Chapter 6
"Stop fidgeting with your ring. It looks like you've never worn one before."
Monica batted my hand away as she made final adjustments to my hair, pinning the last strand into the elegant updo she'd spent forty-five minutes creating.
I'd been unconsciously twisting the stunning mermaid sapphire ring on my finger – a nervous habit I'd developed in less than twenty-four hours since Cam had placed it there.
"Sorry," I murmured, forcing my hands to remain still in my lap. "Just…I don’t know…freaking out about tonight a little."
Monica stepped back, giving me a critical once-over before nodding with satisfaction. "You don't need to be. You look perfect."
“Thank you,” I smiled, taking deep breaths through my nose to calm my nerves.
“I could lower the neckline a bit for your big night if you want – what do you think? Professional boob? Or WAG boob?”
A short laugh bubbled up, despite the fact that I was trying to hold my breath in my belly. “Professional boob. I’d like to keep my job once all this is over.”
“Over? What do you mean? The announcement?”
Shit. I realized my slip immediately. “You know, like, once we’re married.”
“Mmmhmm.” Shit, shit, shit. That could not happen again.
I stood, smoothing the midnight blue fabric of my gown.
The silhouette was classic – fitted through the bodice with a subtle flare at the hips that created movement when I walked.
The neckline dipped just low enough to be elegant without crossing into inappropriate territory (aka professional boob), and the back featured delicate beading that caught the light with every slight movement.
It was exactly my style – understated but unmistakably expensive, projecting the polished confidence expected of a woman in my position.
A woman who also happened to be the fake fiancée of one of hockey's biggest stars.
"Remember," Monica said, packing up her styling tools, "shoulders back, stick out the rack, and for God's sake, make America swoon. Look deeply into Cam's eyes on that red carpet like he spent all afternoon spoon-feeding you cheesecake."
I rolled my eyes. "I know how to work a red carpet, Monica."
Monica just smirked. "Sure you do, honey.” Before I could formulate a response, my phone buzzed with a text from Cam:
CAM: Waiting in the lobby. You ready for this?
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage along with my small clutch.
ME: On my way down. Try not to look too terrified.
His response came instantly:
CAM: The only terrifying thing about tonight is how much I'm going to enjoy watching you tell people we're madly in love.
My stomach did that strange flip it had been doing with increasing frequency whenever Cam said things like that – playful words that somehow felt weightier than they should, as if laden with meaning I wasn't supposed to decipher.
Cam was a total charmer and an incorrigible flirt. That’s all it was. It was stupid that I kept reading something more into it.
The elevator ride to the lobby gave me one last moment of privacy to collect myself.
I'd attended countless NHL events over the years – first as Frank Decker's daughter, or Drake and Zayne Decker's little sister, then as a PR professional, and now as.
.. whatever this was. I knew the drill. Knew how to field questions, how to position myself for optimal photography, how to deflect and redirect when conversations ventured into uncomfortable territory.
But tonight was different. Tonight, I wasn't just representing the Slashers or managing someone else's public image. Tonight, I was going to be the story.
The thought made my palms sweat despite my professional training. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths as the numbers on the elevator panel counted down. Ten. Nine. Eight...
When the doors finally opened to the opulent lobby of the Bellagio, my eyes found him immediately.
Cam stood under the Chihuly glass sculpture, his back to me, hands in the pockets of a perfectly tailored tuxedo that accentuated shoulders so broad they could block out the sun and a backside that deserved its own Instagram fan account.
Keep it professional Lana. His golden-brown hair was styled in that deliberately tousled way that definitely took three products and twenty minutes to achieve, but looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after doing deliciously unspeakable things.
I lingered on that thought a second too long, and when he turned at the sound of my heels clicking against marble, the world seemed to slow around us.
His eyes widened as he took me in, his gaze traveling from my face down the elegant drape of my gown and back again with such deliberate appreciation that I could practically feel it – like a physical caress.
Something flickered across his expression: surprise, hunger, and something darker, more intense…
that made my breath catch and heat pool low in my belly. Well, south of my belly.
