Chapter Twenty-Five
Sue
By the time we left The Drunken Rat, the New York night had deepened into a crisp chill, the kind that clung to your skin and carried the scent of rain on the pavement.
The city felt alive, buzzing with its usual electric energy—neon lights blinking in shop windows, traffic honking lazily down the street, and groups of people spilling out of bars in messy, laughing clusters.
Cam fell into step beside me, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. “So, where are you taking me next, honey?”
I grinned, tipping my head toward the subway entrance. “There’s a karaoke bar a few blocks from here. It’s got an old-school jukebox and an audience that’s usually drunk enough to cheer no matter how bad you sound.”
Cam whistled. “My kind of place.”
We descended into the station, the air turning thick with that familiar underground smell—a mix of warm metal, damp concrete, and the occasional whiff of something best left unidentified.
Cam nudged my arm as we waited for the train. “So what’s your go-to karaoke song?”
“Oh no. I have to be drunk first.”
The train screeched into the station, and we stepped inside, gripping the pole as the car jolted forward. A man playing a saxophone in the corner filled the space with a smooth, bluesy melody, and I found myself swaying slightly, the beer and the night making everything feel deliciously unhurried.
Cam squinted at me. “You look like someone who’d belt out “Rolling in the Deep” after three drinks.”
I scoffed. “It would take at least four drinks.”
He smiled slowly, his gaze lingering on me, sending something warm curling low in my stomach. I was on slow burn despite the chilly night. All of this felt like foreplay.
A few stops later, we emerged onto a street lined with glowing signs and late-night food carts. Goldie’s stood between a closed pawn shop and a bodega. Its neon sign flickered unevenly, half the letters in KARAOKE struggling to stay lit.
The inside was a scene straight out of a New York fever dream—colored string lights hanging haphazardly from the ceiling, posters of rock legends peeling off the walls, and a sticky wooden bar crowded with people clutching neon cocktails.
On stage, a woman in a leopard-print dress was wailing her heart out to Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now,” and the audience was drunkenly singing along.
Cam winced. “Damn. That’s a bold song choice.”
“I respect the confidence. Do we think she’s had more or less than five drinks?”
“At least six.”
We found a booth near the back, away from the speakers but close enough to watch the trainwrecks unfold. A waiter in a David Bowie T-shirt slid over, balancing a tray on his palm.
“What’s your poison?” he asked, tossing a napkin onto the table.
Cam turned to me. “You pick, while I go to the bathroom. But not something pink with an umbrella.”
I grinned at the challenge. “Two whiskey sours.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared, just as another singer took the stage—an older guy in a suit, slurring his way through “Sweet Child O’ Mine”.
In a few short minutes our drinks arrived. Cam returned from the bathroom and slid into the booth, stretching an arm along the back. His fingers lazily traced patterns against the vinyl, his eyes settling on me with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
“So, sweet child o’ mine,” he teased, nudging my foot under the table. “What kind of kid was little Susanne? Did you play teacher with your dolls, and have a strict schedule for all your stuffed animals?”
I scoffed, swirling my whiskey. “I was not that predictable.”
“Oh? Enlighten me.”
“I was also the kid who reorganized the pantry by category and yelled at my brother when he messed it up. And yes, okay, maybe I made lesson plans for my dolls. But I also was a little bit of a troublemaker.”
Cam raised an eyebrow. “This I have to hear.”
I sat back with a satisfied smile. “I told you I grew up on a vineyard, right? Acres of grapevines, rolling hills, a big old stone cellar… It was a dream for a kid who loved sneaking around and getting into places I wasn’t supposed to be.
I used to run barefoot through the vines, stealing grapes before they were ripe, then daring Paul to eat them.
We’d get into trouble constantly, and my dad would yell ‘Ma che diavolo state facendo?’ every time we trampled through his rows. ”
Cam chuckled. “I can picture it. You with twigs in your hair and grape juice all over your face.”
“Yep. But my true kingdom was the wine cellar.”
“Do tell me more.”
“There were these old barrels, stacks of wooden crates, dim lighting—it was perfect for hiding out when I didn’t want to do chores. Or when I wanted to eavesdrop. Grown-ups say the most interesting things when they think a kid isn’t around.”
He laughed. “You were a little spy.”
“Oh, big time. I once overheard my Uncle Vito talking about business deals, and I was convinced he was in the mafia. Told Paul we were definitely related to the Corleones. Naturally, we decided to start our own crime syndicate.”
Cam nearly choked on his drink. “You what?”
“We called ourselves The Morellis—very original—and our first order of business was smuggling my mom’s homemade biscotti to our classmates. We ran a solid operation for about a week before my mom caught us stuffing cookie bags into our backpacks and shut us down.”
Cam was grinning now, shaking his head. “See, that’s the Susanne I would’ve liked to know. The barefoot rebel. The underground cookie kingpin. I never would’ve guessed.”
I sat back in my chair with a smirk. “I told you I’m not that predictable. What about you?” I cocked my head, watching him. “I can’t quite picture you as a kid. Were you quiet, or a Dennis the Menace type?”
