Page 25 of Worth the Wait
Cameron checks the weather radar on his phone. “The storm system is moving slowly. Could be several more hours before conditions improve enough for safe driving.”
Several more hours. Together.
After everything that happened in that wine cellar.
“Ventura it is,” I decide, because sitting in gridlocked traffic in the middle of a storm feels worse than whatever awkwardness awaits us in a hotel room.
The exit ramp is moving slightly better than the main freeway, though I can see why. Most of the cars getting off are clearly locals who know the back roads. Tourist traffic like us is probably stuck on the 101, waiting for conditions to improve.
“There,” Cameron points to a sign for the Ventura Harbor Inn. “That looks promising.”
The inn is a modest two-story building that looks like it was built in the 1970s and updated sometime in the 1990s. It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, but it’s clean and well-maintained, with a parking lot that’s surprisingly full for a Wednesday night.
“Lot of other people had the same idea,” I observe as Cameron finds a parking space.
“Storm refugees,” he agrees. “This should be interesting.”
The lobby is crowded with travelers in various states of weather-related dishevelment. Families with restless children, business travelers checking phones obsessively, couples huddled over coffee cups while they wait for news about road conditions.
The desk clerk, a tired-looking woman in her fifties, greets us with the expression of someone who’s been dealing with weather-related chaos all evening.
“Let me guess,” she says before we can speak. “Freeway closure?”
“Traffic jam from hell,” Cameron confirms. “Do you have any availability for tonight?”
The woman consults her computer with the slow deliberation of someone who’s already had this conversation dozens of times. “I have one room left. King bed, ocean view. It’s our honeymoon suite, actually, but under the circumstances...”
“Do you have two rooms available?” I ask quickly, heat creeping up my neck. “We’ll need separate accommodations.”
She shakes her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, that’s all I have. The storm has everyone stranded. I’ve got families doubled up in rooms, people sleeping in the lobby. You’re lucky I have anything at all.”
I look at Cameron, unsure what to do. One room means sharing space, sharing the aftermath of what happened in that wine cellar, navigating whatever this is between us without the safety of separate doors to retreat behind.
“We’ll take it,” Cameron says, pulling out his credit card.
Twenty minutes later, after a stop at the hotel’s small gift shop where I bought a Ventura T-shirt that’s three sizes too big and some basic toiletries including makeup remover, I’m standing in a hotel room that’s clearly designed for romance. Rose-colored walls, a massive king-sized bed with far too many decorative pillows, and floor-to-ceiling windows that would normally showcase an ocean view but currently reveal nothing but rain-streaked darkness.
“Well,” Cameron says as he shuts the door behind us. “This is...”
“Awkward?”
“I was going to say cozy, but awkward works too.”
There’s one bed. One very large, very obvious bed that dominates the space and makes it impossible to pretend this is just a business arrangement between colleagues who got caught in bad weather.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Cameron offers, though we both know the rose-colored carpet isn’t designed for overnight accommodation.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a king bed. We can share it like adults.” The words come out more confident than I feel. “We’re both exhausted, it’s late, and we have a long drive back to LA tomorrow. We can handle sharing space for one night.”
The silence that follows is loaded with everything we’re not saying. That kiss in the cellar, the way he looked at me like I was the air he breathed.
“If you’re sure,” he says finally.
“Of course, I’m sure.”
An hour later, we’ve both changed into makeshift pajamas, Cameron wearing a California T-shirt while my Ventura T-shirt falls to mid-thigh, my face scrubbed clean of makeup for the first time since he’s seen me again.
As he settles under the covers, I catch him watching me as I pad barefoot across the carpet, his gaze suddenly making me feel self-conscious.
