Page 76 of Cold Feet
I couldn't help but wonder, but I didn't dare ask.
Traffic crawled forward at an agonizing pace, stopping completely for long stretches before lurching forward a few car lengths. By the time we reached the steep incline of the bridge, dark clouds had begun gathering in the distance, the air taking on that charged, electric quality that precedes Florida storms.
"Looks like we're in for some weather," Cam observed, nodding toward the horizon where gray clouds billowed like smoke.
I watched the clouds with growing unease. The Sunshine Skyway was beautiful on clear days, but its exposed position over the bay made it vulnerable to sudden weather shifts, particularly high winds. As we climbed higher, I could see whitecaps forming on the water below, the palm trees along the fishing pier bending in the strengthening breeze.
Bythe time we'd crept to the apex of the bridge, the highest point, 200 feet above the bay with nothing but steel cables and engineering between us and the churning water, traffic had stopped completely. We sat immobile, the first fat raindrops beginning to splatter against the windshield as the wind audibly picked up around us.
I gripped the edge of my seat, trying to appear casual, but when a particularly strong gust rocked the car slightly, I couldn't suppress a small gasp. The bridge was designed to sway in high winds (a safety feature, not a flaw) but the sensation of movement while suspended so high above the water sent a spike of adrenaline through my system.
"You okay?" Cam asked, his eyes concerned.
"Fine," I said automatically, then reconsidered. "Actually, no. I hate being stopped up here. Especially in weather."
He nodded, not dismissing my fear or trying to reason me out of it. "It should clear up soon."
As if in direct contradiction, the sky darkened further, and a flash of lightning illuminated the clouds. The rain intensified into a torrential downpour, drumming on the roof of the car, and the wind howled around us, causing the bridge to sway perceptibly.
"The whole structure is designed to flex with the wind," Cam offered. "I think it's rated for a Cat 3 or 4."
Any Floridian who plans to survive the increasingly intense hurricane season each year must basically become an amateur meteorologist. One of the hazards of living in the Sunshine State, among others.
"That's not as reassuring as you think," I replied through gritted teeth as another gust rocked Cam's sports car. My heart hammered in my chest, and I found myself taking short, shallow breaths.
Cam reached across the center console and took my hand, his palm warm against my suddenly clammy fingers. "You're okay," he said firmly. "We're okay."
I nodded, unable to speak as another powerful gust buffeted the car.
"Breathe with me," he instructed, his voice calm and steady. "In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight."
I stared at him, surprised. "Since when do you know breathing exercises?"
A small, self-deprecating smile crossed his face. "I had panic attacks when I was a kid. Not many people know that."
This revelation, this unexpected vulnerability from Cam of all people, momentarily distracted me from my fear. "You did?"
He nodded, still holding my hand. "Started after my parents' first divorce. Got worse during high school. Better now, but..." He shrugged. "I've learned some techniques."
I couldn't reconcile all this new information with the Cam IthoughtI knew: the carefree, confident Hitman who seemed to skate through life as effortlessly as he skated on ice.
"Breathe with me," he said again, and this time I followed, matching the steady rhythm he set. In for four... hold for seven... out for eight. Again and again until the vice grip of panic around my chest loosened slightly.
"Talk to me," I said, needing further distraction as the wind howled around us, the bridge creaking beneath our tires. "Tell me something else I don't know about you."
He thought for a moment, "I usually sleep with the TV on," he said finally. "Always have a game or a baking show or a documentary playing."
"Why?"
"Um...I used to have a hard time settling down to sleep, thanks to the musical chairs of all my parents' different houses when I was a kid. Too many weird sounds. And then later when I played on traveling teams, and now sleeping in different hotels all the time when we travel for games... I can get too many thoughts when it's quiet. TV drowns them out."
"Oh no! You should have told me," I said apologetically. "I would have turned the TV on for you at the beach house."
Cam grinned suddenly and winked at me, charisma radiating on full blast. "Thanks, but I already hadplentyto distract me, Cupcake Queen."
"I alphabetize my spices," I offered in return. "And my books. And my nail polish."
He grinned. "That tracks."
