Page 19 of Cold Feet
"You know, if we're going to pull off this fake fiancée thing," he said, his voice low and intimate, "we should probably practice making it look real."
I raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened. "And how do you propose we do that?"
He leaned in, his voice a husky whisper in my ear. "I have a few ideas."
"Let's stick to selfies for now," I said, stepping back into my dress.
We sat down on the bench in sync and narrowed down our options to five key photos: the mural laugh, the shared cupcake, a candid of me browsing books while Cam watched with an expression of unmistakable fondness, the two of us playing in the water with the Gulf behind us, and – against my better judgment – the one with the ridiculous t-shirt.
"We don't post them all at once," I instructed, slipping back into PR Director mode. "That would seem too calculated. One today, perhaps another tomorrow. Casual. Organic."
"Which one first?" Cam asked, our shoulders touching as he leaned in to see my screen.
I studied the options, trying to ignore the warmth of him beside me. "The mural. It's the most natural, the least staged-looking."
He nodded, pulling up Instagram. "Caption?"
"None," I decided. "More intriguing that way. Let people draw their own conclusions."
"Bold strategy," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
I posted the photo without comment on my Instagram, where my modest following of industry contacts and friends would see it. Within seconds, notifications began appearing – likes, comments, questions.
"My turn," Cam said with a mischievous glint in his eye. He immediately reposted the same image to his much larger following, but this time with a simple caption: "Lucky guy. #OffTheMarket #CupcakeQueen"
"Cam!" I grabbed for his phone, but it was too late. The post was live, the hashtags unmistakably sending exactly the message we'd agreed to imply rather than declare.
"Oops," he said, not looking remotely apologetic. "My thumb slipped."
"This wasn't the plan," I began, but my own phone was already buzzing incessantly with notifications. "We were supposed to ease into this, not drop a bomb."
"Sometimes you need to make a splash," he argued, looking far too pleased with himself. "Besides, now everyone's talking. Mission accomplished."
I pulled up his post on my phone, watching in real-time as comments flooded in:
@FosseFan77: "IS THIS REAL?"
@hockeybaby4eva: "OMG I SHIP IT."
@rllhockeymama: "Has Cam finally been domesticated??"
@goalgettr: "Who is she???"
My own post was similarly blowing up, with teammates, colleagues, and friends all expressing variations of shock and delight. I scrolled through, a mix of professional satisfaction and personal mortification washing over me. This was happening. Really happening.
And then a very different notification appeared on Cam's phone – a text from my brother.
ZAYNE: This better be a joke.
Cam showed me the screen, his expression turning serious. "Well, that didn't take long."
"What are you going to say?" I asked, a knot forming in my stomach.
He thought for a moment, then typed:
CAM: Just messing with you, brother. ??
As he set his phone down, I noticed the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. We'd spent the entire afternoon on our "selfie tour," longer than I'd intended. Longer than I'd realized, lost in the weird little bubble we'd created.
