Page 72 of Cold Feet
In the flickering light of the dying fire, with the sound of waves in the background and the stars emerging in the darkening sky, I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, that this was real. That Cam and I were actually engaged, actually planning a future together. That I could havethis, his warmth, his strength, his quiet understanding, every night for the rest of my life.
The thought should have been a warning shot for me. Instead, it filled me with a longing so acute it was almost painful.
"What are you thinking?" Cam asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I hesitated, unwilling to voice the dangerous thoughts swirling in my mind. "Just that... this is nice," I said finally.
"It is," he agreed, his arm tightening slightly around me. "It really is."
We sat in silence a moment longer, watching the embers glow in the dying fire. Then, with obvious reluctance, Cam began to shift.
"We should get some rest," he said, though he made no move to release my hand. "Early start tomorrow if we want to beat the traffic off the key and on the Skyway bridge."
As we made our way inside, climbing the stairs to our shared room in companionable silence, I felt a bittersweet ache in my chest. Tomorrow we'd leave this bubble, return to our real lives, our professional relationship, our carefully maintained boundaries. But tonight? Tonight I still had Cam, and one more change to wake up in his arms..
Inside our room, the moonlight streamed through the window. Cam moved to his duffel bag, pulling out a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in.
"You can have the bathroom first," he offered, his voice soft in the dim light.
"Thanks," I nodded, gathering my things and slipping into the en-suite. As I went through my nightly routine – a quick shower to rinse off any remaining sand, washing my face, brushing my teeth, changing into the silk shorts and camisole that had become my standard sleeping attire for the weekend – I tried not to think about how much I would miss this tomorrow. The easy domesticity. The sound of his quiet breathing as he fell asleep. Waking up spooning with a super hot pro hockey player who hasclearlynever missed a workout. Like, ever.
When I emerged, Cam had turned down the bed and was standing by the window, gazing out at the moonlit Gulf. He turned as I approached, his expression softening as he took me in.
"Your turn," I said, gesturing to the bathroom.
He nodded, but paused before passing me. "Lana," he said softly, uncertain. "Today was..."
"I know," I replied, saving him from having to find the words. Because I did know. Today had been perfect and dangerous and wonderful and overwhelming all at once.
The bathroom door closed behind him, and I slid between the cool sheets. My body was tired, but my mind raced, replaying every moment of the day. Every touch, every smile, every word that might mean something real beneath our pretense.
I heard the shower start from behind the bathroom door, and an unsolicited image crept into my thoughts: Cam, just steps away, water cascading down his broad shoulders, soap sliding over the defined muscles of his chest and lower... I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the mental picture. I mean, not likestraining myselfto ignore it or anything. But this was precisely the kind of dangerous territory I should probably avoid if I were being smart. The soft sounds of water running, knowing he was so close yet so untouchable, made heat bloom across my skin.
I shifted restlessly, remembering how it had felt ten years ago to trace those muscles with my mouth, to feel his skin against mine.What would happen if I just got up, opened that door, and joined him?The thought sent a jolt of electricity through me that settled low between my legs and elsewhere.
The shower faucet squeaked quietly as Cam turned off the water, and for the life of me, I couldn't decide if I'd just missed a catastrophe or the opportunity of a lifetime.
When Cam returned, his hair was damp, his face freshly washed. He moved with quiet grace through the moonlit room, the low light casting shadows that accentuated the cut of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his thin t-shirt.
My eyes tracked his movement, taking in the way his shorts hung low on his hips, the tantalizing glimpse of defined abdominal muscles as he stretched slightly before slipping into bed beside me. I ached to touch his skin, impossibly warm in the moonlight, and I felt a deep, visceral pull toward him that I struggled to ignore.
He caught me staring and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, knowing smile that made my pulse quicken. Still, he carefully maintained that invisible boundary down the middle of the mattress, though the heat in his eyes suggested he was just as aware of me as I was of him.
For a long moment, we both lay there in silence, staring up at the gauzy canopy above us. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could smell the clean scent of soap and toothpaste, could sense the same tension vibrating through him that was coursing through me.
"Being here with you, with your family," he said quietly to the darkness, "makes me long for something I didn't even imagine was possible."
His words were vulnerable and raw. I turned my head to look at him, finding his profile silver-edged in the moonlight. He wasn't looking at me, but at the ceiling, as if it was easier to admit such things without eye contact, even in the dark
"What's that?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. Then, so softly I almost didn't hear it: "Belonging. Not just fitting in temporarily. Actually belonging somewhere.Withsomeone."
The simple honesty of his admission – free of any charm or deflection – made my heart ache. I understood exactly what he meant. Despite my large, loving family, despite my professional success, I'd often felt like I was playing a role rather than fully belonging. The Decker daughter. The team publicist. The professional woman who had it all together. The gatekeeper for the far more interesting and important Frank, Drake, and Zayne Decker.
This weekend, pretending with Cam, somehow felt more authentic than most of my real relationships. What did that say about me? About us?
I reached across the space between us, finding his hand in the darkness. His fingers immediately closed around mine, warm and solid.
