Page 71 of Cold Feet
"No one after you ever came close, Lana," he said, holding my gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to look away, like heneededto get it all out before I stopped him or he lost his nerve. "I don't know how to want anyone else. I've tried. For ten years, I've tried."
The air between us seemed to crackle with electricity. His words hung there, raw and honest. I didn't know how to respond, how to process what he was telling me. Did he mean it? Or was this just another persona he was trying on, the secretly devoted fake fiancé?
But the vulnerability in his eyes, the slight tremor in his voice – those didn't look faked. At all.
I realized I was suddenly leaning toward him, drawn by an invisible force I couldn't resist. He moved too, closing the distance between us inch by inch. His hand came up to cup my cheek, so gently it was as if he feared I might break. Or run. I could feel his breath, warm against my lips, could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the slight crease between his brows as he gazed at me with undisguised longing.
"Lana! Cam!" My mother's voice pierced the moment. "Dinner's ready!"
I jerked back, heart pounding as if I'd been caught doing something illicit. In a way, I had been. Not the almost-kiss – that would have been perfectly in character for our fake engagement – but the real feelings building behind it.
"I guess we should..." I gestured vaguely toward the house.
"Yeah." Cam didn't move for a moment, his eyes still holding mine. I didn’t move either. Then he smiled – a small, rueful thing. "To be continued?"
It sounded like both a question, but we both knew at that moment it was a promise.
After a spectacular redfish dinner, my father announced it was time for the traditional Decker family bonfire and ghost stories. The fire pit on the deck was lit, chairs arranged in a circle around it, and the supply of s'mores ingredients was set out within easy reach. As darkness fell completely, we gathered around the crackling fire, enjoying the slight chill of the evening sea breeze.
My father took his usual position as storyteller, beginning with the tale of the phantom lighthouse that had supposedly led ships to their doom a century ago. It was a story I'd heard at least thirty times, but there was something comforting about the familiar cadence of his voice, the predictable gasps from the children at the scariest parts, and my mother's exaggerated reactions that fooled no one but had practically become part of the story themselves.
I sat beside Cam on an Adirondack loveseat designed for two, a light blanket draped over both of us. The firelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting his high cheekbones, the sun-plumped fullness of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes. Under the blanket, his hand found mine, fingers intertwining with a gentleness that contrasted with the strength I knew those hands possessed.
Should I pull away?That would be the smart, self-protective thing to do. Instead, I found myself curling my fingers around his, savoring the warmth and security of histouch.
Dad moved on to his second story, a local legend about a ghostly fisherman who appeared only during summer storms. Cam's thumb began tracing soft slow shapes on the inside of my wrist, sending shivers up my arm. I glanced at him, but his attention appeared to be on my father's story. Only the slight quirk of his mouth told me he was fully aware of the effect he was having on me. And by “effect” I mean I was about two minutes away from dragging him upstairs and clawing off his t-shirt.
Two could play that game. I shifted slightly, ostensibly to get more comfortable, allowing my leg to press against his under the blanket. I felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the momentary widening of his eyes before he regained his composure.
The ghost stories continued, but I was barely listening. My attention had narrowed to the warm press of Cam's thigh against mine, the charged space between our bodies. It was as if we were engaged in our own private conversation beneath the blanket while outwardly participating in the family gathering.
As the final story wound down and the younger children's eyes began to droop, I found myself relaxing into Cam's side, my head resting against his shoulder as naturally as if I'd been doing it for years. His arm came around me, protective and secure, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him.
"Tired?" he murmured against my hair, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Mmm," I confirmed, too comfortable to form actual words. I knew I should probably sit up, maintain some distance, but exhaustion, Cam's comfortable embrace, and the hypnotic effect of the firelight were eroding my defenses.
Around us, the family began the process of winding down the evening. Uncle Pete carried a sleeping Emma inside, followed by Nora with a drowsy Tyler. Aunt Margaret and my mother began gathering empty mugs and plates. My father tended to the fire, closing the cover on the fire pit. Drake and Serena slipped away hand in hand, heading for a moonlit walk on the beach. None of them seemed to find anything unusual about Cam and me curled together under our blanket, the picture of contented lovers.
"Are you two still planning to head back to St. Pete tonight, or in the morning?" my mother asked as she collected our empty mugs. "It's getting late, and that drive can be dangerous when you're tired."
I opened my mouth to confirm our plans to leave tonight, to put some safe distance between us and this bubble of domestic fantasy, but Cam spoke first.
"What do you think, Lana? I'm happy to drive whenever you want, but your mom's right about the late-night drive."
Hewas giving me the choice, I realized. Letting me decide whether to extend this fantasy for one more night or return to reality.
"Maybe we should stay," I heard myself say. "Leave first thing in the morning."
"Perfect," my mother beamed.
As she moved away to continue tidying, Cam's arm tightened slightly around me. "You sure?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I wasn't ready for this weekend to end. For our shared bed and comfortable mornings to become history. For the professional wall between us to go back up. I wanted one more night of pretending, of being held by him, of falling asleep to the sound of his breathing.
"We should probably go in soon," I said, making no move to get up.
"Probably," Cam agreed, his fingertips brushing against my shoulder through the blanket. "Especially if we're getting an early start tomorrow."
