color brings out the pink in your cheeks when you're annoyed with me."
