Page 79 of Cold Feet
I managed to write two solid paragraphs before my gaze drifted back to the window.
Fuck it. I just wanted to watch him play.
"Get it together, Lana," I muttered to myself, rubbing my temples. Whatever had happened, or almost happened, between Cam and me at the beach house and on the bridge needed to stay firmly in the past. We had a job to do, a sneaker deal to secure. We needed to stay absolutely focused on the goal at hand. Three more days until the deal meeting.
So why couldn't I stop thinking about the way his eyes had darkened when he'd leaned toward me in the car? Or how perfectly our bodies had fit together when we'd awakened spooning at the beach house? Or the strange intimacy of our midnight conversations, when he'd confessed that no one after me had ever come close?
With a frustrated sigh, I pulled the ring off my finger and set it on the desk beside my keyboard. Out of sight, out of mind. FOCUS.
Five minutes later, I was staring at the ring again.
I picked it up, flipping it in my palm. The platinum setting was substantial but elegant, the ocean-deep sapphire multifaceted and mesmerizing, almost exactly the color of Cam's eyes when he smiled. Had he chosen it for that reason? Or was I reading too much into an expensive prop most likely selected by his agent?
Before I could stop myself, I slid it back onto my finger.Just for consistency, I told myself. In case someone from the training staff came by. It would look strange if I suddenly wasn't wearing it. People would talk.
The justifications sounded weak even to my own ears.
My phone buzzed with a text from Mitch in the marketing department, asking about player availability for All Childrens' Hospital visit request. I welcomed the distraction, diving into coordination logistics with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary. When my office phone rang a few minutes later, I answered without checking the caller ID, grateful for the interruption from my own thoughts.
"Lana Decker," I answered, professional tone firmly in place.
"Ms. Decker? This is Latisha Brown from Redline Athletics. I'm calling to follow up on the paperwork for Mr. Murphy's endorsement deal."
My pulse quickened. Redline.
"Of course, Ms. Brown. How can I help?"
"Just wanted to confirm we're still on track for Thursday's announcement and signing ceremony? Our CEO and creative director will be flying in specifically for the occasion."
"Absolutely," I assured her, pulling up the relevant document on my computer. "Cam's schedule is cleared for Thursday morning. We've arranged the private room at Bayside for the signing and lunch afterward, as requested."
"Excellent. And we've seen the, er, development in Mr. Murphy's personal life. The company is quite pleased with this new direction. The marketing department is already considering family-oriented campaign concepts for next year… perhaps involving both of you?”
I swallowed hard, guilt twisting in my stomach. "That's, uh, wonderful to hear."
"Will you be joining us on Thursday as well?" There was a note of curiosity in her voice. "As Mr. Murphy's fiancée, you're more than welcome to attend. We'd love to get to know the woman who's tamed hockey's most eligible bachelor."
The word 'fiancée' hit me like a slapshot. It was one thing to imply the relationship; it was another to hear it stated so matter-of-factly by an industry professional who was basing multi-million dollar decisions on our deception. Guilt flooded my body. This was a whole lot easier to swallow in the abstract. Or far away from reality at the beach house.
"Thank you for the invitation," I said carefully. "I'll need to check my schedule, but I appreciate the inclusion."
After finalizing a few more details and ending the call, I sat back in my chair, unsettled. What had started as a quick image fix had grown tentacles, extending into areas of our lives we hadn't anticipated. First my family, now Redline specifically mentioning "family campaigns." How far would this charade have to go before the deal was signed and secure?
And then what?
It's fine, I told myself. Cam was no troublemaker or man-tramp. He'd be an incredible spokesperson for Redline. The "fiance Cam" persona was more him than the hockey heartbreaker image I'd concocted for him anyway.
The thought of unwinding it all, of removing this ring and stepping back into my purely professional relationship with Cam, created an unexpected hollow sensation in my chest. Which was ridiculous. This was exactly what we'd planned from the beginning. Get the deal signed, then stage a quiet, amicable split after an appropriate interval.
Simple. Clean. Professional.
So why did my throat tighten at the thought?
A knock at my door provided welcome relief from my self-imposed spiral of questions. I quickly composed myself, expecting one of my team with the media credentials for tomorrow's game.
Instead, Coco stood in my doorway, a practice bag tucked under one arm and a bright smile on her face. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail that emphasized her high cheekbones and striking green eyes. She wore a Tampa Bay Skating Club jacket over sleek athletic leggings, her Olympic figure skater physique evident even in casual clothes. Versus me, skinny because I was constantly too busy to eat, and who got all my exercise by circling the skating arena in stilettos 500 times a day.
"Hey! Have I caught you at a bad time?" she asked, taking in what must have been my slightly frazzled appearance.
