Page 22 of Cold Feet
I stepped back wordlessly, letting him enter. He wore dark jeans and a sleek black cashmere v-neck that stretched across his broad shoulders, elegant and casual but deliberately chosen. He smelled faintly of testosterone and something woodsy – a scent that instantly transported me back to that night in my dorm room ten years ago, when those same broad shoulders had hovered above me in the darkness.
"I haven't ordered dinner yet," I said, filling the strange silence that had settled between us. "I thought maybe – "
"I have something for you," he interrupted, pulling his left hand from his pocket.
And there it was. A small box wrapped in that unmistakable Tiffany blue, tied with a perfect white satin ribbon.
My breath caught. Even though I knew this was coming – the sight of that iconic little box in Cam Murphy's hand made my heart stutter in my chest.
"The ring," I said unnecessarily, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Right. Nice work. I just heard about the TMZ story. "
Cam didn't immediately offer it to me. Instead, he turned the box over in his hands, studying it with an expression I couldn't quite interpret. His fingers – strong from years of stick handling – traced the edges of the box with surprising gentleness.
"I thought about having it delivered," he said quietly. "Would've been easier. But then I realized – " He paused, seeming to carefully choose his next words. "If this were real, I wouldn't do it that way."
Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us – acknowledgment that we were now operating in a strange liminal space between fiction and reality.
"May I?" he asked, holding the box out at last.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. With careful movements, he untied the ribbon and lifted the lid, revealing a nest of white velvet cradling the most breathtaking ring I'd ever seen.
A mermaid sapphire – not the expected diamond – gleamed in the center, deep blue-green and mesmerizing, surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds set in platinum. The setting was both vintage and modern, intricate yet not ostentatious. It was just perfect.
"Cam... this is..." Words failed me as I stared at it.
He shrugged, affecting a casualness that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You said we needed to look convincing. A ring like this practically screams 'fiancée.'"
My mind raced, trying to process the logistics. It must be a loaner, arranged by his agent… something to be returned along with the tuxedo after the awards ceremony. An elaborate prop for our elaborate charade. But, holy shit, what a prop.
"It's beautiful," I managed, still transfixed by the deep blue-green stone, the color of the ocean, that seemed to capture and reflect light from depths within.
"Try it on," Cam suggested softly. "Just to see how it looks."
With slightly trembling fingers, I reached for the ring. The platinum band felt cool against my skin as I slipped it onto my left hand.
It fit perfectly. Of course it did.
I held my hand up, watching as the sapphire caught the hotel room's light, sending fractured blue reflections dancing across my face. It was substantial without being gaudy, distinctive without being flashy – exactly what I would have chosen myself if this had been...
But it wasn't real. This was business. Strategy. A means to an end.
So why did my chest feel suddenly tight? Why was it suddenly hard to breathe normally with Cam watching me so intently, his blue eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light of my hotel suite?
"The color reminded me of that dress you wore to the Stanley Cup event," he said, his voice low. "The one you had on the night we supposedly started our relationship"
The fact that he remembered that detail – had used it to select this specific stone – sent an unexpected warmth spreading through me. It was thoughtful in a way I hadn't anticipated, personal in a way our arrangement wasn't supposed to be.
I swallowed hard, fighting the sudden pressure behind my eyes. "How did you know my size?"
His mouth quirked in a half-smile. "I pay attention."
Four-carat mermaid sapphire rings from Tiffany aren't exactly standard. They're custom-fitted, and carefully measured. Which meant Cam had deliberately sought out this information – maybe Monica, my stylist? Holy hockey sticks I hope he didn’t call my mother, who had my measurements from a family ring she'd gifted me last Christmas. Maybe my assistant Katie.
The thought of him going to that effort, of planning this moment so carefully, made something flutter dangerously in my chest.
"It's perfect," I admitted, still staring at my hand, at the way the ring looked sitting there as if it belonged. As if it had always belonged.
"It looks good on you," Cam said, and something in his tone made me look up.
