“Radical.” Tabitha ran her hand over the tips of her gelled hair as she was apt to do. “Later, gators,” she said and disappeared behind the latticework.
Lydia turned back to Cam, her lips puckered in purposeful silence, but then Cam wiggled his eyebrows and whispered, “Later, gators,” in the same surfer dude tone Tabitha used.
Lydia snorted through her nose, unable to stop the laughter that erupted at Cam’s imitation of the youngest Hatfield daughter.
“Why couldn’t you have gotten her as a client?” Cam asked, picking up his drink and standing. “She would have at least been fun.”
Lydia laughed once more as Cam disappeared back into their room, and only then did she remember she had been planning to jump him again.
Thirteen
Cam made his way to the bar, adjusting the shirt Lydia had given him for the night’s luau. It wasn’t anything he would have picked himself as he was fairly certain the lobby of a Miami hotel had exploded all over it, tropical patterns of fronds and lilies in bright fuchsia and sorbet orange rippled over his chest. For once Lydia hadn’t made a comment about his wrinkled khakis as the shirt went rather nicely with them, so for that, Cam didn’t mind it so much.
He signaled the barkeep as he took a seat, ordered a whiskey neat, and cast his gaze about the room, anything to distract him from the turmoil that was his insides thinking about Lydia. Jesus, he had really thought it would be simple to come back and win her over with the more matured Cam. Fix all of her problems until she believed he really was good enough for her.
Instead it was him who needed the fixing now. It was him who no longer believed that this was going to work, that his marriage would be more than a sham.
His attention latched onto Rebecca Hatfield, sitting in the corner of the bar, completely alone, sipping a pale wine. Cam swallowed and looked quickly away, hoping she hadn’t noticed him.
There was something about the way she had looked at him earlier when he dove in after Lydia in the koi pond that had him unsettled. It was as if something keened inside of her and for a moment when she caught his eye, she had let it seep out. Just a little. Not so much. But it was there, and it made him chafe.
He wasn’t kidding when he said he wished Lydia had gotten the other sister as her client. This one was far too spooky for his liking.
“Hi. Cam, right?”
If his whisky had been delivered already, he would have downed it in a single swallow. Turning he saw Rebecca Hatfield standing beside him, her loose, dusky hair over one shoulder, glass of wine in one hand. She nodded to the seat beside him.
“May I join you?”
He wanted to say no. He wanted to run the hell out of there. But instead, he saw Lydia in his mind, up in their room putting the finishing touches on her outfit for the night’s events, agonizing over every little detail that could go wrong between now and when the contract was finally signed.
And that included him.
Cam smiled. “Sure, lassie.” He patted the stool like a simpleton. “Of course, ye can.”
He swallowed, reigning in his wayward Scottish brogue. God, he couldn’t control the thing sometimes.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Rebecca said. “Eric is sometimes…”
She didn’t finish the sentence, and he moved his gaze away from the barkeep to look at her.
“Sometimes?” he prompted, suddenly curious as to what she’d have to say.
It had been a little over four weeks since Lydia had sent her siren call across the ocean to him, and in that time, he had learned very little of the woman on whose shoulders rested his wife’s very happiness. It gave him a slight pang to realize such, and he rolled his shoulders against the discomfort.
“He’s a little gauche, I guess you’d say.”
Gauche was something someone like the Hatfields would say. Cam’s mom would say he’d been kicked in the head by a few too many mules.
“There isn’t anything wrong with gauche,” Cam said as the bartender slid his whiskey in front of him.
The dim light of the bar trickled over the amber liquid, and he scooped up the glass for a quick drink, letting its burning fire settle his senses. Rebecca Hatfield just wanted to apologize for what happened earlier. There was no danger in this conversation, and there was nothing that was going to happen that would stop the girl from getting married, from signing a big, fat contract with Baxter’s of Newbury.
Cam took another drink as Rebecca twirled her wine glass between her hands.
“My father says Eric is a good catch. That he couldn’t have picked out someone better.” Cam watched the young woman, watched her looking at everything but him. “But I think that’s just it. I think he’s not much of a choice.”
Cam waited, hoping she’d say more so he didn’t have to. Anything more so that he needn’t talk about why she was doing her best to talk about a subject she clearly didn’t want to talk about. And with him, a near perfect stranger.
She looked at him, her watery eyes striking directly like a fist to his gut.
Jesus bloody Christ.
“Choice?” he finally said, the word squeaking out of him.
He coughed, clearing his throat like he hadn’t meant to sound like a eunuch.
“Eric and I met in college. Yale. History of World Religions. It’s what everyone took freshmen year.”
Cam took another drink of his whiskey, remembering how he hadn’t taken the History of World Religions freshmen year. He’d taken Learn How to Be an Adult Who Can Take Care of Everyone Real Quick Because Your Da Just Keeled Over. He’d been the only one in the class, and right then, he didn’t feel a whole lot of pity for Rebecca Hatfield.
