Page 51 of Cold Feet
The simple compliment shouldn't have affected me so deeply, but I felt the warmth of a blush spreading across my cheeks. The dress was nothing special, just a simple blue sundress with tiny white flowers scattered across the fabric, but the way he looked at me made me feel as though I was wearing couture.
"Thank you," I managed. "You don't look so bad yourself."
He grinned. "High praise from Lana Decker."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." His expression sobered slightly. "Your family is great, you know. They really love you."
The observation caught me off guard. "They're... a lot. But yeah, they do."
"You're lucky," he said simply.
There it was again. That flicker of something deeper, a glimpse behind the confident facade he showed the world. I kept thinking about what he'd told me on the dock yesterday, about never having a constant place growing up, about constantly learning to adapt to new situations and new people. How different his childhood must have been from mine, with its revolving cast of step-parents and new homes, compared to the fierce, stable, even if sometimes overwhelming, love of the Decker family.
"Perfect!" Connie called, breaking the moment. "I think we've got some beautiful shots. Let's do a few more by the dunes before we lose this light."
The photoshoot continued for another thirty minutes, but my mind kept returning to that brief, unguarded moment. To the way Cam had said "You're lucky" without a trace of resentment, just a quiet acknowledgment of something precious.
By the time Connie declared the session complete and began packing up her equipment, I felt emotionally drained. Something had shifted between Cam and me, something subtle but undeniable, and I wasn't sure what to do about it.
"That wasn't so bad, was it?" my mother asked as we rejoined the family on the deck. Mimosas were flowing freely now, and Aunt Margaret had commandeered the Bluetooth speaker to play what she called her "beach party playlist": an eclectic mix of Jimmy Buffett, Bob Marley, and inexplicably, Pitbull.
"It was fine," I said, accepting the glass of water my father pressed into my hand. "Connie seemed to get some good shots."
"You two photographed beautifully together," my mother said with satisfaction. "There's something about the way you look at each other. It just translates so well on camera."
I took a long sip of water, avoiding her knowing gaze. "We're just good at posing; all that media training."
"Hmm," she said, unconvinced. "Well, lunch is ready whenever you're hungry. We've got a seafood spread set up inside."
As the afternoon unfolded, I found myself watching Cam more closely, noticing things I'd somehow missed despite working with him for years. The way his smile started in his eyes beforeit reached his mouth. How he remembered everyone's name after a single introduction. The genuine interest he showed in my cousin Nora's husband's boring tech job, drawing the man out until he was actually animated and engaging. (Nora always claimed he was, but this was the first time we’d actually seen it first hand.)
But most of all, I noticed how seamlessly Cam fit into the chaotic tapestry of my family. He traded fishing stories with Uncle Pete, enthusiastically discussed a "Mexico Week" debacle on theGreat British Bake-Offwith Aunt Margaret until she declared him "a man of impeccable taste, unlike that last boy Lana brought around," and even managed to engage my typically monosyllabic father in a lengthy conversation about defensive strategies that had Dad actually gesturing enthusiastically with the salt and pepper shakers. Nana kept shooting me significant looks whenever Cam answered a question, mouthing "Venus-Mars" with exaggerated winks.
"Your fiancé is quite the charmer," Serena observed, sidling up to me as I watched Cam demonstrate a hockey stick-handling move to Drake using a plastic spoon and a lime. "When did you two finally get together? Drake said you've known each other for a few years."
I gave her the same abbreviated story I'd told my mother, watching her face for signs of suspicion. But Serena just smiled knowingly.
"Sometimes the best ones are right in front of us the whole time," she said, glancing at Drake with unmistakable affection.
"You two seem happy," I said, genuinely pleased for them. Drake had been devastated when they broke up after college, though he'd tried to hide it behind his usual stoic demeanor. Typical of the Decker men.
"We are," Serena confirmed. "Different this time. More honest." She twisted a strand of dark hair around her finger, a habit I remembered from our college days. "We wasted so much time pretending we didn't want the same things."
"And now?" I prompted.
She smiled, and the happiness radiating from her was almost blinding. "Now we're both finally being honest with ourselves and each other about what we want. No more pretending."
Her words hit uncomfortably close to home, though not in the way she intended. Cam and I weren't pretending we didn't want the same things. We were pretending we wanted things we didn't. Or at least, that's what I'd been telling myself.
"I'm happy for you," I said, meaning it. "Drake deserves someone who sees past the Decker name and the hockey legacy."
"So do you," Serena said pointedly. "And it looks like you found him."
Before I could formulate a response, Drake called Serena over to settle a debate about the best place on Lido Key for lobster rolls, (answer: the snack bar on Lido Beach) and I was left alone with her words echoing in my mind.
"You know what we really need..." Aunt Margaret winked conspiratorially at Cam, devilishly swirling her mimosa in the glass...
