Page 65 of Cold Feet
The double meaning in his words wasn't lost on me, and I looked away quickly, afraid of what he might see in my eyes if I held his gaze too long.
Drake caught my eye from across the table and raised an eyebrow. Unlike Zayne, who wore his suspicion like armor, Drake had always been more perceptive, less reactionary. "You okay?" he mouthed silently.
I nodded, forcing a smile. He didn't look convinced, but thankfully didn't press the issue.
The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of conversation and laughter, with me participating just enough to avoid suspicion while my mind replayed what had happened in the pantry on an endless loop. Cam's touch. His question. The raw honesty in his eyes.
What are we doing, Lana?
I wished I knew.
As the family dispersed to prepare for the day's beach activities, Cam caught my arm gently as we were clearing plates.
"We need to talk about this," he said quietly, his voice serious. "About what's happening between us."
I pulled my arm away, ignoring the hurt that flashed across his face. "There's nothing to talk about." The words felt like a lie even as I spoke them, a weak defense against a truth I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge. "Go have some fun with the boys," I smiled brightly.
Through the kitchen window, I watched as my father and brothers gathered fishing gear on the deck. Cam opened the slider and stepped outside. He moved with easy grace, laughing at something Drake said, helping my father untangle a fishing line. They moved around him naturally, making space for him in their circle. He fit so perfectly into the tableau of Decker men that for a moment, it stole my breath.
A sharp pain bloomed in my chest – part longing, part fear. I pressed my palm flat against my sternum as if I could physically hold back the unwanted feelings. This was dangerous, this softening toward him. This was exactly how I'd been hurt before.
And yet, watching him through the window, the sunlight catching in his hair, his smile so genuine as he listened to my father's instructions, I couldn't stop the treacherous thought that whispered through my mind: What if itcouldbe real this time?
Chapter 12
After breakfast, I'd headed back upstairs to take a nap, and apparently I needed one because I zonked out in about 3 minutes.
By the time I'd showered and dressed in a simple sundress over my swimsuit, the men had departed, leaving the beach house blissfully quiet. Or at least, as quiet as it could be with my mother, Nana, Aunt Margaret and the kids still in residence.
I found them by the pool, already settled with a pitcher of mimosas. My mother reclined on a lounge chair in an elegant cover-up, large sunhat shading her face. Nana had arranged her crystals in a semicircle around her chair, and Aunt Margaret sat with her feet in the water, the pink pair of those infamous sandals lined up neatly beside her.
"There she is!" Aunt Margaret called, raising her mimosa glass. "We were wondering when you'd join us. Cam said to let you sleep in."
"Did he now?" I replied, trying to ignore the little flutter in my chest at the thought of Cam being considerate of my rest. I ignored the further implication: that they had discussed me, that Cam had seen me sleeping, that we were truly acting like a couple in all the little ways that mattered. "When did they leave?"
"About an hour ago," my mother said, passing me a mimosa. "Your father was eager to get out before the tide changed. They took some sandwiches with them, so they probably won't be back until late afternoon."
I settled into the empty lounge chair, grateful for the momentary reprieve from Cam's presence. Not that he was doing anything wrong, quite the opposite. He was being charming, attentive, thoughtful. Basically perfect. And that was the problem. The sweeter he was, the harder it became to remember this was all an act.
"So," Aunt Margaret began, swirling her mimosa with that mischievous glint in her eye that spelled trouble, "now that the men are gone, you can tell us the real story. How did you and Cam finally get together? After all these years of working together, what changed?"
I took a fortifying sip of mimosa, trying to say something true that also fit within our agreed-upon story. The last thing I wanted to do was lie to my family. "It just happened naturally. One day I looked at him and saw him differently."
"Mmm-hmm," Aunt Margaret looked unconvinced, her eyebrow arching skeptically. "Was alcohol involved? Because that man is delicious, and if you waited years to jump on that, you either have the willpower of a saint or the observational skills of a turnip."
"Margaret!" my mother chided, though I could see she was fighting a smile.
"What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking." She shrugged unapologetically.
"What is the real Cam like?" my mother asked, her voice softer, genuinely curious. "Behind all the charm and hockey talent?"
The question caught me off guard. What was the real Cam like? Not the carefully crafted heartthrob image we'd built for marketing purposes. Not the performance he was putting on for my family. The real Cam.
"He's..." I paused, surprised by how easily the words came. "He's thoughtful. Observant. He notices things about people that others miss. He remembers little details, like how everyone takes their coffee or which kids like which pancake shapes. He's funny and warm and makes everyone around him feel included."
I realized I was smiling as I spoke, my voice taking on a warmth that wasn't practiced. "He's this confident jock on the ice, but he's actually kind of a homebody. And he's surprisingly vulnerable sometimes."
The three women exchanged a look I couldn't quite interpret.