"Holy... wow," he said softly. "I was going to say something smooth, but my brain just short-circuited."
"You clean up pretty well yourself," I replied, aiming for cool detachment but hearing the breathless quality in my own voice. "Though I have to say, I'm curious about tonight's sock choice. Did you go with the monkeys in formalwear?"
"Better," he winked, and charm radiated off him. He lifted his pant leg slightly to reveal vibrant teal socks covered in little purple and white cupcakes. "You like? I got these just for you."
They looked almost exactly like the one we shared from Sweet Caroline's.
"Sweet," I say, as a blush crept up my cheeks. Cupcakes. He wore them for me. Don't fall for it.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne – that same masculine, woodsy citrus that had lingered in my hotel room last night, that same intoxicating scent that had clung to my sheets for days after our one night together all those years ago. I swallowed hard.
"Ready to be the envy of every woman in Vegas?" he murmured, his voice dropping to that low register that made my toes curl in my stilettos.
"Please. You should be asking if you're ready to be the envy of every man in the room," I shot back, finding my footing. "This dress wasn't exactly off the rack."
He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made him look boyish and devastating all at once. "Nice block. Always keeping me humble, Decker."
Without further discussion, he offered his arm. The gesture was old-fashioned, courtly – classic Cam with his door-opening, chair-pulling, standing-up-when-you-leave-for-the-ladies-room, unexpectedly chivalrous ways.
As my hand settled into the crook of his elbow, the sapphire on my finger caught the light, sending blue reflections dancing across the polished marble floor. Cam's eyes followed the movement, his expression softening into a smile that made my heart triple axel in my chest.
"Let's give them something to talk about," he said, leaning down until his lips nearly brushed my ear, sending tingles racing down my spine. "I promise to behave... mostly."
The ten-minute drive passed in a blur of last-minute preparations – Cam confirming which reporters we should prioritize, me reviewing potential questions and optimal responses.
It was familiar territory, the kind of strategic planning we'd done together dozens of times over the years.
Only this time, we were the subject, not some player needing guidance.
"Remember," I said as our car approached the venue, "we're not explicitly claiming to be engaged. We're just..."
"Not correcting anyone who assumes we are," Cam finished, his knee brushing mine as he shifted in his seat. "I know the plan, Lana. Trust me, okay?"
Trust. Such a simple concept, yet so complicated between us.
I'd trusted him once, with my body and my heart, and had woken to an empty bed and ten years of wondering what I'd done wrong.
Now I was trusting him again. But this time with my career, my reputation, and if I was being honest, something dangerously close to my heart again.
"I do," I said softly, surprised to find I meant it. "But please don't fuck this up."
The car slowed to a stop. Through the tinted windows, I could see the flashbulbs already popping, the crowd of reporters and photographers lining the red carpet.
My pulse quickened, adrenaline flooding my system – that familiar mix of anxiety and excitement that came with any high-stakes public appearance.
It was fine. I had a lifetime of training to look relaxed and happy on the outside.
The usual, just happy to be here for the team.
Cam reached across the seat, his fingers finding mine and squeezing gently. "Ready?"
I took a deep breath, centering myself. "Ready."
The driver opened the door, and we stepped into the chaos.
The red carpet was a gauntlet of lights, cameras, and shouted questions, but with Cam's hand holding mine, I navigated it with practiced ease.
We paused for photos, him tall and devastating in his tuxedo, me smiling my carefully calibrated PR smile, the sapphire ring prominently displayed on my left hand.
"Cam! Over here!" A photographer called, motioning for us to turn slightly. "Lana, hand on his chest!"
I complied, placing my palm against the solid warmth of Cam's chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken through the layers of his tuxedo. His arm tightened around my waist, drawing me closer until we were pressed together from shoulder to hip, a study in coordinated elegance.
"Perfect!" another voice called. "Now look at each other!"
Cam turned toward me, and I tilted my face up to his, prepared to offer the camera-ready smile I'd perfected over years of public events.
But the expression in his eyes – intense, focused entirely on me as if the cameras and chaos had disappeared – caught me off guard.
My smile faltered, replaced by something more genuine, more vulnerable.