Chapter 47 Cam
CAM
The pilot’s voice crackled through the cabin speakers. “Mr. Rockford, we’re beginning our descent into New York City. Current weather is cool and sunny, about sixty-five degrees. Should be a beautiful day.”
I kept my eyes on Emily.
She’d been dozing against my shoulder for the past hour, her fingers loosely tangled with mine, but the announcement jolted her awake. She blinked, confusion clouding her features as she straightened in her seat.
“Wait.” She turned to look out the window, craning her neck to see past the wing. “Did he just say...”
The clouds parted, and there it was. The Manhattan skyline stretched out below us, all sharp edges and gleaming glass, the Hudson River catching the morning light like liquid silver.
“Cam.” My name came out strangled. She whipped her head back to me, mouth hanging open. “New York? You brought me to New York?”
I couldn’t fight the grin. “Surprise.”
“But... how?” She shook her head. “When did you even plan this?”
Before I could answer, she unbuckled her seatbelt and scrambled across the armrest, nearly ending up in my lap as she peppered kisses across my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth.
“You absolute lunatic.” The words landed warm against my lips. “This is insane. You’re insane.”
“You like it though.”
Her answering smile was worth every phone call, every string I’d pulled, every favor I’d called in to make this happen in less than twenty-four hours.
“Are you kidding? I love it.”
“Glad to hear it. Now put your belt back on so we can land.”
“Oh, right, of course.” She did just that, turning back to gaze out the window as we descended.
Once on the ground, we disembarked, climbing into the black town car that idled at the bottom of the jet stairs. Emily shot me a look that clearly said of course there’s a car waiting, but didn’t say anything.
The driver navigated us smoothly off the private airfield and onto the expressway, the city rising up around us in stages.
Emily had practically glued herself to the window.
“Look at that one,” she said, pointing at some art déco tower I couldn’t have named if my life depended on it. “And that one. Oh my god, is that the Chrysler Building? Cam, that’s the Chrysler Building!”
“I see it.”
I didn’t, really. I was too busy cataloging her every reaction.
It was only when Times Square exploded around us in a riot of billboards and lights, that she finally went quiet. Just stared, drinking it all in, her reflection ghosting across the glass.
“It’s even bigger than it looks in movies,” she finally said.
I’d been to New York dozens of times. Business trips, client meetings, the occasional weekend getaway back when my life looked very different. The city had never felt particularly special to me.
It did now.
When we pulled up at the boutique hotel in the heart of Times Square, Emily shot me another one of those, Oh no, you didn’t looks that I was starting to adore.
It was all sleek glass and sharp angles, with a liveried bellhop who whisked us through the lobby and into a private elevator.
He swiped a card, pressed the button for the top floor, and the door slid shut.
The elevator opened directly into the suite and Emily let out a gasp.
The far wall was nothing but glass, floor to ceiling, and beyond it Manhattan sprawled in every direction. Times Square pulsed directly below, a living, breathing organism of light and movement.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, drifting to the window like she was being pulled by a magnet.
I tipped the bellhop and waited.
She wandered into the bedroom, then spun back to me, her face flushed. “Cam. There’s a terrace.”
Sure enough, a sliding door led out to a private outdoor space, complete with lounge furniture and greenery. I dragged it open and she stepped out, into the wind, wrapping her arms around herself, gazing down at the chaos below. “Honestly, I feel like I’m dreaming.”
I slid my arms around her from behind, pulling her against me. She leaned back, letting out a soft sigh that shivered over my skin.
Pressing a kiss into her hair, I said, “Now, I hate to ruin the moment, but we have about fifteen minutes to get changed before we head out again.”
“Where to?”
I stepped back, reluctantly letting her go. “You’ll see.”
Ten minutes later, Emily emerged from the bathroom in a deep green dress that skimmed her curves and stopped just above her knees. She’d pinned part of her hair back so it fell in soft waves over one shoulder.
She caught me staring. “What? Is it too much? Not enough? I wasn’t sure what the vibe was—”
“You look fucking amazing.”
The worry melted off her face, replaced by a slow smile that hit me square in the sternum. “You look pretty good yourself.”
