Page 24 of Cold Feet
Shit.I realized my slip immediately. “You know, like, once we’remarried.”
“Mmmhmm.”Shit, shit, shit.That could nothappen again.
I stood, smoothing the midnight blue fabric of my gown. The silhouette was classic – fitted through the bodice with a subtle flare at the hips that created movement when I walked. The neckline dipped just low enough to be elegant without crossing into inappropriate territory (akaprofessional boob), and the back featured delicate beading that caught the light with every slight movement. It was exactly my style – understated but unmistakably expensive, projecting the polished confidence expected of a woman in my position.
A woman who also happened to be the fake fiancée of one of hockey's biggest stars.
"Remember," Monica said, packing up her styling tools, "shoulders back, stick out the rack, and for God's sake, make America swoon. Look deeply into Cam's eyes on that red carpet like he spent all afternoon spoon-feeding you cheesecake."
I rolled my eyes. "I know how to work a red carpet, Monica."
Monica just smirked. "Sure you do, honey.” Before I could formulate a response, my phone buzzed with a text from Cam:
CAM: Waiting in the lobby. You ready for this?
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage along with my small clutch.
ME: On my way down. Try not to look too terrified.
His response came instantly:
CAM: The only terrifying thing about tonight is how much I'm going to enjoy watching you tell people we're madly in love.
My stomach did that strange flip it had been doing with increasing frequency whenever Cam said things like that – playful words that somehow felt weightier than they should, as if laden with meaning I wasn't supposed to decipher.
Cam was a total charmer and an incorrigible flirt. That’s all it was. It was stupid that I kept reading something more into it.
The elevator ride to the lobby gave me one last moment of privacy to collect myself. I'd attended countless NHL events over the years – first as Frank Decker's daughter, or Drake and Zayne Decker's little sister, then as a PR professional, and now as... whatever this was. I knew the drill. Knew how to field questions, how to position myself for optimal photography, how to deflect and redirect when conversations ventured into uncomfortable territory.
But tonight was different. Tonight, I wasn't just representing the Slashers or managing someone else's public image. Tonight, I was going to be the story.
Thethought made my palms sweat despite my professional training. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths as the numbers on the elevator panel counted down. Ten. Nine. Eight...
When the doors finally opened to the opulent lobby of the Bellagio, my eyes found him immediately.
Cam stood under the Chihuly glass sculpture, his back to me, hands in the pockets of a perfectly tailored tuxedo that accentuated shoulders so broad they could block out the sun and a backside that deserved its own Instagram fan account.Keep it professional Lana.His golden-brown hair was styled in that deliberately tousled way that definitely took three products and twenty minutes to achieve, but looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after doing deliciously unspeakable things. I lingered on that thought a second too long, and when he turned at the sound of my heels clicking against marble, the world seemed to slow around us.
His eyes widened as he took me in, his gaze traveling from my face down the elegant drape of my gown and back again with such deliberate appreciation that I could practically feel it – like a physical caress. Something flickered across his expression: surprise, hunger, and something darker, more intense… that made my breath catch and heat pool low in my belly. Well,southof my belly.
"Holy... wow," he said softly. "I was going to say something smooth, but my brain just short-circuited."
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I replied, aiming for cool detachment but hearing the breathless quality in my own voice. "Though I have to say, I'm curious about tonight's sock choice. Did you go with the monkeys in formalwear?"
"Better," he winked, and charm radiated off him. He lifted his pant leg slightly to reveal vibrant teal socks covered in little purple and white cupcakes. "You like? I got these just for you."
They looked almost exactly like the one we shared from Sweet Caroline's.
"Sweet," I say, as a blush crept up my cheeks.Cupcakes.He wore them for me. Don't fall for it.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne – that same masculine, woodsy citrus that had lingered in my hotel room last night, that same intoxicating scent that had clung to my sheets for days after our one night together all those years ago. I swallowed hard.
"Ready to be the envy of every woman in Vegas?" he murmured, his voice dropping to that low register that made my toes curl in my stilettos.
"Please. You should be asking ifyou'reready to be the envy of every man in the room," I shot back, finding my footing. "This dress wasn't exactly off the rack."
He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made him look boyish and devastating all at once. "Nice block. Always keeping me humble, Decker."
Without further discussion, he offered his arm. The gesture was old-fashioned, courtly – classic Cam with his door-opening, chair-pulling, standing-up-when-you-leave-for-the-ladies-room, unexpectedly chivalrous ways.
