Page 45 of Cold Feet
"Goodnight, Lana," he replied, his voice softening in the darkness.
I lay rigidly on my back, acutely aware of his presence just inches away. The sound of his breathing, the subtle shifts of his body, the faint scent of his soap – all of it seemed magnified in the darkness. This was a terrible idea. There was no way I was going to get any sleep like this.
"Lana?" His voice was quiet in the darkness, startling me from my thoughts.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for bringing me here. I know this isn't easy for you."
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. "It's fine. It's just a weekend."
"Still. I know you hate lying to your family. And having me in your space... in your bed..." He paused. "I appreciate you doing this."
I swallowed hard, grateful for the darkness that hid my expression. "It's just business, right? For the deal."
There was a beat of silence before he replied, "Right. The deal."
Were we still talking about the same thing?
"Well, goodnight then," I said again, turning onto my side, facing away from him.
"Sweet dreams, Cupcake Queen."
I smiled into my pillow despite myself. With the gentle sound of waves through the open window and Cam's steady breathing beside me, I drifted off to sleep far more easily than I would have thought possible.
I woke hours later in the dark, momentarily disoriented in the unfamiliar room. Suddenly, I registered the warm weight of an arm draped around my waist, the solid heat of a body curled against my back.
Cam.
Somehow in the night, we'd migrated toward each other. His chest was pressed against my back, his arm wrapped securely around me, his breath warm against my neck. Sleep-cuddler, indeed.
I should move away. I should wake him up. I should reestablish the boundaries I'd been so insistent on earlier.
Instead, I found myself relaxing into his embrace, my body responding to his proximity with a kind of quiet recognition. It felt safe. It felt familiar. It felt...right.
That last thought jolted me fully awake like a myoclonic jerk. Nothing about this situation was right. This was Cam Murphy. My colleague, my fake fiancé, the man who had once known me more intimately than anyone and then disappeared without a word.
So why did his arms around me feel like coming home?
I gently extricated myself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and slipped out of bed. The clock on the nightstand read 3:17 AM – too early to start the day, but sleep now seemed impossible.
I moved to the window seat, pulling my knees up to my chest as I gazed out at the moonlit beach. The Gulf stretched before me, a vast expanse of silver under the night sky, constant and unchanging as it had been throughout my childhood. How many nights had I sat in this same spot, dreaming of the future, convinced I knew exactly where my life was headed?
Nowhere in those dreams had there been a Cam Murphy – infuriating, charming, complicated Cam, who made me feel things I'd spent years convincing myself I didn't want to feel.
A slight noise made me turn. Cam had shifted in his sleep, his arm now outstretched across the empty space where I'd been, as if reaching for me even in sleep. The moonlight illuminated his features, softening them in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable.
There were so many versions of Cam Murphy. The confident, cocky player that fans saw on the ice. The charming playboy I'd helped create for the media. The attentive "fiancé" who'd impressed my parents tonight. But this version, this unguarded, sleeping man reaching across empty sheets, felt like the most real of all.
My chest tightened with an emotion I couldn't,wouldn'tname.
This was the problem with pretending. The lines got blurry. Reality and fiction began to blend until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. And that was dangerous, especially when your heart was involved.
Because the truth, the terrifying, undeniable truth I'd been running from since the moment Cam had asked me to be his fake fiancée, was that there was still an annoying, too dumb-for-her-own-good part of me that didn't want this to be fake at all.
I turned back to the window, watching the gentle ebb and flow of the tide, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside me. Morning would come soon enough, bringing with it another day of pretending, another day of navigating the dangerous watersbetween what was and what would neverbe.
But for now, in the quiet hours before sunrise, I allowed myself the luxury of watching Cam Murphy sleep in my childhood bedroom, wondering if in some alternate universe, this all might have been real.
