Chapter Fifteen
Sue
Somewhere between the champagne haze and Cam’s soul-jarring, bone-melting, panty-dampening kiss, I must have set my alarm last night. It chirped at me now, bright and chipper, too cheerful for how deep I’d been sleeping.
I surfaced slowly, stretching under the covers, the ghost of Cam’s mouth still tingling on mine. I felt fantastic. No headache, no queasy stomach. Just the warm, golden memory of a night I wanted to bottle and keep forever.
We’d played our parts like old pros—hand-holding, sharing bites, stolen glances.
We’d turned that restaurant into a frigging sugar factory.
Even the memory of Miss Boob-and-Butt-Lift, stomping around like a red-haired hurricane, couldn’t dim my mood.
If anything, her tantrum had only stitched Cam and me closer together.
I should send her a thank-you card. And maybe a fruit basket labeled Better luck next time.
Grinning, I reached for my phone and opened the camera folder.
Emilio had managed to snap two perfect pictures: one with me perched on Cam’s lap, both of us smiling for the camera, the other with us gazing into each other’s eyes as though we were two seconds away from proposing.
Oscar-worthy, if I did say so myself. Not that I was really acting, if I was honest. Maybe just exaggerating a little for effect.
I checked the clock—seven. Plenty of time to get ready before Cam picked me up. Singing “I Feel Good” under my breath, I hopped out of bed, started the coffee, and headed for the bathroom. After I showered, I took time with my hair, blow-drying and styling it the way Mr. Fred had explained.
As I brushed my teeth, I caught a glimpse of my favorite sleep shirt in the mirror. The cracked, looping letters caught the light, and I squinted at them.
“Love is... leaf? Live is... beef? No, wait—life is… rolls?”
I tilted my head, toothbrush in hand. “What is this, a cook’s manifesto?”
I gave up with a snort. It was still just an ancient sleep shirt with a soft neckline and a cryptic message I couldn’t quite decode—like most of my love life.
I traded my usual Sunday bare-bones routine for a proper glow-up—foundation, a sweep of shadow, mascara, and gloss—then slipped on a blue V-neck, my favorite jeans and high-heeled boots. Humming under my breath, I sat down with a stack of papers to grade while waiting for Prince Charming to arrive.
At exactly 9:50, there was a knock on my door. Grinning at his eagerness, I shoved the papers into my briefcase and crossed the room, ready to tease him for coming early.
One look at his face wiped the words clean from my mind. Cam was pale, almost green under his tan. His eyes—normally so warm, so alive—were flat with misery.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
“Cam, what’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?” His voice was rough around the edges. “We need to talk.”
Fear prickled the back of my neck. “Of course. What happened?”
“Brittany happened.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “At least I think it was Brittany.”
My stomach turned cold. What the hell had that witch done?
He dropped onto the couch as though someone had cut his strings. In his hand, he clutched a folded newspaper, already crumpled from the force of his grip.
“Page sixteen.” He held it out to me. His voice was quiet, strained. “I’m so, so sorry, Sue. If I’d had any idea—”
I snatched the paper from his hand, flipping to the page he’d mentioned, and stopped breathing. Holy crap. There, just below the fold on the society page, under a photo of the mayor smiling at some black-tie gala, was the headline:
WILL HE PUT A RING ON IT?
Two pictures sat below it, framed in damning, glossy color. The first one showed us last night at the restaurant—Cam lifting my hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss against my knuckles, caught in profile.
Anyone who knew us would recognize us. Hell, anyone with eyes could see the way we looked at each other.
The second photo…
My throat closed.
It was us, standing on the sidewalk in front of my building, kissing under the full moon. My hands clutched the lapels of his coat, his arms were wrapped around me, our bodies pressed together in a way that was intimate, possessive, real.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, willing it to settle. I could still feel that kiss, still taste it. And now it wasn’t ours anymore. It had been stolen, plastered on cheap newsprint for strangers to gawk at.
Swallowing hard, I forced myself to read the caption underneath:
Omega Software CEO Cameron Jones and his latest conquest, teacher Susanne Morelli, were spotted enjoying themselves Saturday night at Nick’s Steakhouse.
The happy couple were definitely celebrating something.
Later that night, the two lovebirds were photographed in front of Ms. Morelli’s building, sharing a steamy kiss before disappearing inside together.
