Chapter 48
TARA
Four lives. Only one me.
College student Tara racing across campus in worn sneakers, stuffing notebooks in and out of her backpack between classes.
Cocktail waitress Tara working the sleek Taboo VIP room in high heels and provocative fishnets. Dodging wandering hands while earning five times what I made as a glassy.
Opera intern Tara shadowing Mr. Rudin at the Met, learning the intricate choreography of world-class productions.
But it’s the fourth life that makes my pulse race every time my phone buzzes.
My life as Cameron’s secret girlfriend, trading texts that leave me breathless in the middle of lecture halls.
The distance between us is killing me.
Twenty-seven days since I've felt his hands on my skin, since I've heard that rough laugh that starts low in his chest.
Texted photos of Posey's artwork are cute, but I want crayon masterpieces cluttering my refrigerator. Not pixels on a screen.
"What's going on with you?" Keesha asks when I glide through our apartment door, still buzzing from Cameron's latest message.
"Cameron's in the city. Sterling Records meeting."
I can barely keep the excitement out of my voice. "He wants to take me to dinner."
"Where?"
"Per Se." Even saying it makes my stomach flutter. "That place in Columbus Circle. Right near Taboo."
Keesha's eyes widen. "Fancy! Let's find you something to wear."
We dig through my pathetic closet—jeans, sundresses, one black pencil skirt that screams "intern trying too hard."
"This is hopeless," I mutter, but then Keesha holds up her white silk blouse.
"Pair this with your pencil skirt. You'll look chic and sophisticated. But Tara—" She catches my hand. "Cameron's crazy about you. He doesn't care about the clothes."
I know she's right, but after twenty-seven days apart, I want to remind him exactly what he's been missing.
Racing to the bathroom, I luxuriate in a warm shower. After wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I walk into the bedroom and freeze.
A gigantic box sits on my bed, wrapped in silver ribbon.
"Keesha? What is this?"
"A Saks Fifth Avenue messenger just arrived with it."
I don't have to ask who it's from. My pulse quickens as I untie the ribbons. I open the box and see the most stunning black dress I've ever seen.
When I hold it up to the light, the fabric slides through my fingers like liquid silk. Curiously, there's something structured inside the dress that makes it hold its shape.
"What's this?" I ask, examining the built-in corsetry.
"Boning," Keesha explains, running her fingers along the stays. "This way, any woman who wears this dress will instantly attain the perfect figure."
"Cameron thinks I need some artificial shaping? Is this an insult or a gift?"
I hold the dress against myself in the mirror, imagining Cameron's hands spanning my waist.
Keesha laughs. "Relax. He probably called their personal shopper and said, 'choose a dress that'll make my woman look irresistible.'"
His woman. Heat rises between my thighs at the possessive phrase.
After I style my hair and do my makeup, Keesha helps me step into the dress.
I give myself an approving glance in the mirror. I'm all dangerous curves and sultry confidence.
Keesha steps back to admire her handiwork. "You look like you should be on a magazine cover."
The dress hugs every curve, the neckline dipping just low enough. When I move, the fabric whispers against my skin, making me hyperaware of my own body.
"What time is he picking you up?"
"He's sending a limo. I'm meeting him at the restaurant."
"Have fun, Cinderella!"
A half-hour later, the limousine glides to the curb outside our Chelsea apartment building like something out of a fantasy.
As I settle into the buttery leather seat, anticipation coils tight in my belly.
It's been weeks since I've seen Cameron, just heated phone calls and text messages that left me aching for his touch.
I alight from the limo and head to the elevator that will take me to Per Se.
Once I arrive at the famous restaurant, the hostess knows my name before I speak. "Miss Thompson, Mr. Crow is waiting."
She guides me to a secluded corner table where Cameron rises the moment he sees me.
His sharp intake of breath makes me realize that every penny he spent on that dress worth it.
"Tara."
His voice drops to that rough register that makes me feel delicious pulsations of pleasure.
“You look..." He pauses, blue eyes traveling slowly down my body and back up. "Absolutely gorgeous.”
I blush, and realize it’s the first time he’s seen me dressed up for a night on the town.
It’s practically the first time I’ve seen myself dressed up for a night on the town.
“Good choice,” I say in response to his compliment. “It’s all your doing. Thank you.”
He reaches across the table, fingers tracing circles along my inner wrist. "I knew it would look perfect on you."
"Any news about the trial?" I ask, though the way he's looking at me makes coherent thought difficult.
"Yes," he says, thumb still stroking my pulse point. "But I don't want to talk about that tonight. Let's not let it ruin dinner."
Ruin dinner? My stomach tightens. Bad news, then.
