Page 49 of Worth the Wait
“You know how crazy pre-event coordination gets,” she’d said, and I’d nodded because I did know. The Sterling Industries gala was consuming her time and energy in ways that left little room for social obligations.
But looking back now, I wonder if it was something else entirely. A reluctance to be introduced to my family’s social circle, maybe. Or perhaps the beginning of whatever’s causing her to treat me like a business associate tonight.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask finally, unable to ignore the shift in energy that’s been building since I walked through her door.
“Just focused on delivering exceptional events,” she says, offering another one of those measured smiles. “This is everything I’ve worked toward professionally. I want both the Martinez wedding and your gala to be perfect.”
The explanation makes sense. The Sterling Industries anniversary represents the kind of high-profile success thatcould establish Luminous Events among the top tier of luxury planners in Los Angeles. Of course she’s feeling pressure.
But there’s something in her voice, a quality of emotional distance that has nothing to do with work stress and everything to do with the way she’s been avoiding my eyes all evening.
“The events will be incredible,” I say, meaning it. “You create magic for people, Lianne. Both Saturday and next weekend will be no exception.”
“Thank you.” Again, that formal gratitude that sounds like she’s talking to a client rather than the man she’s been building a future with.
We finish dinner in conversation that covers vendor schedules and guest accommodations, and I find myself missing the easy intimacy we’d developed over three weeks of sharing meals and stories and dreams for what came next. Tonight feels like we’re going through the motions of normalcy while something fundamental has shifted between us.
I try one more time to steer us toward personal territory. “Sophia threw Alessandra a birthday party last weekend—you should have seen the setup. Full carnival theme with an actual ferris wheel in the backyard. The logistics must have been incredible.”
“That sounds lovely,” Lianne replies, but she’s already standing to clear our plates, effectively ending the conversation before I can tell her about thinking of her while watching the elaborate coordination, about wishing she’d been there with me.
“I’m sorry, but I’m really exhausted,” she continues. “Would you mind if we called it an early night?”
The deflection is swift and final, shutting down any chance for deeper conversation with such efficiency that I wonder if she’s been planning this exit strategy all evening.
When we move to her bedroom later, she kisses me with an intensity that catches me off guard—not the comfortable passion we’ve settled into, but something desperate and almost frantic. Like she’s trying to memorize the feeling rather than simply enjoying the moment.
She makes love like she’s saying goodbye.
The thought hits me as she moves above me with urgent tenderness, her hands mapping my chest and shoulders like she’s gathering memories instead of creating them. There’s something almost desperate about the way she touches me, a quality that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with finality.
“You’re everything to me,” I whisper against her throat, and she freezes for just a moment before kissing me harder, deeper, with the kind of intensity that feels more like desperation than passion.
When we’re both spent and breathing hard, instead of the comfortable intimacy we’ve developed, Lianne curls on her side facing away from me. I pull her closer, expecting her to melt into my arms the way she usually does. Instead, she allows the contact but remains tense, her breathing too controlled to suggest she’s anywhere close to sleep.
“Hey,” I murmur, tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“About whatever’s keeping you awake. About why tonight feels different.”
“Everything’s fine, Cameron. I’m just tired.”
But she’s not just tired. She’s lying there quietly while I hold her, present in body but somewhere else entirely in spirit. Like she’s already started the process of pulling away and tonight was her chance to say goodbye.
I fall asleep confused and hoping that whatever’s bothering her will resolve itself after Saturday’s successful Martinez wedding. We’ll have time to focus on us again, to plan the Napa trip we’ve been discussing, to figure out what comes next for our relationship.
I wake up alone.
Lianne has already left for an early vendor meeting, leaving only a note on her kitchen counter—Early morning at venue. Coffee’s ready. Thank you for dinner. — L
Professional courtesy. The kind of note she might leave for a houseguest rather than the man she’d made love to with desperate intensity just hours before.
That was four days ago.
Four days of polite distance, measured responses, and the growing certainty that the woman who spent three weeks planning our future together has been replaced by someone who treats me like a client rather than the man she was falling for.
I’m sitting in my Malibu office now, staring at my phone and debating whether to call her again or accept that something fundamental has changed between us. The view outside my floor-to-ceiling windows usually calms me—the Pacificstretching endlessly toward the horizon, sailboats dotting the water like white punctuation marks against blue. Today it just reminds me of all the ocean-view dinners Lianne and I won’t be sharing if she keeps retreating behind this wall of courteous distance.
