Page 11 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

“Vehicle system error. Please contact service immediately.” The red warning message glows mockingly from my Tesla’s touchscreen, as unresponsive as the rest of the car’s electronic systems. I tap the screen again, jab at the key fob like it’s a defibrillator, but the dashboard stares back with digital indifference.

Great. Just great.

Why does my car choose today—of all days—to stage an electronic rebellion? I have wine vendor meetings in Santa Barbara in three hours, Amanda’s using our other service vehicle for the Morrison wedding, and my backup options are shrinking by the minute.

I’m scrolling through rental car apps on my phone when footsteps echo across the parking garage.

“Car trouble?”

I turn to find Cameron walking toward me from the elevator bank, looking impossibly put together in dark jeans and a navy button-down despite the early hour.

His hair is slightly mussed in a way that stirs memories I’ve been trying to suppress, and it’s deeply unfair how good he looks at seven in the morning.

“Good morning,” I say, falling back on professional courtesy while my brain scrambles to figure out why he’s here. “I thought we were meeting at the venue.”

“I figured I’d catch you before you left for Santa Barbara,” he replies, his eyes taking in my Tesla’s stubbornly blank dashboard. “I wanted to discuss some questions that came up about the wine selections.”

“About that,” I begin, preparing to explain that our carefully planned day is about to be derailed by automotive betrayal. “There’s been a slight complication?—”

“I could drive,” Cameron interrupts, as if he’s been reading my thoughts. “If that would help.”

I stare at him. Two to three hours in a car with Cameron, just the two of us, discussing wine preferences and trying to maintain professional boundaries while confined in a space roughly the size of a luxury closet.

It’s either the best idea I’ve heard all week or a complete disaster waiting to happen.

“That’s very generous,” I say carefully, “but I’m sure you have better things to do than chauffeur event planners around wine country.”

“I’m the board chair of Sterling Industries,” he says. “Part of my job is ensuring our anniversary gala exceeds expectations. If that means driving to Santa Barbara to select the perfect wine pairings, then that’s what I’ll do.”

“This would be strictly business,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“Absolutely. Nothing but professional wine evaluation and strategic beverage planning.”

There’s something in his tone that makes me look at him more carefully, but his expression is perfectly serious. Professional. Appropriate.

“Alright,” I decide, ignoring the voice in my head that’s suggesting this is a terrible idea. “I appreciate the offer. It would solve a significant logistical problem.”

He grins. “Excellent.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m settling into the passenger seat of Cameron’s Aston Martin, sinking into leather seats that feel impossibly soft and luxurious.

“Comfortable?” he asks, adjusting the climate control.

“Very,” I admit, though comfortable is only part of what I’m feeling. The car is beautiful, all sleek lines and sophisticated technology, but what’s really making me nervous is the forced intimacy of sharing such a small space with Cameron for the next few hours.

“Music preferences?” he asks, his finger hovering over the sound system controls.

“I’m flexible. Whatever you usually listen to is fine.”

Cameron scrolls through what appears to be an extensive playlist, finally settling on something that makes me sit up straighter in surprise.

“The Lumineers?” I say, recognizing the opening notes of a song I haven’t heard in years. “I wouldn’t have expected that from someone who probably has season tickets to the LA Philharmonic.”

“I have varied tastes,” he replies, pulling out of the parking garage and into morning LA traffic. “Besides, you used to love this album. I figured there was a chance you still did.”

The casual reference to my musical preferences from four years ago catches me off guard. I’d forgotten that Cameron knew I loved folk music, that we used to argue good-naturedly about the merits of indie bands versus classical composers.

“You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he says quietly, then seems to catch himself being too personal. “This song came up on my playlist a few weeks ago. Brought back memories of... different times.”

The song fills the space between us, familiar and bittersweet. We used to listen to music like this during the long drives to wedding venues, debating lyrics and sharing songs we’d discovered.

