Chapter 20 Cam W — Poker face
Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration, worth what’s dearest to the world
The Tempest, William Shakespeare
Miranda’s clumsiness was the sweetest reward ever for waking up at this hour.
I finally seemed to have thrown her off.
She’d lost her dismissive but polite response to me and seemed as awkward as I had been every other time we’d interacted.
In fairness to her, she was exhausted and dazed, whereas I was always just dazed. By her.
The first thing I did, without even thinking, was reach for her suitcase.
“Here, I’ve got it.” Miranda blinked at me like I’d just offered to wrestle a grizzly bear on her behalf. “Oh, uh, you don’t have to—”
“I know,” I said, hefting it off the ground with one hand. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
She bit her lip, almost like the gesture embarrassed her. Not the weight of the luggage—that part was my problem—but the fact that someone else had stepped in to carry it. That tiny, fleeting look in her eyes made something twist low in my chest. Was she really so used to doing everything herself?
I slid the suitcase into the trunk and shut it carefully. When I turned back, Miranda was standing there with her coffee like it was a shield, her messy bun falling half out, her hoodie wrinkled from too many hours on the plane. To me, she was the prettiest train wreck I’d ever seen.
“Ready?” I asked.
She gave me a small nod, cheeks pink, and suddenly seemed to snap out of her stunned state. “Hang on, this is your car. I thought Jules drove?”
“Nope, he offered and I’m not dumb. I hate driving to the airport, even in no traffic and Seamus is useless past 9 pm,” Jules clarified, climbing into the backseat after Seamus, who promptly fell asleep. Miranda climbed silently into the passenger seat.
The first few minutes of the drive were quiet.
The only sounds were Seamus’s snoring and Jules’s annoyed huffing in response.
Miranda kept sipping her coffee, staring out the window.
I figured she was exhausted: jet lag, middle-of-the-night airport pickup, and her own tendency to fill silence with nervous chatter. I didn’t want to press.
But when she sighed, soft, like she didn’t mean for me to hear, I asked gently, “You okay?”
Her head snapped toward me. “Oh, yeah. Totally fine. Just … tired.”
I smiled. “You don’t have to pretend. You look like you fought a war up there in the sky.” Ugh. Did I just insult her? I was king of smooth. But she didn’t seem to care. She gave a crooked little grin. “Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear—‘you look like you survived a plane crash.’”
I winced. “That’s not what I—”
Her laugh cut me off. “Relax. I know what you meant.” Her laugh, tired as it was, warmed the car more than the heater did.
About twenty minutes into the ride, Miranda spoke again, voice muffled as she held the coffee cup close to her face. “You didn’t have to come, you know. The airport. At three a.m. That’s… it’s really nice. Unexpected.”
I glanced at her. “Unexpected in a good way?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. In a… ‘I’m not used to people doing that for me’ way.”
And there it was—the quiet punch to my ribs.
I didn’t know all the details, but I knew enough about her ex to understand that Miranda hadn’t exactly been treated like someone to be cherished.
The idea that something as small as carrying her suitcase or showing up with coffee could throw her off balance made my heart ache and swell at the same time.
She did everything for her family and friends, and in her closest relationship, she waged the battles of life alone.
“I wanted to,” I said simply. “That’s all.”
She ducked her head, sipping again, but I caught the way her lips twitched into a smile she was trying to hide. I did something right. Of course, I had to ruin my own smooth moment five minutes later.
About twenty minutes into the ride, I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. “So, uh … was it, you know, just all work? Or did you, uh … meet anyone while you were there?”
Miranda squinted at him. “Meet anyone?”
Shit. “Like, people. Colleagues. Men—uh, I mean—not just men, obviously. Women too. But, like … men who were … around.”
From the back seat, Jules choked back a laugh, proof she’d been feigning sleep.
Miranda’s lips curved into the slowest, most incredulous smile. “Actually, yes. I really bonded with Dom. We cooked together and he made me an amazing meal on my last night, complete with specialized wine choices. He was a darling.”
Who the fuck was this Dom? I forced a smile but suspected I looked like Bruce the Shark from Finding Nemo. At least this guy was not in the same continent as her. But what if they stayed in touch?
“Yes, he was so smart too. I guess 89-year-old men have a lot of life wisdom,” she smiled reassuringly at me.
I groaned and rubbed the back of my neck. “Forget I said anything. I’m clearly terrible at small talk.”
We stopped at a red light, and I risked a glance at her. She’d kicked off her sneakers and tucked her legs up in the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, coffee balanced on her knee. She looked comfortable in my car, more comfortable than even she seemed to realize.
“You’re staring,” she said suddenly, without looking at him.
Busted. I cleared my throat. “Just making sure you’re not about to fall asleep and spill that coffee all over my dashboard.”
Her lips twitched. “Mmhmm. Very conscientious of you.”
The rest of the drive passed in bursts—quiet stretches where Randa dozed lightly against the window, then sudden jolts of conversation where she said something that made me laugh too loud. The steady sound of Seamus’s snoring was the only steady soundtrack in the car.
When we finally pulled up outside her place, I hopped out before she could protest and carried her suitcase up to the door. I was irritated that Seamus and Jules were closer to my house, giving me no opportunity to have Miranda alone in my car.
“You really don’t have to—”
“Randa,” I said, setting it down gently. “Let me.”
She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she whispered, “Thanks. Really. For all of this.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets, fighting the urge to say more than I should. Fighting the urge to tell her she deserved this, every small kindness, every thoughtful gesture, because she was worth it.
Instead, I just smiled. “Anytime.”
Miranda lingered for a beat too long, like she wanted to say something else. Then she nodded, mumbled goodnight, and slipped inside. I slipped into the driver’s seat, noting that Jules had given up the fake sleep ploy.
“I hope you never play poker, Cam. You’re terrible at subtlety. But don’t worry, Miranda’s got no patience for slick, and you’re refreshingly… not slick. Epically not slick.”
I smiled sheepishly, already looking forward to the next time Miranda would let me close enough to try again.