“Everyone said how we were meant for each other.” She took a sip of her wine. “How we just fit, you know?” She blinked at him, and he nodded like he understood. “I don’t think I ever got to see if we really felt good together. Now we’re getting married and…”
She trailed off again, and he took a sip of his drink, not understanding in the least what she meant. He and Lydia were far from the perfect match, and he was pretty damn sure Edward Baxter would have chosen anyone over Cam McCray for his daughter’s husband. Rebecca should be grateful her father liked her mate. Heck, her father even seemed to want to show up to the wedding.
“It’s not like you and Lydia.”
She had his attention at that.
“Lydia and I?”
“You and Lydia seem to…” she stumbled over some words, “Read each other’s minds. It’s like you two know exactly what the other one is thinking before they say anything and—”
Yeah, Lydia was thinking he was an idiot or a slob or lacking in class nearly all the time, so sure, he could tell what she was thinking.
“It’s so difficult to find someone that you have that connection with, and I just think—” Here Rebecca paused. Hard stop with her mouth still open as her eyes seemed to search for the words in the air before her, which was dangerous because it gave Cam time to think about what the woman had just said.
Connection.
The only connection he and Lydia had was his ardent desire to help her and hers to get rid of him. If he dug really deep into it, would he find this connection they were so good at faking? But wasn’t that half of the crux? Faking it until it became something real?
“I think you need that kind of bond with a person to really make a go of things in this day and age. I think, well, it’s like what’s the point if you don’t…” she paused and looked down at her now empty wine glass before looking up again.
He saw a bright sheen across her eyes, but somehow he couldn’t believe that stoic Rebecca Hatfield would be moved to emotion in a hotel bar talking to a Scot on a deranged mission to help his estranged wife. But there it was, and she most definitely seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“What’s the point without love?” she finally finished, and it was Cam’s turn to let his mouth hang open.
His brain scrambled, racing back thro
ugh the past month, recalling every detail of his time with Lydia. Not once had he told her he loved her and not once had she said the like in return. He was always too afraid to say it. Too afraid she’d throw it back in his face. That left him sitting in a bar talking with a twenty-something-year-old who didn’t seem to understand she was getting married whether there was love involved or not.
For the first time in a month, Cam felt frustration build. What the hell was he doing here? What had he hoped to prove? That the tenuous connection sparked between an equally ignorant couple of twenty-something-year-olds would be enough to win back the woman he cared so much about? The woman he knew he loved even if he couldn’t say it?
Cam adjusted on his stool, picking up his empty glass to signal to the barkeep for a refill.
“Sometimes, Rebecca,” he said, not looking at her, “You need to do things that may seem crazy to find the connection you can’t see but that’s been there all along.”
Rebecca frowned at him. “What do you mean?” she said, her tone suddenly changing to one that sounded more like herself. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but my family doesn’t exactly do anything out of the ordinary.” She blinked at him, licking her lips almost as if she were nervous. “The Hatfields are respectable and do things as expected.”
Cam turned to her as the bartender placed a filled glass in front of him. If he didn’t know better, he’d expect Lydia to be standing beside him, and his chest tightened.
“Sometimes it’s not always right to do what’s expected of you.”
Movement at the door of the bar caught his eye, and he turned as Lydia entered. There was a tightness in his chest then for a completely different set of reasons. Her hair was swept up into a messy knot at the top of her head through which she’d stuck two coral colored flowers. Her dress matched his shirt, but on her, it didn’t look like the decor of the foyer of a Miami hotel. It was strapless and wrapped snugly around her, exhibiting every curve, highlighting every valley. He couldn’t stop his eyes from traveling down the length of her to where the dress stopped at her knees, her toned and tanned legs completing the silhouette in defined lines to a pair of strappy heels, her bright red toenails peeking out of them.
Cam swallowed, and for a moment, Lydia as he had first seen her at that pub crawl flashed through his mind, startling him. She had been younger then and beautiful, but there was something different about her now.
Now she carried confidence with her, in the squareness of her shoulders and the sureness of her step.
Cam swallowed again, remembering what he had just said to Rebecca about a connection. Perhaps he couldn’t see the one between them. Perhaps he never had. But he damn sure felt it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What the fuck was Cam doing sitting next to Rebecca Hatfield?
And why were both of them giving her funny looks?
She smiled, fast and hard, pushing back her shoulders and straightening her spine.
“Hi, Rebecca,” she said in her most cheerful, client-pleasing voice.
Cam saluted her with his glass. “You look bonny tonight, Mrs. McCray,” he said.
Lydia cast him a quick glance and a smile to show she’d heard him, but her attention was on Rebecca Hatfield. At least it was until her brain registered the look on Cam’s face. She swung her gaze back to him, her mouth stalled on the words she meant to say to Rebecca Hatfield.
Cam looked…he looked…
He looked sad.
Everything in her stopped. As if she were in a suddenly braking car, Lydia tipped forward under the momentum even as she remained perfectly still. Never in the nearly five years since she had known him had Cam ever looked sad. Even the day she had kicked him out, his face had been plastered with a cocky, jovial expression that perfectly matched his trumpeting bravado that he would be back. But this—
This wasn’t Cam. This wasn’t her Cam.