“Your turn,” Cameron says when the song ends. “What are you listening to these days?”

I pull out my phone and scroll through my own playlist, trying to find something that won’t reveal too much about my current emotional state. Finally, I settle on an Adele song that’s been on repeat lately.

“Predictable choice for a woman in her late twenties,” I say, trying to keep things light.

“Not predictable. Honest. Adele doesn’t write songs for people who don’t understand heartbreak.”

The observation hangs between us, weighted with meaning I’m not ready to examine. I clear my throat, needing to steer us back toward safer territory.

“So, about your trip to Europe,” I say, latching onto the business angle Amanda had mentioned. “Renewable energy, right?”

Cameron navigates onto the 101 freeway with ease, and I catch myself staring at his hand where it rests on the gear selector—the same strong fingers I used to trace during our drives together, back when touching him felt as natural as breathing.

“Acquisition deal in Copenhagen and Frankfurt,” he replies as I tear my gaze away from his hand. “We’re expanding into renewable energy infrastructure.”

“That’s different from your usual investments, isn’t it?” I remember Cameron’s business interests being more traditional—real estate, tech companies, established industries with predictable returns.

“Very different. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have touched anything so volatile.” He glances at me briefly before focusing back on the road. “But sometimes the most meaningful investments are the ones that feel risky.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes me think he’s not just talking about business anymore, but I brush the thought away, focusing my attention on the gray clouds gathering over the mountains ahead of us instead.

“Looks like we might be driving into some weather.”

“Should clear up by this afternoon,” Cameron replies, glancing at the darkening sky. “Weather reports said it was just morning clouds.”

“I hope so. We have three wineries to visit today.”

“Three?” I catch his surprised look. “I thought we were just meeting with one vendor.”

“For a 50th anniversary celebration, we’ll want wine selections from multiple producers.

Different styles, different price points, options that complement the various courses,” I explain, making mental notes about timing.

“Especially with the compressed schedule we inherited from Morrison Events, we need to finalize everything today—no second chances for tastings.”

“Right, the three-month timeline,” Cameron says, his tone carrying new understanding. “That’s why today is so packed.”

“Exactly. It’s going to be a long day, especially if this weather doesn’t cooperate.”

Cameron nods, then returns to our earlier conversation as we pass a truck loaded with produce heading toward Santa Barbara’s agricultural regions.

“I realized that playing it safe all the time means missing out on opportunities that could actually matter. I was so focused on maintaining what I had, protecting established returns, that I stopped looking for ways to make a real impact.”

“And renewable energy makes a real impact?”

“It should. If we do it right, if we partner with communities instead of just extracting resources, if we think about long-term sustainability instead of quarterly profits.” He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully.

“I’ve been learning that the most profitable ventures are often the ones that serve purposes beyond just making money. ”

It’s a more thoughtful philosophy than the Cameron I knew four years ago, who seemed primarily focused on building wealth and maintaining his family’s approval. This version sounds like someone who’s learned to ask different questions about success and meaning.

“That’s... actually really impressive,” I admit. “Most people in your position don’t bother looking beyond traditional investment strategies.”

“Most people in my position are smarter than I was at twenty-six,” Cameron replies with a self-deprecating smile. “It took me a while to figure out that having money isn’t the same as having purpose.”

The conversation flows more easily as we drive through Ventura County’s rolling hills.

Cameron tells me about the renewable energy projects Sterling Industries is funding, and I find myself genuinely interested in his strategic thinking.

He asks thoughtful questions about Luminous Events’ growth, about the challenges of building a luxury service business, about the balance between creativity and commerce.

It’s the kind of conversation we used to have during those long venue visits, when we’d spend hours talking about vision and strategy and the intersection of business and meaning.

But there’s a depth to Cameron’s thinking now that wasn’t there before, a consideration for impact and sustainability that suggests he’s learned to see beyond immediate returns.

“What about you?” he asks as we pass through Carpinteria. “What’s changed for you over the past four years?”

