Page 13 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

“This is getting ridiculous.”

We’ve been sitting in the same spot for twenty minutes.

“Weather reports are saying multiple accidents,” Cameron says, checking his phone. “Overturned cargo truck across two lanes near Oxnard. They’re recommending people avoid this stretch of highway altogether.”

The rain pounds harder against the windshield, and I can see other drivers making the same calculations we are. Several cars ahead of us have their hazard lights on, and a few brave souls are actually pulling over to the shoulder, giving up on forward progress entirely.

“We could be here for hours,” I observe, trying not to think about what that means for us. Alone in this car, with the memory of our wine cellar kisses still fresh between us, nowhere to go and nothing to distract us from the tension that’s been building all day.

“There’s an exit coming up,” Cameron says, pointing to a sign barely visible through the rain. “Ventura. We could get off, find somewhere to wait it out.”

I consider our options. Sit in traffic for an unknown amount of time, or exit into a small coastal town where our accommodation options will be limited at best. Neither choice feels particularly safe, though for entirely different reasons.

“How long do you think this will last?” I ask.

Cameron checks the weather radar on his phone. “The storm system is moving slowly. Could be several more hours before conditions improve enough for safe driving.”

Several more hours. Together.

After everything that happened in that wine cellar.

“Ventura it is,” I decide, because sitting in gridlocked traffic in the middle of a storm feels worse than whatever awkwardness awaits us in a hotel room.

The exit ramp is moving slightly better than the main freeway, though I can see why. Most of the cars getting off are clearly locals who know the back roads. Tourist traffic like us is probably stuck on the 101, waiting for conditions to improve.

“There,” Cameron points to a sign for the Ventura Harbor Inn. “That looks promising.”

The inn is a modest two-story building that looks like it was built in the 1970s and updated sometime in the 1990s. It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, but it’s clean and well-maintained, with a parking lot that’s surprisingly full for a Wednesday night.

“Lot of other people had the same idea,” I observe as Cameron finds a parking space.

“Storm refugees,” he agrees. “This should be interesting.”

The lobby is crowded with travelers in various states of weather-related dishevelment. Families with restless children, business travelers checking phones obsessively, couples huddled over coffee cups while they wait for news about road conditions.

The desk clerk, a tired-looking woman in her fifties, greets us with the expression of someone who’s been dealing with weather-related chaos all evening.

“Let me guess,” she says before we can speak. “Freeway closure?”

“Traffic jam from hell,” Cameron confirms. “Do you have any availability for tonight?”

The woman consults her computer with the slow deliberation of someone who’s already had this conversation dozens of times. “I have one room left. King bed, ocean view. It’s our honeymoon suite, actually, but under the circumstances...”

“Do you have two rooms available?” I ask quickly, heat creeping up my neck. “We’ll need separate accommodations.”

She shakes her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, that’s all I have. The storm has everyone stranded. I’ve got families doubled up in rooms, people sleeping in the lobby. You’re lucky I have anything at all.”

I look at Cameron, unsure what to do. One room means sharing space, sharing the aftermath of what happened in that wine cellar, navigating whatever this is between us without the safety of separate doors to retreat behind.

“We’ll take it,” Cameron says, pulling out his credit card.

Twenty minutes later, after a stop at the hotel’s small gift shop where I bought a Ventura T-shirt that’s three sizes too big and some basic toiletries including makeup remover, I’m standing in a hotel room that’s clearly designed for romance.

Rose-colored walls, a massive king-sized bed with far too many decorative pillows, and floor-to-ceiling windows that would normally showcase an ocean view but currently reveal nothing but rain-streaked darkness.

“Well,” Cameron says as he shuts the door behind us. “This is...”

“Awkward?”

“I was going to say cozy, but awkward works too.”

There’s one bed. One very large, very obvious bed that dominates the space and makes it impossible to pretend this is just a business arrangement between colleagues who got caught in bad weather.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Cameron offers, though we both know the rose-colored carpet isn’t designed for overnight accommodation.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a king bed. We can share it like adults.” The words come out more confident than I feel. “We’re both exhausted, it’s late, and we have a long drive back to LA tomorrow. We can handle sharing space for one night.”

