Chapter 11 #2
There was something so genuine in his tone that I paused in my pancake pouring to look at him.
He'd crouched down again to let Emma examine his dinosaur sock more closely, his expression warm and open.
Cam had always been good with the junior fans at team events, but this was different – more natural, less performative.
I'd assumed his ease with children yesterday had been part of our charade, but watching him now, I realized it was simply him.
"Come on, shortstop," he said to Emma, scooping her up and settling her on a kitchen stool. "You can be my official taste tester."
"What about me?" Tyler asked.
"You can be assistant chef. Here," Cam grabbed a whisk and handed it to Tyler. "Stir this while your aunt Lana pours."
The kitchen quickly filled with more family members; Zayne and Drake stumbling in looking for coffee, my parents returning from their walk, Nana taking her usual place at the head of the table.
Before long, we had an assembly line going with me manning the griddle, Cam and Tyler mixing more batter, and Emma solemnly reporting on the quality of each pancake batch.
"I didn't know NHL superstars could burn toast," Zayne commented dryly as Cam scraped a blackened piece into the trash.
"I have many talents," Cam replied airily. "Toast isn't one of them. Or eggs. Or bacon. I'm more of a dessert guy."
"That's why he needs me," I said without thinking, then froze when I realized how couple-y it sounded. "I mean – for the bacon. Obviously."
Cam caught my eye over Zayne's shoulder and smiled, a small, private thing that made my stomach flip. "Obviously," he agreed. "I'd be lost without you."
The simple statement, delivered with such quiet sincerity, sent an unexpected warmth blooming through my chest. It was part of the act, I reminded myself firmly. All for show. Which at this rate, I needed to remind myself every twelve seconds.
My father, who had been quietly observing from the corner with his coffee, finally spoke up. "So, Cam, are you ready for our fishing trip today? Tide's best around noon."
"Looking forward to it, sir," Cam replied, his tone shifting to something more respectful. "Been years since I've been deep-sea fishing."
"Frank," my father corrected. "And it's not really deep-sea, just the bay. But we might catch some decent redfish if we're lucky."
I watched the exchange carefully. My father wasn't an easy man to read, and his approval didn't come quickly. But something in the way he nodded at Cam seemed... accepting. Almost warm. He was going to be so pissed at me when this is ober.
"Drake's packing the cooler," Dad continued. "Zayne's on bait duty. You and I'll handle the rods."
"Got it," Cam said, and I could tell he was pleased to be assigned a role. To be included. Something about their easy exchange made my throat tighten unexpectedly.
As the morning progressed, the line between pretending and reality became increasingly blurred.
We moved around each other in the kitchen with surprising ease, anticipating each other's needs, passing utensils without having to ask, laughing at inside jokes.
When I absent-mindedly tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with flour-covered fingers, Cam reached over and brushed the white streak from my cheek gently.
When he confessed he'd never made bacon except in the microwave, I showed him the crispy magic of my mother's cast-iron pan.
It felt… comfortable. Natural. Domestic in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
"You two make quite the team," my mother observed, watching us work. "I've never seen Lana so patient in the kitchen."
"I'm just trying not to mess up her system," Cam replied with a self-deprecating grin.
"He's teachable," I allowed, handing him the spatula. "Here, check the eggs. Dad likes his over soft, Zayne and Drake like theirs over hard, so you'll have to take them out of the pan in stages."
"Are you sure you want to trust me with such responsibility?"
"You've been watching me do it for half an hour. Time to see if you've learned anything."
He took the spatula with exaggerated care, positioning himself at the griddle like he was about to take a penalty shot. His tongue poked slightly out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and I bit back a smile at how adorably serious he looked.
"Just slide it underneath, gently, and flip it over. Try not to break the yolk," I instructed, fighting the urge to put my hand over his.
He nodded, focused intently on the fried egg as if it were the puck in a championship game.
