Page 142 of Cold Feet
Pietro sent a group message to the team:
PIETRO: Can we focus on hockey now that Mom and Dad have figured out they're in love?
Coach Sully called me personally, his gruff voice softening when he said, "You did good, kid. You were in an impossible situation, and you came through. Both of you."
My parents called, insisting I bring Cam for Sunday dinner. "We always knew," my mother said cryptically. "A mother knows these things."
"I never thought I'd see my own daughter with a left wing," my father grumbled, though I could hear the grin in his voice. "But I suppose he'll do."
By evening, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. We decided to skip dinner out and order takeout to Cam's place instead. The idea of facing the public – even in a restaurant – was too much after the day we'd had.
We had to slip out through the service entrance of the arena to avoid the cluster of reporters and fans who had somehow gotten wind of our location. Cam kept his arm around me protectively as we hurried to his Range Rover, his massive body angled to shield me from view.
"This is insane," I muttered as we finally made it into his car. "I'm usually the one managing this kind of circus, not the main attraction."
"Welcome to the other side," he said with a wry smile, navigating carefully through the parking lot. "Now you know what it's like when you send us out to 'just answer a few questions.'"
"Touché." I leaned back against the headrest, finally letting the exhaustion of the day wash over me.
Cam reached over to take my hand. "For what it's worth, I think you do a great job protecting us. I've just never appreciated it until I saw you on the receiving end of the frenzy."
The drive to Cam's was quiet; both of us were worn out from the past few days. As the Tampa Bay skyline appeared in the windshield, glittering against the deepening twilight, a sense of peace settled over me. Whatever happened next – with the media, with Montreal, with us – I'd never felt more hopeful about the future than I did in that moment.
Cam's modern waterfront home was unusually tidy, I noticed as we walked in. The spacious open floor plan with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay was a study in masculine elegance – comfortable yet sophisticated, with muted blues and grays reflecting the water views. When we'd spent the night together before, I'd been too distracted by, well,Camto fully appreciate his space. Now I took it in properly.
Unlike the playboy image we'd cultivated, Cam's home reflected the real him.
The walls featured photos of him with various teammates over the years from peewee hockey on up, with his BU hockey team, and several with Zayne and Logan. I was surprised to find that I appeared in the background of several of his framed photos. Interestingly, while the players in the foreground were sometimes slightly blurred, I was often perfectly in focus – as if the photographer had been aiming at me all along. I smiled to myself as I explored the rest of his living room. There were books everywhere – spy novels, biographies, a few cookbooks. A massive floor to ceiling wall of old-school vinyl records. A large, comfortable sectional faced both the breathtaking bay view.
As I settled on the couch, my eye caught something unusual on the kitchen island – a glass cake dome on a pedestal containing six delicate purple-frosted cupcakes, and a tupperware container nearby with a dozen or so unfrosted cupcakes.
"What's all this?"
Cam rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, that. Well..." He walked to the island, picking up a piece of paper covered with what appeared to be a recipe, along with a bunch of scribbles and measurements. "I wanted to surprise you. I've been trying to recreate those lavender vanilla cupcakes you love so much from Sweet Caroline's."
"Really?" My heart melted. "So that explains all the baking supplies I saw the morning after I spent the night."
"Yeah. I've been practicing since that day at the bakery during our little selfie tour." He hesitated. "I still can't get the frosting quite right, though."
I crossed to the kitchen and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against his shoulder blades. "You are full of surprises, Hitman."
He turned in my arms. "I like to keep you on your toes."
"I think the key is the lavender infusion time – who knew?" he said. "Sweet Caroline's frosting has this texture that's somewhere between buttercream and whipped cream."
I marveled at this side ofhim I'd never known about. Cam Murphy – NHL star, league heartthrob, badass enforcer – meticulously piping lavender frosting onto homemade cupcakes because he knew I loved them.
"Want to taste?" he asked, pulling a covered bowl out of the refrigerator. He grabbed a small spatula from a drawer, opened the container, and presented me with a small dollop of pale purple frosting.
“Wait, wait…” he said, “this is the best part!” He looked so proud of himself as pulled a tiny, sparkly white crown made from sugar and carefully placed it on top of the cupcake. “For my cupcake queen!”“Aw.” I leaned forward and let him feed me the sweet confection. The delicate floral notes mixed with vanilla and butter bloomed across my tongue. "Oh my God," I said, genuinely surprised. "That's really good. Like, really close to the original."
His face lit up with pride. "Yeah?"
"Absolutely." I reached for the spatula again, but he playfully held it just out of reach.
"Payment required," he teased.
"Oh really?" I raised an eyebrow, slipping into the easy flirtation that had always simmered beneath our professional relationship. "What kind of payment?"