When she got close enough, I wrapped my fingers around her wrist and tugged. She stumbled forward, her hands landing on my chest. I dipped my head and kissed her, hungry and deep, drinking in the taste of her lip balm and the little gasp she made against my mouth.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing herself against me and shoving her fingers into my hair. I was seconds away from dragging her to the bedroom when my phone beeped.
I tore myself away, breathing hard. “Fuck, that’s the driver, letting me know it’s time to go.”
“Maybe we should, uh, just stay in,” she said, just as breathless.
“As tempting as that is, sweetheart, you won’t want to miss this. And besides, I have plans for you later.”
“Oh, okay, then.”
I pressed another hard kiss to her lips, then linked my fingers with hers and led her to the elevator.
The drive through Manhattan to Chelsea was a slow crawl, which gave Emily plenty of opportunity to gawk.
When we pulled up outside the gallery, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She recognized the name on the discreet signage instantly, barely waiting for the car to hit the curb before she was climbing out, standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the sign, Transcendence.
“Ready?” I asked.
She nodded, already moving forward. “Let’s go.”
Inside, she moved through the space like she belonged there, pausing in front of each piece for long moments. Her head tilted. Her brow furrowed. Sometimes her fingers twitched at her side, like she was itching to pick up a brush.
“This one.” She stopped in front of a large abstract piece. Sweeping blues and greens, layered thick enough that the paint seemed to rise off the canvas. “Look at the texture. See how she built it up in sections? You can almost feel the movement.”
I stepped closer, trying to see what she saw. “It looks like water.”
She turned to me, delighted. “It does, right? But it’s not literal. It’s the feeling of water. The weight of it, the way it pulls at you.” She pointed to a darker section near the bottom. “That’s the undertow. You don’t see it at first, but once you do, you can’t unsee it.”
I listened to her explain the brushstrokes, the choices, the intent. I nodded along, but mostly I was just watching her. She spoke with such authority, such passion. It was sexy as hell.
“Come on,” she grabbed my hand again, pulling me deeper into the gallery. “There’s one more room.”
The smaller space held a single massive canvas. Chaos. Reds bleeding into oranges, slashed with black. It looked like a car crash turned into paint.
Emily stood before it like she was in church.
“This is it,” she murmured. “God, to be able to let go like that.”
“It looks... angry,” I ventured.
“It is,” she said. “It’s angry and sad and messy. The artist just bled onto the canvas. They didn’t try to make it pretty. They just made it true.” She looked at me then, her guard completely down. “That’s the hardest part. Being brave enough to show the mess.”
“You do that,” I said. “Your painting for the show? It made me feel things I didn’t have names for. You’re already there, Em. You just need to let yourself see it.”
She stared at me, her eyes shimmering slightly under the gallery lights. Then she stepped in, rising on her toes to press a firm kiss to my mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered against my lips.
My heart lurched. “You’re welcome.”
We wandered out into the golden light of afternoon. Emily was still buzzing. talking about color theory and composition as I guided us down the block.
“One more stop.” I steered her toward a storefront up ahead.
She faltered when she clocked the window display. Jerseys. Caps. Pennants. All of it in navy and white pinstripes.
“Um.” She looked from the Yankees logo to me and back again. “Cam, why are we at a sports store?”
“You need a shirt.”
“I need a shirt,” she repeated slowly, her eyes roving over the window. “A Yankees shirt.”
I watched the gears turn. Watched comprehension dawn across her features like sunrise breaking over a ridge.
Her head snapped toward me.
“No.”
I grinned.
“No. Cam. No. You didn’t.”
“I did.”
The sound that came out of her wasn’t quite a scream. More like a shriek that startled a flock of pigeons off a nearby awning and made several passersby give us concerned looks.
Then she was kissing me, hard and fast.
“Yankee Stadium.” She pulled back just enough to speak, her voice cracking. “You’re taking me to Yankee Stadium. I’ve never — it’s been on my bucket list since I was eight. Eight, Cam.”
“I know.” I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You mentioned it once. Said it was on your bucket list.”
She went very still. “You remembered that?”
“Yeah.” I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.
For a long moment, she just looked at me. Then she kissed me again, softer this time. When we finally pulled apart, I gestured to the door. “I know you’re not technically a Yankees fan, but I figured since we’re going to the game, you should at least look the part, so, in you go.”