He considered for a moment, eyes wandering lazily over the bar crowd. “Both. I was a quiet kid until I was about seven or eight. Before that, I was obsessed with Legos. My parents could forget I existed, and I wouldn’t make a sound. They actually did forget me once when Becky was born.”
“No way.”
“Oh yeah. They left me at a hardware store. I was in the paint section, arranging the color swatches in a gradient. My dad had to speed back so fast he got pulled over. The cop apparently asked him ten times how the hell he forgot his own kid.”
I chuckled. “Oh my God. I wish I had you as a student. I never get the quiet ones.”
His gaze was playful. “Really? What would you have done with me, Miss Morelli?”
I took a sip of my drink, considering. “First, I would’ve made sure you weren’t abandoned in the hardware store.”
He saluted me with his glass. “Strong start.”
“Second, I would’ve definitely put you to work organizing my classroom. Color-coded bookshelves, perfectly aligned crayon boxes… You would’ve thrived.”
Cam narrowed his eyes. “You think a child with OCPD is cute, don’t you?”
“Adorable. Did you always love sorting things?”
“Always. And it had to be done right.”
I bit back a laugh. “Of course.”
“No, seriously. Lego sets, books, my dad’s toolbox—everything had to be in its proper place. If someone moved a piece out of order, it physically bothered me.” His expression broke into a light smirk. “Becky figured that out early and would switch two puzzle pieces just to mess with me.”
I gasped. “That’s evil.”
“She is evil. Once, she moved my Star Wars VHS tapes out of numerical order just to see how long it would take me to notice.”
“How long?”
“Thirty seconds. Maybe less.”
I shook my head, laughing. “God, I wish I had met kid-Cam.”
“Don’t romanticize it. I was insufferable.”
“I bet you were just a misunderstood little nerd.”
“Misunderstood control freak, more like.” He pointed at me. “But enough about me. What happened to turn rebel little Sue into a woman who fakes an engagement to please her mother?”
My smile faltered. Cam’s question hung in the air, light on the surface, but loaded beneath. I took another sip of whiskey, the burn hitting a little harder this time.
“Life happened,” I said eventually, offering a shrug that felt more defensive than casual. “Somewhere between high school and heartbreak, I realized rebellion only gets you so far when your mom’s wielding Catholic guilt like a deadly weapon.”
Cam didn’t push, he just waited. His expression was open, curious, but not nosy. It unnerved me how patient he was. Men weren’t usually patient with me.
“I guess I got tired of disappointing people,” I added.
“Especially her. When I said I wasn’t ready to settle down, she heard I’ve failed at life.
So, instead of letting her assume I was destined to be the weird wine cellar spinster, I told a teeny-tiny, life-altering lie.
And voilà—fake fiancé. Family peace restored. ”
Cam's brow furrowed slightly. “For what it’s worth, I think your mother should be proud of you, not pressuring you into some Instagram-perfect marriage. You’re smart, funny, successful, and…” His gaze lingered, warming like slow sunlight. “Kind of a badass.”
I couldn’t stop a grin. “That must be the whiskey talking. Brittany thinks I’m boring.”
It was his turn to stop smiling. “No one cares what Britt thinks.”
We ordered another round of drinks, and when they arrived I took a long sip.
“I can’t believe she basically admitted to sending that sex swing,” I said, only half-aware I’d spoken out loud. “She must want you back really badly.”
His face darkened, and I regretted opening that can of worms.
“You’re giving her too much credit.” His tone was cold as the ice in his glass. “She doesn’t want me. At the very least she wants money, and she wants to win. Everything with her was a power struggle.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
He sighed, his eyes unfocused as though looking back to some heavy memories. “It was. She needed constant attention.”
“Well, I hate to admit it but she is a very beautiful woman. I could see why a man would go to so much trouble for her.”
Cam smirked. “She’s nothing extraordinary. Once you peel off her clothes, jewelry and makeup, you’re not left with much. I fell in love with her when I didn’t care if my women were able to carry a conversation.”
“You require that now?”
“I do. I want a woman I can talk to for hours without ever getting bored. A woman who is as beautiful inside as she is outside.”
He stared at me so intently I felt my heartbeats drum faster in my ears. All my pulse spots were throbbing with a dull ache that could only be cured by him.
I moistened my dry lips. “I thought… I mean, I assumed that you still have a thing for her.”
Cam burst into laughter, genuine and heartfelt. “God, no. I’d have to be the world’s biggest masochist. Believe me, I like pleasure, not pain. To give and to receive. Britt is truly just a nasty spot from my past.”
“But… You said you were faking an engagement with me to get rid of her.”
He looked me straight in the eyes. “I lied.”
I swallowed with difficulty. “Why?”
“For the same reason that I’ve been thinking about you for years. For the same reason why I haven’t moved out of Sebastian’s apartment. For the same reason I want everyone to think that you’re mine.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. There was too much heat in his gaze, too much truth in his voice, and not nearly enough oxygen in the damn bar.
Some part of me wanted to joke, to deflect with sass, to break the moment like I always did.
But all I could do was sit there and try to remember how to breathe. Because in that moment, fake or not, I wanted to be his.