Do we hear wedding bells in the future? Stay tuned for more.
I closed the paper with a shaky hand. My mind was blank and racing all at once. Someone had followed us last night. Someone had watched and waited and turned what had been—at least for me—a magical night into tabloid fodder.
“Oh my God.”
I stared down at the paper again, willing it to change or to just vanish. My brain shut down, rebooted, refused to process. This had to be a dream. Some vivid, ridiculous, wine-fueled hallucination.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to three. When I opened them again, the headline and the damning pictures were still there, real and merciless.
Panic flooded me and my fingers started to tremble.
My name.
My face.
Splashed across the Sunday edition.
School policy.
Morality clause.
The words spun through my mind in a rising tornado.
The breath I’d been holding whooshed out in a rush.
“This isn’t real. It’s got to be some kind of prank, right?
It’s not the real New York Weekender. Maybe it’s one of those fake souvenir papers people make for birthdays or weddings.
” I was talking faster, barely aware of what I was saying.
“My dad buys the Weekender every Sunday—does the crossword puzzle before he even touches his coffee. He’s more committed to it than he is to Pastor Joe’s sermons.
He might skip the society page, but Mom won’t.
She reads every scrap of gossip, and you can bet she’ll spot my face from ten feet away. ”
I scanned the photos again, as if looking harder might change them.
“And Mrs. West? Oh God, she’ll see it. Probably everyone at school will.
” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “They spelled out my name. I’m supposed to keep a low profile, Cam.
No scandals, no drama, and definitely no photos in tabloids. ”
I barely registered Cam moving until he took the paper from my trembling hands and tossed it onto the couch.
“Susanne, breathe.” His voice cut through the panic, steady and firm, grounding me. He pulled me down onto the cushion beside him, his hands closing gently around mine. “Look at me. It’s going to be okay. I got you into this, and I swear, I’ll find a way to fix it. Whatever it takes.”
I stared at him, dragging in a ragged breath. His calm was an anchor I clung to in the storm.
“I wish I could tell you it’s fake,” he said quietly. “But it’s the real deal. It’s today’s early edition—the same one your parents will probably pick up. And my mom too,” he added with a grimace. “She’s a Weekender crossword junkie.”
I swallowed hard, trying to tamp down the wave of terror rising in my chest.
“Sebastian went out early this morning and grabbed a copy for the plane,” Cam said. “I was flipping through it while I had my coffee and saw this.”
“You read the society page?”
He scoffed. “Hell no. I was looking for the sports section.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then lifted his gaze to mine. His expression was wrecked with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Sue. If I could take it back, I would.”
I sat very still for a moment, counting my heartbeats. I took several deep breaths to steady myself, reread the caption, and started thinking out loud, going into damage control mode.
“Okay. Worst case scenario.” I forced the words out through the tightness in my throat. “My mom will see it—and at least she’ll believe I wasn’t lying about having a boyfriend. But the picture of us kissing in front of my building...”
I pressed my hand to my mouth, nausea curling in my gut. “If anyone at school sees this...” My voice broke. “Cam, I’m not supposed to have my face splashed over a tabloid column. Parents could make noise about this. I could lose my job.”
I could feel my whole future tilting under me like an unsteady floorboard.
“Who even took that picture?” I rasped. “Do you really think it was Brittany? Did she follow us last night and... and leak this to the paper?”
“That would be my guess,” he said grimly. “Charlotte Muir writes the Around Town column. She and Brittany are thick as thieves.”
I could see him working it through, the way a lawyer builds a case. His mind was sharp and fast, even under pressure.
“Remember the camera flashes last night?” he continued. “We thought it was people taking pictures during the dinner rush, or maybe someone celebrating an anniversary. Now I think this photo of us at the table came from that moment—when we were hamming it up for Britt’s benefit.”
He paused, his mouth tightening into a thin, furious line.
“And the one of us kissing...” His voice dropped, rough with something darker. “That one was private. Personal. Someone violated that special moment. And whoever it was, I swear to you, Susanne—I will find them. And I’ll make damn sure they regret it.”
The heat in his eyes was pure, molten fury. A promise burning on his tongue.
But in that moment, I didn’t even care about revenge. All I cared about was how to keep my life from imploding.