Page 29 of Worth the Wait
She nods, but I notice the way she avoids my eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she gathers her things. Whatever walls she’s rebuilding this morning, they’re not as solid as she wants them to appear.
“So,” I say as we merge onto the 101 freeway twenty minutes later, desperate to fill the silence that’s been stretching between us since we awkwardly navigated checkout and car loading. “Last night was...”
“Professional,” Lianne cuts me off, not looking up from her laptop balanced on her knees. “We shared accommodations out of necessity. Very... businesslike.”
Businesslike. Right. After what just happened.
“Speaking of professional matters,” she continues, her cheeks slightly pink, “I’ve been thinking about your suggestion for the centerpieces.”
It takes me a moment to remember what she’s referring to. “The peonies?”
“I think they’d work beautifully for the private dining room where the board members will have their pre-dinner meeting. More intimate than the main ballroom arrangements, but still elegant.” She finally glances at me, her expression carefully controlled. “If that’s still what you want.”
“Yes,” I say, probably with more intensity than floral arrangements warrant. “That’s definitely what I want.”
Lianne’s breath catches slightly, but she immediately returns to her laptop. “Good. I’ll confirm the order with the florist today. Very... efficient.”
“Very professional,” I agree, and this time I can’t quite hide my smile.
She shoots me a look that’s trying to be stern but ends up looking more flustered. “The wine deliveries need to be coordinated with the venue staff. I’ll coordinate with Jennifer about the final count,” she continues, her fingers flying over her laptop with renewed determination. “We should have everything locked in by next week.”
The playful moment evaporates as reality settles back in. Next week. When this project moves into final execution phase and our interactions become less frequent. When we’ll both be too busy with implementation details to spend long daystasting wine and talking about music and pretending we don’t remember what it feels like to make love again.
“Sounds good,” I manage, though nothing about this conversation sounds good anymore.
The easy banter dies, replaced by the careful professional distance that feels more forced now than it did an hour ago. Lianne buries herself in work, responding to emails and vendor coordination details with the focused intensity of someone who needs the distraction.
I focus on traffic and try not to think about how perfect she felt in my arms. How beautiful she looked when she finally let go.
By the time I pull in front of Luminous Events, we’ve successfully reestablished the client-vendor relationship we both apparently want to maintain.
The drive from downtown LA to my Malibu home takes forty-five minutes in Saturday morning traffic, forty-five minutes for me to process what just happened and figure out how to move forward. By the time I pull into my circular driveway, I’ve almost convinced myself that maintaining professional boundaries with Lianne is the smart choice for both of us.
Then I see the cars parked in front of my house.
My father’s silver Mercedes. My mother’s white Range Rover. And a red Ferrari that I don’t recognize but screams expensive European taste.
Great.
I sit in my car for a moment, gathering the energy to deal with whatever family situation is waiting for me inside. It’s barely noon on a Saturday, which means this is either a crisis or a social obligation I’ve forgotten about.
Given the Ferrari, I’m betting on social obligation.
I’m halfway to my front door when it opens to reveal my mother, dressed in country club brunch attire and wearing the kind of smile that suggests she’s been planning this encounter.
“Cameron, darling,” she says, air-kissing my cheek with practiced efficiency. “We were beginning to worry. James said you didn’t come home last night.”
Of course James told them. My housekeeper has been reporting my comings and goings to my mother since I was in high school. Some things never change.
“Business trip,” I say, which is technically true. “Wine vendor meetings in Santa Barbara.”
“You’re handling wine vendor meetings?” My father appears behind my mother, wearing his weekend uniform of an expensive polo shirt and perfectly pressed slacks. “That seems unusually thorough.”
Before I can respond, a third person emerges from my house, and I understand why the Ferrari looked unfamiliar.
“Cameron, it’s been forever,” Isabella Vitale, blond and beautiful in her white linen pantsuit, says as she extends a manicured hand. “Your parents have told me so much about what you’ve been up to lately. You’ve been so busy.”
I shake her hand and summon my social training, the kind of polite charm that’s been drilled into me since childhood. “Welcome to Los Angeles. How are you finding it after Milan?”
