Page 34 of Worth the Wait
“That you’re extremely thorough and that everything is under control. Which is true.” Amanda gathers her things, then pauses at my office door. “Is everything okay between you and Mr. Judd? The dynamic seems... different lately. Ever since Santa Barbara.”
Different. Of course, it’s different.
It has to be.
“Everything’s fine,” I reply, forcing a smile. “We’re just focused on delivering an exceptional event. Like we always do.”
Amanda nods, though her expression suggests she’s not entirely convinced. “Okay. Well, have a good evening. Don’t stay too late.”
“You too.”
The office grows quiet after she leaves, just the hum of air conditioning and the distant sounds of downtown LA traffic below. I should go home, order takeout, stream something mindless while trying not to think of the fact that Cameron and I have managed to successfully avoid each other for two weeks.
Instead, I find myself reorganizing files that don’t need organizing, reviewing timelines that are already perfect, doing anything to avoid going home to my empty apartment where I’ll have nothing to distract me from the memory of waking up next to him.
The Sterling Industries folder sits on my desk, thick with contracts and vendor agreements and detailed plans for an event that represents everything I’ve worked toward professionally. I flip through the documents, noting the progression from our initial meeting to the comprehensive celebration we’ve designed.
Everything is perfect. The venue, the catering, the entertainment, the flowers. Even the wine selections that came from that day when Cameron and I rediscovered each other over tastings and long conversations about music and dreams and the people we’ve become.
The only thing missing is the easy collaboration we had before everything got complicated by hotel rooms and sex… and the realization that some feelings never really go away, no matter how much time passes or how many professional boundaries you try to maintain.
I’m so absorbed in unnecessary busy work that I don’t hear the elevator or footsteps in the hallway. I don’t realize I have company until a familiar voice says my name.
“Lianne.”
The sight of Cameron standing in my office doorway leaves me breathless. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders, his hair slightly mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse spike immediately.
He looks tired, I realize. Not physically exhausted, but emotionally drained in a way I recognize because I’ve been feeling the same way for two weeks. The same way I felt that morning when I slipped out of his arms before he woke up.
“Cam...” His name comes out rougher than I intended. “I thought Amanda handled your call this afternoon.”
“She did.” He steps into my office, closing the door behind him with a soft click that suddenly makes the space feel very small and very private. Too much like that hotel room where I let him see every part of me. “But I needed to speak with you directly.”
“About what? Everything’s on schedule. The timeline hasn’t changed.”
He moves closer, not stopping until he’s standing in front of my desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne and see the intensity in his eyes. Close enough that I’m reminded of how it felt to wake up pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
“It’s not about the timeline.”
My mouth goes dry. “Cam...”
“Do you know how long two weeks is, Lianne?”
The question catches me off guard, partly because it’s not what I expected him to say and partly because I know exactly how long two weeks is when you’re trying not to think about the way someone’s hands felt mapping every inch of your body.
“Fourteen days,” I answer automatically.
“Three hundred and thirty-six hours.” His voice is lower now, more intimate. “Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes of trying to convince myself that what happened between us that night didn’t matter.”
I stare at him. Has he been counting time the same way I have, marking the passage of days since we made love, since I felt more connected to another person than I have in four years?
I stand up, needing to put some distance between us. “Cameron, we agreed?—”
“We agreed to one night,” he says, moving around my desk before I can retreat. “And it did happen, Lianne. But avoiding me for two weeks hasn’t changed the fact that I can still feel you in my arms.”
He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. I hate that he’s standing close enough to touch, that my body is remembering exactly how it felt to give myself to him completely, that two weeks of careful professional distance is crumbling in the space of a single conversation.
“This is complicated,” I whisper, the same thing I said in that wine cellar, in that hotel room, every time my defenses start to crumble around him.
