Page 63 of Cold Feet
"Looking forward to it, sir," Cam replied, his tone shifting to something more respectful. "Been years since I've been deep-sea fishing."
"Frank," my father corrected. "And it's not really deep-sea, just the bay. But we might catch some decent redfish if we're lucky."
I watched the exchange carefully. My father wasn't an easy man to read, and his approval didn't come quickly. But something in the way he nodded at Cam seemed... accepting. Almostwarm. He was going to be so pissed at me when this is ober.
"Drake's packing the cooler," Dad continued. "Zayne's on bait duty. You and I'll handle the rods."
"Got it," Cam said, and I could tell he was pleased to be assigned a role. To be included. Something about their easy exchange made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
As the morning progressed, the line between pretending and reality became increasingly blurred. We moved around each other in the kitchen with surprising ease, anticipating each other's needs, passing utensils without having to ask, laughing at inside jokes. When I absent-mindedly tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with flour-covered fingers, Cam reached over and brushed the white streak from my cheek gently. When he confessed he'd never made bacon except in the microwave, I showed him the crispy magic of my mother's cast-iron pan.
It felt… comfortable. Natural. Domestic in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"You two make quite the team," my mother observed, watching us work. "I've never seen Lana so patient in the kitchen."
"I'm just trying not to mess up her system," Cam replied with a self-deprecating grin.
"He's teachable," I allowed, handing him the spatula. "Here, check the eggs. Dad likes his over soft, Zayne and Drake like theirs over hard, so you'll have to take them out of the pan in stages."
"Are you sure you want to trust me with such responsibility?"
"You've been watching me do it for half an hour. Time to see if you've learned anything."
He took the spatula with exaggerated care, positioning himself at the griddle like he was about to take a penalty shot. His tongue poked slightly out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and I bit back a smile at how adorably serious he looked.
"Just slide it underneath,gently, and flip it over. Try not to break the yolk," I instructed, fighting the urge to put my hand over his.
He nodded, focused intently on the fried egg as if it were the puck in a championship game. With surprising delicacy for a man known for his power on the ice, he gently slid the spatula under the egg and executed a perfect flip, revealing the golden-brown bottom of the egg, yolk miraculously intact.
"Yes!" He pumped his fist in triumph, turning to me with such boyish delight that I couldn't help but laugh. "Did you see that? Perfect flip!"
"Very impressive," I agreed, strangely proud of his small victory. "You may have a future in breakfast cuisine after all."
"I had a good teacher." His eyes held mine, warm and genuine..
The kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small. Too domestic.
"I need to grab more syrup from the pantry," I said abruptly, needing a moment alone to collect myself. "Keep an eye on those pancakes."
The walk-in pantry was blissfully cool and dim, a respite from the chaos of the kitchen and the confusing swirl of emotions Cam's presence evoked. I leaned against the shelf, taking a deep breath. What was happening to me? I'd been so determined to keep this arrangement strictly professional, to maintain the walls I'd carefully built around my heart. But with each passing hour, those walls seemed to be crumbling, revealing the vulnerable part of me I'd sealed away ten years ago.
"Lana?"
I startled at the sound of Cam's voice as he appeared in the pantry doorway, his tall frame blocking most of the light from the kitchen.
"Ifyou burn the pancakes…"
"Did you find the syrup?" he asked, stepping inside and letting the door swing partially closed behind him. The space immediately felt smaller, the air between us charged with something I wasn't ready to name. Outside, I could hear the clatter of dishes and the rise and fall of conversation, but in here, with the door nearly shut, we might as well have been miles away.
"I was just looking," I said, turning to scan the shelves, hyperaware of his presence behind me.
"Need help reaching something?"
"I'm not that short, Murphy."
"No, but the top shelves in here are ridiculous. I even have to stretch." As if to demonstrate, he moved closer, reaching past me for a jar on the top shelf, his chest brushing against my back.
The contact, brief as it was, sent a jolt through my system. I turned instinctively, meaning to step aside, but somehow that just brought us face to face, mere inches apart in the narrow confines of the pantry. In the dim light, his eyes were darker, the blue deepened to something like midnight. His breath, warm and coffee-scented, mingled with mine.
