Chapter 8 #2
My childhood bedroom, once a shrine of hockey memorabilia, dance trophies, and boy bands, had been completely reimagined as what could only be described as a honeymoon suite.
Gone was the sleepover-ready trundle bed and mismatched furniture of my youth, replaced by a king-sized four-poster draped with gauzy white fabric.
The walls had been painted a soft, oceanic blue, and the windows now featured billowing curtains that caught the sea breeze.
A plush white rug covered much of the hardwood floor, and there were – I counted in mounting horror – no fewer than seventeen scented candles strategically placed around the room.
"Mom," I managed through a suddenly dry throat. "What did you do?"
"Just a little updating," she replied, beaming with pride. "I've been wanting to redo this room for ages, and when you told us about your engagement, I thought, what better time?"
I couldn't look at Cam. I didn't dare. The thought of sharing that massive bed with him for the next three nights made my pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with panic and everything to do with the way he'd looked at me outside my hotel room door in Vegas.
"It's beautiful, Mrs. Decker," Cam said, his voice remarkably steady. "You have a real eye for design."
My mother practically glowed under his praise. "Call me Diana, please. And you haven't even seen the best part."
She crossed to a door I hadn't noticed and opened it to reveal an entirely new en-suite bathroom complete with a claw-foot tub large enough for two and a shower with far too many jets.
"We had this added last year," she explained. "Originally it was going to be a reading nook, but I convinced your father another full bathroom made more sense. And now I'm so glad we did! Much more privacy for you two lovebirds."
I was going to die. Right here, right now, of acute embarrassment.
"It's perfect," Cam assured her, placing a hand at the small of my back in what appeared to be a gesture of affection but felt more like he was physically holding me from bolting out the door. "Thank you for going to so much trouble."
"No trouble at all for my future son-in-law," my mother replied warmly. "Now, I'll let you two get settled. Dinner's at seven, but come down whenever you're ready for drinks on the deck. Your father's making his famous mojitos."
"Thanks mom."
With a conspiratorial wink that made me want to sink through the floor, she left, closing the door behind her.
The moment her footsteps faded, I collapsed face-first onto the bed with a groan.
"Kill me now."
"Aw, it's not that bad," Cam said, though I could hear the amusement in his voice.
"Not that bad?" I rolled over to glare at him. "My mother has created a sex nest, Cam. A fully-equipped love shack. There are massage oils on the nightstand."
He glanced over and his eyebrows shot up. "Flavored?"
"I will end you."
He laughed, dropping his duffel bag by the closet and surveying the room with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and admiration. "Your mom really committed to the bit. I respect that."
"She will have a venue picked out in 24 hours," I said, sitting up as I pressed my palms to my forehead. "Mark my words. Did you see the bridal magazines on the coffee table downstairs? So subtle."
"Yeah, well, some parents get excited about this stuff." There was something wistful in his tone that made me look up sharply. "It's nice that they care so much."
Right. Cam's parents had never been the enthusiastic, involved type. His mother, though he loved her, wasn't able to attend his games most of the time. His last step-dad had attended exactly one of his NHL games – and spent most of it on his phone.
"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I shouldn't complain. It's just... a lot."
"Hey." He sat beside me on the bed, the mattress groaning a bit under his weight. "I get it. There's pressure when they care this much. Different kind of pressure than when they don't, but still pressure."
I nodded, strangely comforted by his understanding. For all our differences, Cam had always been able to read situations, and people, with remarkable clarity. It was what made him so valuable on the ice.
"So," he said after a moment, "sleeping arrangements?"
Reality crashed back in. We were sharing a room. A very romantic, very intimate room with exactly one bed. In my childhood home. With my entire family within earshot.
"I can take the floor," he offered when I didn't immediately respond.
"Don't be ridiculous. That bed is big enough for four people. We're adults. We can share." I was aiming for nonchalant but feared I missed by a mile. "We just need, uh, boundaries."
"Boundaries," he repeated, looking amused. "Like what? A pillow wall down the middle?"
"If necessary."
"Would it help if I promised to keep my hands to myself?" He raised them in mock surrender. "Scout's honor."
