Chapter 4 #3
Our selfie tour continued through downtown, each stop carefully chosen for maximum believability: a bookstore where we posed with our heads bent over the same novel, a street musician's performance where Cam dropped a twenty in the guitar case and wrapped an arm around my waist as we listened.
A few times we asked strangers to snap the shots, especially in places where Cam was approached for autographs, on the off chance a fan might get the rumor going on social media.
Each photo captured a different facet of a relationship – casual affection, shared interests, ordinary moments made special by companionship.
With each stop, each casual touch, I found myself relaxing into the role.
Cam's hand protectively on my shoulder as we crossed a street.
My fingers brushing his arm as I pointed out a passing sand hill crane family that had just leisurely wandered into the street, assuming cars would stop for them as they nearly always did.
The way he instinctively put himself between me and a group of rowdy college boys.
Small moments, barely noticeable individually, but collectively creating a tapestry of intimacy that felt startlingly real.
Our final stop was a kitschy souvenir shop filled with shell-encrusted picture frames and t-shirts sporting jokes about Florida retirement. Cam insisted we go in, claiming we needed "something quintessentially tourist-y" to round out our collection.
Inside, he made a beeline for a display of t-shirts, rifling through until he found what he was apparently looking for.
"This," he declared, holding up a women's v-neck in soft pink. Across the chest, in glittering silver letters, it read "Hockey Wife Material" with a small puck graphic dotting the i.
"Absolutely not," I said flatly.
"It's perfect," he argued. "Cheesy enough to be believable as a joke gift, but also sending exactly the message we want."
"It's hideous."
"It's strategic." He held it up against me. "Plus, this color brings out the pink in your cheeks when you're annoyed with me."
"First, I'm always annoyed with you. Second, I'm not wearing that for a photo," I insisted, already knowing I was fighting a losing battle.
Twenty minutes and one unexpected purchase later, I found myself standing outside the shop wearing the ridiculous t-shirt over my sundress, Cam's arm around my shoulders as he took our final selfie.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," I muttered through my staged smile.
"You look adorable," he assured me, capturing the moment. "And completely besotted with your hockey star boyfriend."
"I look like I lost a bet," I countered, but there was no real heat in my words.
Despite myself, I was enjoying this bizarre afternoon.
The strategic planning, yes, but also the easy camaraderie, the shared purpose.
The way Cam could make me laugh even when I was trying to maintain my professional composure.
"And that's a wrap," Cam announced, reviewing our collection of photos. "Now for the strategic deployment."
We found a bench along the waterfront where we could sit and select the best images. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the water, painting everything in warm, flattering light that seemed determined to make our fake photoshoot feel… romantic.
"Wait, this is too perfect," Cam said, his fingers finding the hem of his shirt.
My mouth suddenly went dry as he pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the sculpted torso I'd been studiously avoiding thinking about for years.
Hockey had been kind to Cameron Murphy – absurdly, unfairly, viciously kind. My mouth watered.
"What are you doing?" I managed, trying to sound annoyed instead of breathless.
His eyes met mine with a naughty glint. "Selling it, right? Nobody's going to believe I'm with the love of my life and not getting in the water with her." He reached for my hand, his palm warm against mine. "Come on, Lana. Florida sunset, gorgeous beach backdrop... we'd be idiots not to use this."
I hesitated only a second before letting him pull me toward the shoreline. The feeling of his hand wrapped around mine sent a current of electricity up my arm that had nothing to do with our agreement.
When we reached the water's edge, he dropped his shirt carelessly in the sand, his eyes never leaving mine. I set my oversized tote down next to it, suddenly hyperaware of his presence, of the inches between us, of what might come next. Business, Lana.
"Your turn," he said softly, the challenge unmistakable in his voice.
I gathered my courage, reached for the hem of my final wardrobe change of the day, a black halter dress.
Cam's eyes were on me as I untied it behind my neck and let the dress drop to my feet.
The white bikini underneath suddenly felt much more revealing than it had this morning in my bedroom mirror.
I flicked the dress on top of my tote bag with my foot.
Cam's eyes darkened as they swept over me, lingering in places that made heat bloom across my skin that had nothing to do with the sun.
"See something you like?" I cocked my head mischievously.
"Just making sure you look presentable," he said, his voice rougher, lower, than I was used to.
"For the photos..." I offered playfully.
"Yeah..." His smile was slow, dangerous. "For the photos."
The water lapped at our ankles as we posed with the Gulf stretching behind us, bathed in the pink and orange glow of sunset. When Cam's arm slid around my waist, his fingertips brushed the bare skin just above my bikini bottom. I inhaled sharply, my body instinctively leaning into his touch.
"That got the goosebumps I was hoping for," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Very convincing."
I turned my face to his, our lips now inches apart. "Always the professional."
"Not always," he replied, and for a moment, I thought he might close that last sliver of distance between us.
Instead, he pulled back slightly, eyes intense. "One more for luck?"
Before I could answer, he scooped me up in his arms with athletic ease, carrying me deeper into the gentle waves as I squealed in surprise. Water splashed around us as I clung to his shoulders – shoulders I now knew felt exactly as solid as they looked. Damn. That memory wasn’t going anywhere soon.