With surprising delicacy for a man known for his power on the ice, he gently slid the spatula under the egg and executed a perfect flip, revealing the golden-brown bottom of the egg, yolk miraculously intact.
"Yes!" He pumped his fist in triumph, turning to me with such boyish delight that I couldn't help but laugh. "Did you see that? Perfect flip!"
"Very impressive," I agreed, strangely proud of his small victory. "You may have a future in breakfast cuisine after all."
"I had a good teacher." His eyes held mine, warm and genuine..
The kitchen suddenly felt too warm, too small. Too domestic.
"I need to grab more syrup from the pantry," I said abruptly, needing a moment alone to collect myself. "Keep an eye on those pancakes."
The walk-in pantry was blissfully cool and dim, a respite from the chaos of the kitchen and the confusing swirl of emotions Cam's presence evoked.
I leaned against the shelf, taking a deep breath.
What was happening to me? I'd been so determined to keep this arrangement strictly professional, to maintain the walls I'd carefully built around my heart.
But with each passing hour, those walls seemed to be crumbling, revealing the vulnerable part of me I'd sealed away ten years ago.
"Lana?"
I startled at the sound of Cam's voice as he appeared in the pantry doorway, his tall frame blocking most of the light from the kitchen.
"If you burn the pancakes…"
"Did you find the syrup?" he asked, stepping inside and letting the door swing partially closed behind him.
The space immediately felt smaller, the air between us charged with something I wasn't ready to name.
Outside, I could hear the clatter of dishes and the rise and fall of conversation, but in here, with the door nearly shut, we might as well have been miles away.
"I was just looking," I said, turning to scan the shelves, hyperaware of his presence behind me.
"Need help reaching something?"
"I'm not that short, Murphy."
"No, but the top shelves in here are ridiculous. I even have to stretch." As if to demonstrate, he moved closer, reaching past me for a jar on the top shelf, his chest brushing against my back.
The contact, brief as it was, sent a jolt through my system.
I turned instinctively, meaning to step aside, but somehow that just brought us face to face, mere inches apart in the narrow confines of the pantry.
In the dim light, his eyes were darker, the blue deepened to something like midnight.
His breath, warm and coffee-scented, mingled with mine.
"Sorry," he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't mean to crowd you."
But he didn't move away, and I found that I didn't want him to. In the dim light filtering through the partially open door, his eyes were dark, intent, focused entirely on me.
"Cam," I whispered, still undecided if it was a warning or an invitation.
His hand came up slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, before his fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face with exquisite gentleness. "You still had some flour," he said softly, though we both knew there was no flour there.
"Thanks," I managed, my voice barely audible.
His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of my cheek with a touch so light it was almost reverent.
I should step back. I should make a joke, break the tension, maintain the professional boundaries I'd insisted upon.
But I remained frozen, caught in his gaze, my heart thundering against my ribcage.
The shelf pressed into my back, cool metal against warm skin, grounding me when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
"What are we doing, Lana?" he asked, his voice low and serious.
"We're..." My throat felt dry, the words sticking. "We're making breakfast."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it." His thumb brushed across my lower lip, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. "What's happening between us? Is this still pretend?"
The question hung in the air, weighted with all the things we hadn't said, all the history between us, all the possibilities stretching out before us.
"I don't… " I started, but was interrupted by the pantry door swinging fully open.
"Are you two looking for the syrup or making out?" Zayne's eyes narrowed as he took in our proximity, Cam's hand still hovering near my face.
"Looking for syrup," I said quickly, stepping away from Cam as if I'd been burned. "Top shelf." I gestured vaguely upward, desperate to explain our closeness.
"Right," Zayne said, clearly unconvinced. "Well, the kids are getting restless, and Mom's asking what's taking so long."
"We'll be right there," Cam said, his voice remarkably steady given what had almost just happened. "That top shelf is pretty high."