She wanted to think on what that meant but just then she didn’t care that he wasn’t at all the type of guy a Baxter would marry. She didn’t care that his hair was a rioting mess or his khakis looked like they’d been used as the dance floor at a night club. His unearthly expression was so unsettling she just had to fix it. Now.
This realization had her mentally stumbling again. Was this how Cam felt all the time? The urgency to fix things? To make everything all right for those around him?
Her heart tumbled into her stomach as her whole body clenched for the young man who suddenly carried the unbearable weight of responsibility upon the death of his father. Blinking at that man now, Lydia knew, she knew for the first time what it was to be Cam McCray.
And it made her feel like a fucking asshole.
She laughed, and only when Cam’s expression turned to something bordering on confused did she realize Rebecca had said something to which Lydia had responded with a laugh. So she laughed harder, waving a hand in the air, desperate to make the situation better for Cam.
“I’m sorry.” She stepped forward and tucked herself under Cam’s arm before leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “I was just remembering something from the last time you wore this shirt, dear.”
She smiled at him, genuinely, warmly smiled, but his expression did not clear. If anything, it seemed to harden. Rebecca, on the other hand, looked like she was about to take a somersault off her stool. Someone needed to get the woman another drink.
Again, what the fuck were these two doing talking to each other when she wasn’t there?
Didn’t Cam realize he could have jeopardized everything she had worked for?
No, Cam had been helping.
Lydia wanted to sink into the blood red carpet of the bar, but instead, she laid her head on Cam’s shoulder and smiled, praying to any god who would listen that Cam hadn’t helped too much.
But apparently some god bent on a perverse humor had heard it, because Rebecca Hatfield smiled. Brightly. Exhilaratingly. Possibly coquettishly.
What. The. Fuck.
“You two must have a lot of happy memories.” Rebecca set her wine glass on the bar and stood. “You’re very lucky,” she added with another smile before turning toward the door and calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at the luau.”
As soon as Rebecca was out of the bar, Lydia turned on Cam, punching him in the shoulder she had just rested her head against.
“What the hell were you doing?”
Cam finally smiled then, but he said, “Thank you for not saying what the fuck were you doing?” He picked up his drink from the bar, took a swig. “It’s nice to see your language is improving.”
Lydia pursed her lips. “Cam.”
He smiled, softly now, the sadness returning to his eyes. “We were doing nothing.” He gestured to the door and the departed Rebecca Hatfield. “She wanted to know how it was that we were so—”
He stopped so abruptly again Lydia once more felt that odd sensation of falling forward.
“Happy,” he finished, but his expression did not match the word.
Lydia’s stomach clenched hard enough to bring her fist against it. “Cam, I—”
He waved her off, finishing his drink and standing. “May I escort this lady to the ball?” He bowed in her direction before extending his arm.
Lydia frowned. “Cam,” she said. “Sit the fuck down.”
“Ah,” he said with raised eyebrows. “There’s the f word. I’d missed it.”
But he sat, so she did as well, taking the stool Rebecca had just vacated.
“Cam,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
Cam looked at her. “In this situation or with the world?” Cam asked. “Because the world has many a problem that I don’t think we’re going to fix at this bar.”
“You’re an asshole, Cameron,” she said.
He smiled. “I always like to put on my best kilt for ye, lassie.”
She wanted to chuck his whiskey in his smug face, but instead she laughed. The sound was so unexpected she sat up on her stool.
; “I make your life miserable, don’t I?” she asked, not understanding why the question suddenly sprang to her lips.
Cam cocked an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t use the word miserable,” he said. “A might difficult, but miserable would be having to endure the presence of my mother’s latest love fest.”
Lydia cocked an eyebrow now. “Your mother’s what?”
“It seems my mother has gotten herself a beau.”
Lydia turned to the bartender. “Chardonnay. A big fucking glass of chardonnay,” she said when the bartender came over.
The bartender only smiled and poured a glass of white wine, setting it in front of her.
Her shoulder ached from the incident in the koi pond, and she was fairly certain her sandals were never going to be the same. But it didn’t really matter, because she suddenly felt like a giant asshole, and Lydia Baxter was not an asshole.
But she’d apparently been one to someone who had dropped everything in his life and flew across an entire ocean to help her.
Taking a fortifying sip of wine, she leaned against the bar and swiveled her head in the direction of her husband. “Can we start over?”
Cam’s expression blanked, and Lydia thought he might be feeling that tipping over sensation with which she was gaining far too much familiarity.
“Start over this conversation or—”
“Where is your mother? What is she doing? How is she feeling?” Lydia let the string of questions tumble from her lips as she silently cursed herself for being selfish. This whole time Cam had been having a life and feelings, and the only ones she had been concerned about were the ones that affected her goal in obtaining the Hatfield contract.
She needed Cam to play husband, but she didn’t want him falling in love with her again. Or still. Or whatever. She needed Cam to play the perfect husband, wooing Evelyn Hatfield and getting her to sign the contract, hand over the check for a bridal party worth of dresses. Lydia needed. Lydia needed.
Fuck.
How could she have ignored Cam for this long? Ignored the look that was so plain on his face?
When She Falls Page 16