"Were you ever actually a Scout?"
"No, but I look good in a uniform, I know how to start a fire, and I did once help an old lady cross the street. Isn’t that basically the whole gig?"
Despite everything, I found myself laughing. "Fine. We share the bed. But fully clothed."
"Fully clothed," he agreed, though his eyes held a mischievous glint that made my stomach flip. "Though I should warn you, I get hot when I sleep."
"That's not a boundary-respecting statement, Murphy."
"I just mean I might need to lose the shirt at some point."
"And I just mean I might need to smother you with a pillow."
He grinned, unbothered by my threat. "You know, for someone who's supposedly engaged to me, you seem awfully resistant to witnessing my bare torso. It's a good torso, Lana. Men’s Health did a whole feature on it. So did Pop Sugar."
"Yes, I'm aware." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His eyebrows shot up. "Are you now? Been admiring my Men’s Health spread, Decker?"
Heat crept into my cheeks. "It was research. For work."
"Uh-huh." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Very thorough research, I'm sure."
"Shut up and unpack," I grumbled, standing to grab my suitcase. "I need to change before dinner."
"Need any help with that?" he called as I escaped into the bathroom with my bag.
"Boundaries, Murphy!"
His laughter followed me, warm and rich, and I couldn't help but crack a smile as I closed the door.
Twenty minutes later, changed into a casual sundress and with my hair freshly brushed, I emerged to find Cam standing by the bay window that overlooked the Gulf.
He'd changed too, into khaki shorts and a light blue button-down that made his sun-kissed skin glow.
Barefoot with his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, he looked relaxed, at home – and entirely too appealing.
He turned as I approached, and something in his expression – a flash of genuine appreciation – made my breath catch.
"You look nice," he said simply.
"Thanks. You too." I gestured to his outfit. "No tie? Didn't want to go full beach formal?"
"I save formal for family gatherings involving at least two aunts and a disappointed grandfather." He tapped his temple. "Strategic dressing. Always leave room for improvement."
"Smart. My dad respects a man who dresses appropriately for the occasion."
"What about you? What do you respect in a man?" The question was casual, but his eyes held mine with unexpected intensity.
I swallowed, aware of how close we were standing, how easily I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. And I did want to, which was the problem.
"Honesty," I said finally. "I respect honesty."
Something flickered across his face (Regret? Guilt?) before he masked it with a smile. "Then I should honestly tell you that you look beautiful. And I'm honestly looking forward to having a drink before we face the full Decker interrogation."
The moment passed, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Lead the way, fiancé."
Downstairs, we found my parents and Zayne on the deck, relaxing in Adirondack chairs as the late afternoon sun painted the sky with streaks of pink and gold. My father was indeed making his famous mojitos, crushing mint leaves with practiced precision.
"There they are!" my mother called, waving us over. "Frank, pour them some drinks! They need fortification before the rest of the clan descends tomorrow."
My father nodded, resuming his methodical muddling. "Have a seat. How was the drive?"
"Smooth," Cam replied, selecting the chair next to my father, a choice I was absolutely certain wasn't accidental. He was making an effort. "Beautiful coastline. I see why your family has kept this place for generations."
My father grunted approvingly. "Been in Diana's family since the fifties. My father-in-law won it in a poker game, or so the story goes."
"It was not a poker game," my mother corrected with a fond eye roll. "It was a gentleman's agreement. A handshake between friends."
"Over poker," my father insisted.
My mother waved away the distinction. "The important thing is that it's been our family sanctuary ever since. We've had every major celebration here."
"And a few major arguments," Zayne muttered.
"Every family has those," Cam said diplomatically, accepting the mojito my father handed him. "Thank you, sir."
"Frank," my father corrected, offering me the second drink. "Sir makes me feel ancient."
"You are ancient," I teased, settling into a chair. The familiar banter was soothing, grounding me despite the surreal nature of the situation.
My father narrowed his eyes on me. "Watch it, or I'll break out the photo albums from your awkward braces phase."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I'd pay to see those," Cam said, eyes twinkling. "Seriously, I'm prepared to write a check to the charity of your choosing right now."
I kicked his ankle under the table. "Traitor."