Page 4 of Cold Feet
I walked out without answering, my heart pounding a rhythm that felt dangerously like the echoes of a mistake I'd made once before.
A mistake named Cameron Murphy.
Chapter 2
Ispent the next hour staring at my computer screen, pretending to work while my mind replayed Cam's words on an excruciating loop.
Be my fiancée.
The sheer audacity. The absolute nerve. And the way those dreamy fucking blue eyes had held mine when he'd said it – like he was offering me something precious instead of a one-way ticket to career suicide. First class tickets on theTitanic.
I pulled up the Redline contract for the sixth time, scanning the morality clause like it might have magically rewritten itself since the last time I looked. Nope. Still crystal clear.
My phone buzzed. Katie's voice filtered through the intercom: "The social team needs approval on tonight's game graphics."
"Sending now," I replied, grateful for the distraction.
But as I clicked through the graphics, my thoughts wandered back to Boston University, to a snowy night ten years ago.
Boston University, February 2015
The party was limping toward its death – empty beer cans forming small cities on every surface, someone's forgotten playlist cycling through the same twenty songs for the third time. I'd only come because my roommate Jess had physically dragged me, insisting "Junior year, Lana! You need to live a little before we graduate into crushing student debt!"
Of course, Jess had disappeared with some pre-law student an hour ago, leaving me to navigate the social wreckage alone.
I was excavating my coat from the bedroom coat pile when the door opened.
"Sorry," said a voice that was warm honey over gravel. "Just hunting for my jacket."
I turned and nearly swallowed my tongue. Golden hair, blue eyes that belonged in a magazine, and a smile that could probably melt a whole rink. I recognized him instantly – hard not to, when the guy was basically a god on campus.
"Escaping the chaos too?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe with the casual confidence of someone who'd never been told no in his life.
"Mission accomplished, actually." I held up my rescued coat. "Time to make my exit before things get really ugly."
"That's a tragedy," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "I just got here."
"Then you're about three hours late for the good times."
"Or maybe right on time for the better ones." He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. "I'm Cam."
"Lana."
"Lana." The way he repeated my name, like he was testing how it felt on his tongue, sent an unexpected flutter through my chest. "Tell me something, Lana. You strike me as someone with opinions. What's the verdict on this party?"
I considered him for a moment. "Mediocre music, watered-down drinks, and at least three guys who think 'wanna see my hockey stick' is a clever pickup line. The usual."
His laugh was genuine, surprised. "Harsh but fair. What would make it better?"
"Different company," I said before I could stop myself.
The smile that spread across his face should have come with a warning label. "Well, lucky for both of us, I know where we can find some."
We ended up at a 24-hour diner off Commonwealth, sharing a plate of inexplicably delicious pancakes while snow fell outside the steamed-up windows.
"You know, earth is the only planet we know with hip hop andpancakes," he'd said as he slid into the booth right next to me. He told me about learning to skate on frozen Minnesota ponds before he could tie his shoes. I told him about growing up in hockey rinks, about my communications major, about wanting to work in sports media someday – carefully leaving out the part where my family was a legit hockey dynasty.
The conversation flowed like we'd known each other for years instead of hours. He was funny, thoughtful, surprisingly well-read for a hockey player. When he mentioned loving Kurt Vonnegut, I nearly choked on my coffee.
