Page 18 of Worth the Wait
It’s a dismissal, polite but firm, though the mention of Santa Barbara sends an unexpected jolt of anticipation through me. Even though she insisted we drive separately, it means spending time alone with Lianne away from the careful professional boundaries of her office. And maybe it’s for the best that we’re ending today’s meeting here, given that I’m operating on minimal sleep and even less self-control.
“Of course,” I agree, standing despite the protest from my jet-lagged body. “Thank you for accommodating my schedule.”
“It’s what we do for our clients,” she replies, but there’s something in her voice that suggests I’m not just another client, even if she’s not ready to admit it.
I’m halfway to the door when she speaks again.
“Cameron.”
I turn back, surprised by the use of my first name. She’s standing by the conference table, one hand resting on the surface, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Get some sleep,” she says quietly. “You look like you need it.”
There’s concern in her voice, genuine care that she’s trying to hide behind professional courtesy. It’s the first time since our reunion that she’s let her guard down enough to show that she might still care about my well-being, even if she’s not ready to explore what that means.
“I will,” I promise, though what I really want to say is thank you for noticing, thank you for caring, thank you for letting me see a glimpse of the woman who used to worry when I worked too late or forgot to eat lunch during busy days.
“Good,” she says, then seems to catch herself being too personal. “Sterling Industries needs you at full capacity for the final planning phase.”
Sterling Industries. Right. Because this is about business, not about the way her eyes soften when she’s concerned about someone she cares about.
“Of course,” I agree. “Have a good evening, Lianne.”
“You too, Cameron.”
I leave her office with the taste of her name on my lips and the memory of peonies in my head. Somewhere between the jet lag and the floral arrangements, I managed to crack open a door that’s been closed between us for four years.
I just hope I’m strong enough to walk through it, and that she’ll be brave enough to let me.
7
“Vehicle system error.Please contact service immediately.” The red warning message glows mockingly from my Tesla’s touchscreen, as unresponsive as the rest of the car’s electronic systems. I tap the screen again, jab at the key fob like it’s a defibrillator, but the dashboard stares back with digital indifference.
Great. Just great.
Why does my car choose today—of all days—to stage an electronic rebellion? I have wine vendor meetings in Santa Barbara in three hours, Amanda’s using our other service vehicle for the Morrison wedding, and my backup options are shrinking by the minute.
I’m scrolling through rental car apps on my phone when footsteps echo across the parking garage.
“Car trouble?”
I turn to find Cameron walking toward me from the elevator bank, looking impossibly put together in dark jeans and a navybutton-down despite the early hour. His hair is slightly mussed in a way that stirs memories I’ve been trying to suppress, and it’s deeply unfair how good he looks at seven in the morning.
“Good morning,” I say, falling back on professional courtesy while my brain scrambles to figure out why he’s here. “I thought we were meeting at the venue.”
“I figured I’d catch you before you left for Santa Barbara,” he replies, his eyes taking in my Tesla’s stubbornly blank dashboard. “I wanted to discuss some questions that came up about the wine selections.”
“About that,” I begin, preparing to explain that our carefully planned day is about to be derailed by automotive betrayal. “There’s been a slight complication?—”
“I could drive,” Cameron interrupts, as if he’s been reading my thoughts. “If that would help.”
I stare at him. Two to three hours in a car with Cameron, just the two of us, discussing wine preferences and trying to maintain professional boundaries while confined in a space roughly the size of a luxury closet.
It’s either the best idea I’ve heard all week or a complete disaster waiting to happen.
“That’s very generous,” I say carefully, “but I’m sure you have better things to do than chauffeur event planners around wine country.”
“I’m the board chair of Sterling Industries,” he says. “Part of my job is ensuring our anniversary gala exceeds expectations. If that means driving to Santa Barbara to select the perfect wine pairings, then that’s what I’ll do.”
