Page 32 of Worth the Wait
My mother’s expression becomes more serious. “I’m talking about your future, Cameron. You’re thirty years old. Most men in your position have established more... personal commitments by now.”
Personal commitments. Such a carefully neutral way to discuss marriage and family expectations.
“I’m focused on building Sterling Industries right now,” I say, which is true even if it’s not the complete truth.
“You can do both. Your father managed quite well, and his generation had fewer resources for balancing professional and personal obligations.”
I think about Lianne working in the passenger seat this morning, completely absorbed in coordinating details for our event. About the way she lit up when discussing wine pairings and cultural considerations. About how natural it felt to collaborate with her on something that mattered to both of us.
“Maybe I’m just more selective,” I say as Mom studies my face, her eyes narrowing.
“Cameron, is there something you’re not telling us? Someone you’re... selective about?”
“No,” I lie, because explaining my complicated feelings about Lianne Peralta would require conversations I’m not ready to have. “I just think compatibility matters more than business connections.”
“Of course it does. But they’re not mutually exclusive.”
She’s not wrong. Isabella could be compatible with me, if compatibility is defined as shared backgrounds and complementary social positions. We could build a pleasant life together based on mutual respect and strategic advantages.
But after spending the last twenty-four hours with Lianne, after remembering what it feels like to connect with someone who challenges me and surprises me and makes me want to be better than I am, the idea of settling for pleasant compatibility feels like giving up before I’ve even tried to fight for something real.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell my mother just as the valet brings her car around and she steps away.
“I’ll be riding home with Isabella,” she says before stepping into the passenger seat.
After they pull away, the valet brings my father’s Mercedes around next, and I slide into the passenger seat while he tips the attendant. We pull away from the club in silence, the afternoon sun casting shadows across the manicured grounds.
“Isabella seems lovely,” my father says after a time.
“She is.”
“Your mother has high hopes for that connection.”
I watch the Pacific glimmer between the perfectly maintained estates. “Mother has high hopes for a lot of things that aren’t going to happen.”
“You aren’t even going to give it a chance?” he asks. “With Isabella?”
I shrug. “I’d rather let things happen organically.”
I turn to look out the window at the ocean, avoiding my father’s gaze. But even as I say the words, I know exactly what it is I’d rather let happen.
And it’s not with Isabella or whoever my parents want me to end up with.
11
“Amanda,can you handle the Sterling Industries check-in today?”
I don’t look up from my laptop as I ask the question, trying to make it sound like a casual delegation rather than the careful avoidance strategy it actually is.
Two weeks.
It’s been exactly fourteen days since I woke up in that hotel room next to Cameron, since we spent an awkward breakfast pretending we hadn’t made love with desperate tenderness just hours before, since I decided that maintaining professional boundaries was more important than exploring whatever this thing between us might be.
Fourteen days of successfully avoiding direct contact with him, and I’m starting to think I might actually pull this off.
“Of course,” Amanda replies, making a note in her planner. “What should I tell him if he asks about the timeline adjustments?”
“Tell him we’re on schedule. The venue is locked, catering is confirmed, entertainment is booked. Everything’s proceeding according to plan.”