He snapped a few more. "Perfect," he said with a grin that turned my insides molten, setting me back on my feet but keeping his arms loosely around my waist. "These are...convincing."
As I gathered up my things, Cam dropped to his knees, a playful glint in his icy blue eyes. "Marry me," he said dramatically, clutching his chest. His golden brown hair ruffled in the beach breeze, and it took all I had to suppress a smile.
"Are you serious right now?" I said, trying my hardest to maintain a stern expression. "You're killing my patience today, Murphy."
His grin widened, revealing a dimple that always made my heart flutter. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life," he teased. "You know, just in case we need to go the extra mile to land that Redline deal.”
As we made our way back up the beach, Cam insisted on carrying my tote.
I couldn't help but stare at the way his muscles flexed under the weight, or how he didn't immediately put his shirt back on, letting the sun dry his lightly-tanned skin.
His eyes kept finding mine as we walked, each glance lingering a little longer than the last. The casual brush of his arm against mine sent a spark of electricity through me.
I found myself leaning into his touch, and despite my best efforts, craving more.
"You know, if we're going to pull off this fake fiancée thing," he said, his voice low and intimate, "we should probably practice making it look real."
I raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickened. "And how do you propose we do that?"
He leaned in, his voice a husky whisper in my ear. "I have a few ideas."
"Let's stick to selfies for now," I said, stepping back into my dress.
We sat down on the bench in sync and narrowed down our options to five key photos: the mural laugh, the shared cupcake, a candid of me browsing books while Cam watched with an expression of unmistakable fondness, the two of us playing in the water with the Gulf behind us, and – against my better judgment – the one with the ridiculous t-shirt.
"We don't post them all at once," I instructed, slipping back into PR Director mode. "That would seem too calculated. One today, perhaps another tomorrow. Casual. Organic."
"Which one first?" Cam asked, our shoulders touching as he leaned in to see my screen.
I studied the options, trying to ignore the warmth of him beside me. "The mural. It's the most natural, the least staged-looking."
He nodded, pulling up Instagram. "Caption?"
"None," I decided. "More intriguing that way. Let people draw their own conclusions."
"Bold strategy," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.
I posted the photo without comment on my Instagram, where my modest following of industry contacts and friends would see it. Within seconds, notifications began appearing – likes, comments, questions.
"My turn," Cam said with a mischievous glint in his eye. He immediately reposted the same image to his much larger following, but this time with a simple caption: "Lucky guy. #OffTheMarket #CupcakeQueen"
"Cam!" I grabbed for his phone, but it was too late. The post was live, the hashtags unmistakably sending exactly the message we'd agreed to imply rather than declare.
"Oops," he said, not looking remotely apologetic. "My thumb slipped."
"This wasn't the plan," I began, but my own phone was already buzzing incessantly with notifications. "We were supposed to ease into this, not drop a bomb."
"Sometimes you need to make a splash," he argued, looking far too pleased with himself. "Besides, now everyone's talking. Mission accomplished."
I pulled up his post on my phone, watching in real-time as comments flooded in:
@FosseFan77: "IS THIS REAL?"
@hockeybaby4eva: "OMG I SHIP IT."
@rllhockeymama: "Has Cam finally been domesticated??"
@goalgettr: "Who is she???"
My own post was similarly blowing up, with teammates, colleagues, and friends all expressing variations of shock and delight. I scrolled through, a mix of professional satisfaction and personal mortification washing over me. This was happening. Really happening.
And then a very different notification appeared on Cam's phone – a text from my brother.
ZAYNE: This better be a joke.
Cam showed me the screen, his expression turning serious. "Well, that didn't take long."
"What are you going to say?" I asked, a knot forming in my stomach.
He thought for a moment, then typed:
CAM: Just messing with you, brother. ??
As he set his phone down, I noticed the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. We'd spent the entire afternoon on our "selfie tour," longer than I'd intended. Longer than I'd realized, lost in the weird little bubble we'd created.
"I should get home," I said, gathering my things. "I need to prepare for the inevitable barrage of questions."
Cam nodded, rising with me. "I'll walk you to your car."
We made our way back to Coconut Charlie's parking lot in companionable silence, the weight of what we'd just set in motion hanging between us. When we reached my car, I turned to face him.
"Well, there's no going back now," I said, attempting a light tone.
"Would you want to?" he asked, his expression suddenly serious, eyes searching mine.
The question caught me off guard. "It will look like a fling if we don’t see this through now." I unlocked my car, suddenly eager to escape the intensity of his gaze. "I'll see you Monday."
He nodded, stepping back to allow me to open my door. "Goodnight, Lana."
As I drove away, I could see him in my rearview mirror, still standing in the parking lot, watching me leave. Just before I turned onto the main road, I thought I saw him shake his head and mutter something to himself.
Later, lying in bed with my phone still buzzing with notifications, I couldn't stop thinking about the look in his eyes when he'd asked if I'd want to go back – as if my answer really mattered to him. As if this wasn't just about a sneaker deal or an image rehab.
I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the memory of his arm around my shoulders, the way his laugh had vibrated through me when we stood close, the brief moment when my thumb had brushed the corner of his mouth.
This was a professional arrangement. A strategic partnership with clearly defined boundaries and an expiration date.
I wasn't making that mistake twice.