Page 39 of Cold Feet
"Need any help with that?" he called as I escaped into the bathroom with my bag.
"Boundaries, Murphy!"
Hislaughter followed me, warm and rich, and I couldn't help but crack a smile as I closed the door.
Twenty minutes later, changed into a casual sundress and with my hair freshly brushed, I emerged to find Cam standing by the bay window that overlooked the Gulf. He'd changed too, into khaki shorts and a light blue button-down that made his sun-kissed skin glow. Barefoot with his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, he looked relaxed, at home – and entirely too appealing.
He turned as I approached, and something in his expression – a flash of genuine appreciation – made my breath catch.
"You look nice," he said simply.
"Thanks. You too." I gestured to his outfit. "No tie? Didn't want to go full beach formal?"
"I save formal for family gatherings involving at least two aunts and a disappointed grandfather." He tapped his temple. "Strategic dressing. Always leave room for improvement."
"Smart. My dad respects a man who dresses appropriately for the occasion."
"What about you? What do you respect in a man?" The question was casual, but his eyes held mine with unexpected intensity.
I swallowed, aware of how close we were standing, how easily I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. And I did want to, which was the problem.
"Honesty," I said finally. "I respect honesty."
Something flickered across his face (Regret? Guilt?) before he masked it with a smile. "Then I shouldhonestlytell you that you look beautiful. And I'mhonestlylooking forward to having a drink before we face the full Decker interrogation."
The moment passed, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Lead the way, fiancé."
Downstairs, we found my parents and Zayne on the deck, relaxing in Adirondack chairs as the late afternoon sun painted the sky with streaks of pink and gold. My father was indeed making his famous mojitos, crushing mint leaves with practiced precision.
"There they are!" my mother called, waving us over. "Frank, pour them some drinks! They need fortification before the rest of the clan descends tomorrow."
My father nodded, resuming his methodical muddling. "Have a seat. How was the drive?"
"Smooth," Cam replied, selecting the chair next to my father, a choice I was absolutely certain wasn't accidental. He was making an effort. "Beautiful coastline. I see why your family has kept this place for generations."
My father grunted approvingly. "Been in Diana's family since the fifties. My father-in-law won it in a poker game, or so the story goes."
"It was not a poker game," my mother corrected with a fond eye roll. "It was a gentleman's agreement. A handshake between friends."
"Over poker," my father insisted.
My mother waved away the distinction. "The important thing is that it's been our family sanctuary ever since. We've had every major celebration here."
"And a few major arguments," Zayne muttered.
"Every family has those," Cam said diplomatically, accepting the mojito my father handed him. "Thank you, sir."
"Frank," my father corrected, offering me the second drink. "Sir makes me feel ancient."
"You are ancient," I teased, settling into a chair. The familiar banter was soothing, grounding me despite the surreal nature of the situation.
My father narrowed his eyes on me. "Watch it, or I'll break out the photo albums from your awkward braces phase."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I'd pay to see those," Cam said, eyes twinkling. "Seriously, I'm prepared to write a check to the charity of your choosing right now."
I kicked his ankle under the table. "Traitor."