But when he brings my hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles, everything else fades.
The server arrives to describe our tasting menu—one tiny, artful course after another.
I try to focus on the exotic flavors, but I'm distracted by Cameron's eyes never leaving my face. Especially the way his tongue darts out to catch a drop of wine on his lower lip.
By the time dessert arrives, I realize I'm still hungry—but not for food. Cameron's heated gaze has left me starving for something else entirely.
"Nice appetizers," I say with a deadpan expression as the last dishes are cleared. "When's dinner?"
We both break into laughter. The sexual tension that's been building all evening shifts into something warmer, more intimate.
The server pours a familiar green liqueur into our glasses.
"Chartreuse," I recognize immediately. "We had this that first night at Posey's mansion."
"You remember," he says, clinking his glass against mine.
His eyes hold mine over the rim as he drinks. Suddenly, I remember exactly how his mouth tasted that night we kissed in the rain.
"I do have news," he says, sitting straighter. "Two pieces of news, actually. I don't know which to give you first."
My pulse quickens. "Is one good and the other really good?"
"They're both fantastic." His hand covers mine across the table as a wide smile breaks across his face.
"First—I won the suit against Jason. Posey is legally my daughter. Jason has no claim to her or her inheritance."
Relief floods through me. "That's incredible. So she'll come to New York?"
"She will. Since we're here at Columbus Circle, I'd love to show you my apartment at the Mandarin Oriental. Maybe you can help me figure out what room she should occupy."
The way he says it—like he's asking me to help him build a home—makes my chest tight with emotion.
"And the second piece of news?"
His eyes glitter with something that makes my breath catch. "Let me save that for later."
Cameron pays the bill with several crisp hundred-dollar bills. "Ready to see where I live?"
"How do we get there?"
"Third floor connecting door." He stands and takes my hand, fingers interlacing with mine. "Very exclusive access."
The elevator ride feels charged, Cameron standing close enough that I can smell his intoxicating cologne.
"Very secret agent-ish," I say when he punches in a code.
"Only the best for my Cinderella."
The nickname sends heat spiraling through me.
He shows me the amenities floor quickly—children's playroom, library, fitness center. But I can feel his impatience, the barely leashed energy radiating from him.
Then he presses the giant gold "P" for penthouse.
Edison greets us with enthusiastic tail-wagging. Yet I sense even the dog senses the electricity crackling between us.
The apartment is breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city, everything pristine white and chrome.
"Champagne?" Cameron asks, motioning toward the white leather sofa.
I nod, settling into the buttery soft cushions. He pours Dom Pérignon like it's water, his movements fluid and confident.
"I missed you," he says simply, settling beside me. Close enough that his thigh brushes mine through my fancy silk dress.
"Twenty-seven days, Tara. It felt like years."
"I felt it too. The phone calls weren't enough."
"Nothing was enough."
Cameron's free hand traces along my bare shoulder, fingertips leaving fire in their wake.
"I couldn't concentrate on anything. Couldn't write. All I could think about was you in that storm, how you felt in my arms."
He sets down his champagne and pulls a small velvet box from his pocket.
My breath catches.
"I want you to be my wife, Tara."
The box opens to reveal a ring that steals what's left of my breath. A stunning solitaire that catches the city lights and throws rainbows across the white walls.
"Cameron," I whisper, unable to look away from the sparkling diamond. "I don't know what to say."
"Say yes." He slides the ring onto my finger with shaking hands. "Say you'll marry me."
The ring fits perfectly, heavy and warm against my skin.
"It's all happening so fast. School, work, this..." I gesture at the luxury surrounding us. "It's like being hit by a hurricane."
"All you have to do is agree to be my wife."
His voice carries an edge of vulnerability that breaks my heart. "Easy enough."
I study his face, seeing past the confident rockstar to the man underneath—the one who seems terrified I'll say no.
"If I say yes," I begin, watching relief flicker in his eyes, "I need to know this is forever. No groupies on the road. No women whose names you can't remember in the morning."
"Have I ever given you cause to think I would?" His thumb traces circles along my jawline.
"No. But we were together in sleepy Nantucket. Not Manhattan, Paris, London—all the glittering places where temptation lives."
"Tara." He cups my face in both hands. "That life was a long time ago. You must see I've changed. You and Posey—you're everything I want. Forever."
The sincerity in his voice undoes me completely.
"Yes," I breathe. "It's an honor to be your wife."
He kisses me then, soft and reverent at first, then deeper as I melt against him.
When we finally break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
"I love you, Tara Thompson. Soon to be Tara Crow."
"I love you too."
He stands, pulling me with him toward the bedroom.
"Let me show you exactly how much."