I consider the question while watching the coastline come into view. What has changed? Everything, really. My business, my confidence, my understanding of what I’m capable of achieving.

“I learned that I don’t need anyone’s permission to belong in spaces where I create value,” I say finally. “Four years ago, I was always trying to prove I deserved to be in the room. Now I know I deserve to be there because I’m good at what I do.”

“You were always good at what you did,” Cameron says quietly. “Even four years ago. I just don’t think I was mature enough to recognize how good.”

The admission catches me off guard, partly because it’s more honest than I expected and partly because it addresses something I didn’t realize I needed to hear.

“You were twenty-six,” I say, offering him the same grace I’d want someone to offer me for my twenty-four-year-old mistakes. “We were both figuring things out.”

“Maybe. But you were figuring out how to build something meaningful. I was figuring out how to avoid disappointing people who probably shouldn’t have had so much influence over my decisions.”

It’s the closest he’s come to acknowledging what really happened between us, why he ended things so abruptly. Part of me wants to push for more details, to finally understand the calculations that led him to choose his family’s approval over what we were building together.

But another part of me—the part that’s enjoying this conversation, this glimpse of who Cameron has become—doesn’t want to ruin the moment by relitigating the past.

“Well,” I say instead, “it sounds like we’ve both learned some things.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, and when he glances at me there’s something warm and hopeful in his expression. “I think we have.”

The playlist shuffles to another song I recognize, something from an artist Cameron introduced me to during our relationship. Without thinking, I start humming along, then catch myself and stop.

“Don’t stop,” Cameron says. “You always had a beautiful voice.”

Heat creeps up my neck at the compliment, especially since he’s right—I do love to sing, and I used to sing along to music constantly when we were together. It’s such a small detail, but the fact that he remembers makes something flutter in my chest.

“You remember that, too?”

“I remember you singing in my kitchen while you cooked,” he says, his voice taking on a softer quality. “I remember you humming in the car during long drives. I remember thinking that hearing you sing was one of my favorite sounds.”

The memory hits me unexpectedly, bringing back images of lazy Sunday mornings and road trips to venues and quiet moments when it felt like we had all the time in the world.

“You used to play piano,” I find myself saying. “Do you still?”

“Sometimes. When I can’t sleep or when I’m trying to work through complicated problems.” Cameron adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Music helps me think.”

“What do you play when you can’t sleep?”

“Chopin, usually. Something complicated enough to require focus but familiar enough that I don’t have to think about the mechanics.”

I smile, remembering how Cameron used to play late at night when he was stressed about work or family obligations. “Nocturne in E-flat major?”

“You remember that?”

“You played it the night before your sister’s wedding. You were worried about your speech.”

Cameron laughs, the sound genuine and surprised. “I can’t believe you remember that. I was terrified I was going to embarrass Sophia in front of three hundred guests.”

“You were perfect. Your speech was beautiful. You talked about love being worth fighting for, about choosing the person who makes you want to be better.” The memory is vivid and bittersweet, especially given what happened between us later. “It was one of the most romantic things I’d ever heard.”

The silence that follows pulses with the sting of contradiction. We both know the irony of Cameron giving a speech about fighting for love just months before he chose the easier path of family approval.

“I meant every word of that speech,” he says quietly. “I just... wasn’t brave enough to live up to it.”

For a moment, I’m tempted to push him to explain more, to tell me exactly what his family said, what threats or promises convinced him to walk away from what we had. Instead, I find myself saying, “We were young. People change. What matters is who we are now.”

Cameron glances at me with something that looks like gratitude mixed with surprise, as if he expected me to be less forgiving.

“Who are we now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’m enjoying finding out.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it, more honest than I intended to be. But it’s true. Sitting in this car, listening to music that reminds us both of better times, talking about growth and change and the people we’ve learned to become—it feels easy in a way I didn’t expect.

Natural. Right.

Dangerous.