Page 35 of Cold Feet
I nodded, suddenly reluctant to see him go but knowing it was the sensible thing. "Goodnight, Cam."
He moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. "About what happened in the hallway..." he began, his voice low.
My heart skipped. "We don't have to talk about it. Heat of the moment. Part of the performance."
He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Right. The performance."
Before I could respond, he opened the door. "Sweet dreams, Lana."
As the door clicked shut behind him, I sank back onto the bed, fingers unconsciously touching my lips where his almost had, the phantom sensation of a kiss that never happened lingering like a promise – or a warning.
I took my shoes off, hung up the spectacular dress, and slipped into a nightie. I carefully washed my face and pulled the pins from my updo -- my hair cascading down, one soft ringlet at a time.
The sapphire caught the light in the mirror, sending blue fire dancing across the ceiling. It was beautiful, substantial, perfect – and utterly meaningless. A prop in our elaborate charade.
So why did it feel so right on my finger? And why did the thought of eventually giving it back make my chest ache with a hollow, nameless loss?
I closed my eyes, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions Cam always seemed to evoke in me. Attraction, frustration, camaraderie, suspicion... and something deeper, something dangerous that had been there since college, something that had never fully disappeared despite my best efforts to forget.
Friday, we would head to Siesta Key as a couple, continuing our performance for my entire family. And then, when it was over, when the deal was signed, we would return to our carefully constructed professional relationship as if none of it had happened.
As if we hadn't almost crossed a line tonight.
With a sigh, I reached over and switched off the bedside lamp, letting darkness envelop the room. In the distance, the Las Vegas Strip continued to pulse with neon lights and endless possibility, much like the sapphire still glinting softly on my finger: beautiful, brilliant, and ultimately an illusion.
Chapter 8
"Ithink we need a nice, romantic, social media-friendly beach walk today."
"If I didn't know better, Murphy, I'd think you were trying to get me alone."
I glanced over at Cam as he navigated the gentle curve of the Siesta Key bridge, his capable hands relaxed on the steering wheel. The water below us sparkled in the afternoon sun, stretching out in a panorama of blues that matched his eyes perfectly. We were almost to my parents' beach house, and the closer we got, the more my intestines twisted into knots.
"And if I were?" He shot me a quick look, voice dropping to that low rumble that did dangerous things to my pulse. "What would you do about it?"
The car's air conditioning couldn't quite compete with the heat creeping up my neck. Through the open sunroof, the breeze carried the scent of salt and Cam – a combination that made my head swim more effectively than any mango margarita ever could. For a moment, I forgot this was all pretend, that we were headed to my parents' beach house to engage in a charade for the benefit of my family and a sneaker deal.
I forced myself to look away, out at the shoreline coming into view. "I'd remind you of our very professional, very detailed agreement."
He laughed, warm and rich and far too knowing. His hand left the wheel to adjust the car's navigation system on the console, and for a fraction of a second, his fingers brushed against my bare knee. It was barely a touch, probably accidental, but it sent electricity racing up my thigh.
"My mom has already texted me three times about dinner seating arrangements," I said, desperate to change the subject. I held up my phone as evidence. "The last message says 'Frank insists you sit next to him so he can get to know C better.' She's abbreviated your name to save time. That's how you know she's in full event-planning mode."
Cam chuckled, the sound low and warm in the confines of the car. "It's cute that you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
He flicked a skeptical glance my way, one eyebrow raised in perfect challenge.
"Fine. I'm mildly concerned about the structural integrity of this ruse," I admitted. "My family is... a lot."
"I've met your family, Lana. Your dad's been giving me the eye from the owners' box for three years. And for four years before that, when Zayne and I played at BU."
"That's Work Dad. This is Beach House Dad. Completely different species."
The teasing glint in Cam's eyes softened into something more genuine. "Hey." He reached across the console to squeeze my hand, his palm warm and unexpectedly reassuring against mine. "We've got this. I'll charm your dad, compliment your mom's cooking, and remember all your cousins' names. What else?"
I swallowed, distracted by the casual intimacy of his touch. His thumb brushed a rhythm against my skin, and I wondered if he was even aware he was doing it.