Zayne looked between us for another long moment, then nodded curtly. "Don't take too long. People are hungry." He pushed the pantry door wide open as he departed, a not-so-subtle hint.
"Lana," Cam began once Zayne was out of earshot.
"We should get back," I interrupted, unable to meet his eyes. "Like Zayne said, everyone's waiting."
"We need to talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about." I finally looked at him, steeling myself against the hurt in his eyes. "This is pretend, remember? That's what we agreed to."
Without waiting for his response, I grabbed the syrup and fled the pantry, my cheeks burning and my heart racing.
I could feel Cam's eyes on me as I returned to the kitchen, could sense his frustration and confusion at my retreat.
But I couldn't, wouldn't, let myself go down that road again.
Not with Cam. Not when I already knew the ending.
I pasted on a smile as I rejoined the family, pouring syrup for the kids with forced cheer, avoiding Cam's gaze as he emerged from the pantry a few seconds behind me.
When breakfast was finally served, I deliberately sat next to Nana instead of in the empty seat beside Cam, ignoring his wounded expression.
"The stars are aligning in interesting ways today," Nana announced, studying me over her coffee cup. "Particularly for you, dear. Venus and Mars in perfect harmony."
"That's nice, Nana," I said absently, focusing on my pancakes to avoid looking at Cam.
"Passion and truth," she continued. "A powerful combination. Cosmic alignment speaks of revealing what's hidden, bringing truth to light."
"Pancakes are delicious, Lana," my aunt Margaret interrupted, mercifully changing the subject. "Now, about wedding plans – have you thought about colors yet? Lana's ring could be inspiring."
"Sapphires in the engagement ring," Nana nodded sagely. "I saw it in my vision." Great, now my grandmother was psychic too.
"Leave them alone, all of you," Zayne grumbled, giving me a look that was part suspicion, part concern. "They're still getting used to the idea themselves."
"Thank you, Zayne," I said, grateful for the intervention despite knowing his motives weren't entirely altruistic.
"I don't mind," Cam spoke up, finally meeting my eyes across the table. There was something challenging in his gaze, a quiet determination that made my pulse quicken. "I'm all in, whatever Lana wants."
The double meaning in his words wasn't lost on me, and I looked away quickly, afraid of what he might see in my eyes if I held his gaze too long.
Drake caught my eye from across the table and raised an eyebrow. Unlike Zayne, who wore his suspicion like armor, Drake had always been more perceptive, less reactionary. "You okay?" he mouthed silently.
I nodded, forcing a smile. He didn't look convinced, but thankfully didn't press the issue.
The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of conversation and laughter, with me participating just enough to avoid suspicion while my mind replayed what had happened in the pantry on an endless loop. Cam's touch. His question. The raw honesty in his eyes.
What are we doing, Lana?
I wished I knew.
As the family dispersed to prepare for the day's beach activities, Cam caught my arm gently as we were clearing plates.
"We need to talk about this," he said quietly, his voice serious. "About what's happening between us."
I pulled my arm away, ignoring the hurt that flashed across his face. "There's nothing to talk about." The words felt like a lie even as I spoke them, a weak defense against a truth I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge. "Go have some fun with the boys," I smiled brightly.
Through the kitchen window, I watched as my father and brothers gathered fishing gear on the deck.
Cam opened the slider and stepped outside.
He moved with easy grace, laughing at something Drake said, helping my father untangle a fishing line.
They moved around him naturally, making space for him in their circle.
He fit so perfectly into the tableau of Decker men that for a moment, it stole my breath.
A sharp pain bloomed in my chest – part longing, part fear. I pressed my palm flat against my sternum as if I could physically hold back the unwanted feelings. This was dangerous, this softening toward him. This was exactly how I'd been hurt before.
And yet, watching him through the window, the sunlight catching in his hair, his smile so genuine as he listened to my father's instructions, I couldn't stop the treacherous thought that whispered through my mind: What if it could be real this time?