Page 45 of Worth the Wait
“Never again,” I promise, leaning down to brush my lips against hers in a kiss that tastes like coffee and second chances. “You’re not just some unfinished business to me. What we have now... it’s real. It matters.”
“It matters to me too,” she whispers against my mouth. “More than I thought possible.”
When we kiss again, it’s with the certainty that this is real, that we’re both choosing each other completely this time. Last night confirmed what we both felt in Santa Barbara—that this is worth fighting for, that we’re both willing to risk everything for the possibility of us.
Right now, in Lianne’s kitchen with morning light streaming through the windows and the taste of forever on my lips, I have everything I need.
This time, I’m not letting anything tear us apart.
This time, love is going to be enough.
15
“The Martinez receptionneeds to accommodate the bride’s gluten-free requirements, but the groom’s family specifically requested the traditional cake service,” Amanda says. “Should we do a separate dessert station or?—”
“Separate station,” I say absently, my attention split between the weekly team meeting and the iPad balanced on my lap. Our conference room buzzes with the familiar energy of final preparations—Terry spreading fabric swatches across the polished table, Sandra consulting vendor timelines on her laptop, Amanda’s careful notes filling her leather portfolio.
While my team discusses floral arrangements and dietary restrictions for Saturday’s Martinez wedding, I’m scrolling through three weeks of calendar entries that started the morning after he spent the night at my townhouse. Each entry reads like evidence of how completely my professional boundaries have collapsed.
Tuesday, March 15, 7:00 AM — Coffee with C before Meridian vendor meeting
That morning floods back in vivid detail—Cameron appearing at my office door with two cups from the café down the street, knowing without asking that I’d be stressed about the vendor presentations. The way he’d moved through my space with easy familiarity, setting the coffee on my desk before sliding his hands along my shoulders. His fingers had found the knots of tension between my shoulder blades, working them loose while I reviewed contracts.
“You realize you don’t have to be perfect at everything,” he’d murmured against my temple, his breath warm on my skin.
“Says the man whose company expects perfection from their event planner.”
“I’m not talking about Sterling Industries.” His voice had dropped to that intimate register that still makes my pulse race. “I’m talking about us.”
Us. The word had hung in the air between us, heavy with promise. Three weeks ago, it felt like a declaration, a commitment to something real and lasting. Now, staring at the innocent planner entry, it feels naive.
“Lianne?” Amanda’s voice pulls me back to the present, her concerned expression cutting through my memory. “The ceremony timeline?”
“Ceremony starts at four, cocktail hour immediately following. No gaps in service.” I force myself to focus, but my fingers are already scrolling to another entry. “The musicians know to transition seamlessly between sets.”
“Perfect. And the backup plan for weather?”
“Covered. The tent rental includes sidewalls that can be deployed in under twenty minutes.” I flip to last weekend’s entries, my heart doing that familiar flutter it’s been doing for three weeks straight.
Saturday, March 19, 9:00 AM — Farmers’ market
The Santa Monica Farmers’ Market had become our weekend ritual—Cameron insisting on carrying my reusable bags while I selected ingredients for dinners we’d cook together in my kitchen. He’d developed opinions about which vendors sold the best produce, learned the names of the regular sellers, started conversations about seasonal availability that showed he was paying attention to details that mattered to me.
That particular Saturday, Mrs. Chavez at the strawberry stand had beamed at us with the satisfaction of someone watching a love story unfold.
“You two are here every week now,” she’d said, handing us sample berries with a knowing smile. “Such a lovely couple.”
Cameron’s grin had been boyish, proud, like we’d won something precious simply by being seen together. “You’re getting quite the reputation,” he’d teased, loading organic tomatoes into my bag. “Mrs. Chavez thinks you’re domesticating me.”
“Are you domesticated?”
“Completely.” He’d stolen another strawberry sample and kissed me right there between the heirloom tomatoes and artisanal honey, his lips sweet with berry juice. “And I’ve never been happier about losing my independence.”
The memory makes my chest tight with something between warmth and unease. Three weeks of falling back into each other, of building routines that felt permanent, of believing this time would be different. But something about scrolling through these entries feels like examining evidence of a relationship that exists only in my calendar, separate from his real world.
Thursday, March 24, 6:30 PM — Dinner at Guelaguetza
I’d wanted to share my favorite Oaxacan restaurant with him, the place Maya and I had discovered during our struggling years when authentic mole negro felt like a luxury we could barely afford. Cameron had been game, curious about the unfamiliar flavors, asking thoughtful questions about ingredients and preparation methods.