The silence that follows is loaded with everything we’re not saying. That kiss in the cellar, the way he looked at me like I was the air he breathed.

“If you’re sure,” he says finally.

“Of course, I’m sure.”

An hour later, we’ve both changed into makeshift pajamas, Cameron wearing a California T-shirt while my Ventura T-shirt falls to mid-thigh, my face scrubbed clean of makeup for the first time since he’s seen me again.

As he settles under the covers, I catch him watching me as I pad barefoot across the carpet, his gaze suddenly making me feel self-conscious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says quietly. “You just... you look like you again.”

“Like me again?”

“Like the Lianne I remember. Without all the...” He gestures vaguely at where I was standing by the bathroom mirror. “The armor.”

I touch my bare cheek self-consciously. “I look like I’m twelve without makeup.”

“You look beautiful,” he says simply, the honesty in his voice making something flutter in my chest.

I shouldn’t allow it. But that would be hypocritical of me. After that kiss in the cellar, how can I pretend that I don’t want him? That I haven’t imagined being with him again, despite everything that happened four years ago?

He reaches over and turns out the light, plunging us into semi-darkness. I can hear the rain pounding against the windows, punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder. It feels like we’re alone in the world, like there isn’t anyone else but us.

“So,” I say finally, because the silence is becoming unbearable. “This is nice.”

Cameron turns his head to look at me, and I can see amusement in his expression despite the awkwardness of our situation. “The storm? The traffic jam? Or the honeymoon suite?”

“All of it, obviously. This is exactly how I planned to spend my Wednesday evening.”

He laughs, the sound warm and familiar in the darkness. “I have to admit, it’s not what I expected when I offered to drive you to Santa Barbara.”

“No?” I turn on my side to face him. “What did you think would happen?”

Cameron mirrors my position, and suddenly we’re much closer than we were when we were both lying on our backs staring at the ceiling. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, close enough that I’m reminded of how good he smelled in that wine cellar.

“Honestly? I thought we’d select some wines, maintain professional boundaries, and drive back to LA with a better understanding of Sterling Industries’ beverage requirements.”

“Very practical.”

“I’m a practical man.” But there’s something in his voice that suggests he’s not feeling particularly practical right now.

“Are you?” I ask softly. “Because kissing me in that wine cellar didn’t seem very practical.”

The mention of our kiss changes the atmosphere in the room immediately. The careful distance we’ve been maintaining feels suddenly inadequate.

“No,” Cameron admits. “That wasn’t practical at all.”

“Do you regret it?”

He’s quiet for so long that I start to think he’s not going to answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with something that sounds like honesty mixed with want.

“I regret that it took me four years to do it again.”

My chest tightens, the raw honesty in his words resonating deep and hard.

“Cam…”

The sound of his old name from my lips seems to break whatever restraint he’s been maintaining as he reaches out to touch my face.

“I’ve missed hearing you say my name like that,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone the same way he did in the wine cellar.

“I’ve missed saying it.”

When he kisses me this time, it’s different from the wine cellar. Less tentative, more certain. Like he’s showing me he knows who I am, that he wants me anyway.

His fingers slide into my hair, and I make a small sound of surrender as I kiss him back, letting go of the past, letting go of everything but this moment.

Cameron pulls me on top of him, and I feel his hardness between my legs, the heat of his body pressing against mine. This is dangerous territory. I know it, and I’m sure he knows it, too, but neither of us wants to stop.

“Lianne…” His voice is husky with desire, his hands exploring my body like he’s mapping every curve and valley. “God, I’ve missed you.”

I’ve missed you.

The words he didn’t say in the wine cellar. The words that have been unspoken between us since the day we met again in that conference room.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I admit, because I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore.

I’ve missed him so much, more than I’ve ever let myself admit.

He’s the reason I built Luminous Events, as if needing to prove to him and his family that I’m more than just some lowly assistant with a bad pedigree.

He’s the reason why I’ve focused so hard on professional success, why I’ve made a point of never giving up control, never showing weakness.

He’s the reason why I’ve held back for so long, why I’ve been afraid to let myself love anyone again.