Page 15 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

I wake to sunlight streaming through the honeymoon suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows and an empty bed beside me. The sheets where Lianne slept are still warm, but she’s gone.

For a moment, I lie still, processing the absence and what it might mean. Last night was everything I’d remembered and more—tender, passionate, real in ways that made four years of separation feel like a lifetime of mistakes. But waking up alone sends a familiar chill through me.

I pull on yesterday’s clothes and head downstairs, following the scent of coffee and the sound of quiet conversation from the hotel’s breakfast area.

I find her at a corner table, already dressed in yesterday’s navy dress, her hair pulled back in a neat bun that suggests she’s been up for a while. She’s nursing a cup of coffee and checking emails on her phone with the focused intensity of someone trying very hard to look busy.

“Good morning,” I say, settling into the chair across from her.

She looks up, and I catch a fleeting softness in her expression before her professional mask slides into place. “Good morning. You were sleeping so peacefully I couldn’t bear to wake you.” Her cheeks flush pink as she looks away. “I thought I’d grab us some coffee and check the road conditions.”

There’s something vulnerable about the admission, about the fact that she watched me sleep, that she cared enough about my rest to let me be. But before I can respond to that tenderness, she’s already shifting back to business.

“The highway patrol cleared the accidents overnight,” she continues, her voice taking on that crisp, professional tone I’ve learned to recognize as her armor. “Traffic should be manageable now. I have client meetings this afternoon, so we should probably head back to LA soon.”

Client meetings. Right back to the careful distance, as if last night never happened.

“Of course,” I say, accepting the coffee she pushes across the table. “Whatever works best for your schedule.”

She nods, but I notice the way she avoids my eyes, the slight tremor in her hands as she gathers her things. Whatever walls she’s rebuilding this morning, they’re not as solid as she wants them to appear.

“So,” I say as we merge onto the 101 freeway twenty minutes later, desperate to fill the silence that’s been stretching between us since we awkwardly navigated checkout and car loading. “Last night was...”

“Professional,” Lianne cuts me off, not looking up from her laptop balanced on her knees. “We shared accommodations out of necessity. Very... businesslike.”

Businesslike. Right. After what just happened.

“Speaking of professional matters,” she continues, her cheeks slightly pink, “I’ve been thinking about your suggestion for the centerpieces.”

It takes me a moment to remember what she’s referring to. “The peonies?”

“I think they’d work beautifully for the private dining room where the board members will have their pre-dinner meeting. More intimate than the main ballroom arrangements, but still elegant.” She finally glances at me, her expression carefully controlled. “If that’s still what you want.”

“Yes,” I say, probably with more intensity than floral arrangements warrant. “That’s definitely what I want.”

Lianne’s breath catches slightly, but she immediately returns to her laptop. “Good. I’ll confirm the order with the florist today. Very... efficient.”

“Very professional,” I agree, and this time I can’t quite hide my smile.

She shoots me a look that’s trying to be stern but ends up looking more flustered.

“The wine deliveries need to be coordinated with the venue staff. I’ll coordinate with Jennifer about the final count,” she continues, her fingers flying over her laptop with renewed determination.

“We should have everything locked in by next week.”

The playful moment evaporates as reality settles back in.

Next week. When this project moves into final execution phase and our interactions become less frequent.

When we’ll both be too busy with implementation details to spend long days tasting wine and talking about music and pretending we don’t remember what it feels like to make love again.

“Sounds good,” I manage, though nothing about this conversation sounds good anymore.

The easy banter dies, replaced by the careful professional distance that feels more forced now than it did an hour ago. Lianne buries herself in work, responding to emails and vendor coordination details with the focused intensity of someone who needs the distraction.

I focus on traffic and try not to think about how perfect she felt in my arms. How beautiful she looked when she finally let go.

By the time I pull in front of Luminous Events, we’ve successfully reestablished the client-vendor relationship we both apparently want to maintain.

The drive from downtown LA to my Malibu home takes forty-five minutes in Saturday morning traffic, forty-five minutes for me to process what just happened and figure out how to move forward.

By the time I pull into my circular driveway, I’ve almost convinced myself that maintaining professional boundaries with Lianne is the smart choice for both of us.

Then I see the cars parked in front of my house.

My father’s silver Mercedes. My mother’s white Range Rover. And a red Ferrari that I don’t recognize but screams expensive European taste.

Great.

I sit in my car for a moment, gathering the energy to deal with whatever family situation is waiting for me inside. It’s barely noon on a Saturday, which means this is either a crisis or a social obligation I’ve forgotten about.

Given the Ferrari, I’m betting on social obligation.

I’m halfway to my front door when it opens to reveal my mother, dressed in country club brunch attire and wearing the kind of smile that suggests she’s been planning this encounter.

“Cameron, darling,” she says, air-kissing my cheek with practiced efficiency. “We were beginning to worry. James said you didn’t come home last night.”

Of course James told them. My housekeeper has been reporting my comings and goings to my mother since I was in high school. Some things never change.

“Business trip,” I say, which is technically true. “Wine vendor meetings in Santa Barbara.”

“You’re handling wine vendor meetings?” My father appears behind my mother, wearing his weekend uniform of an expensive polo shirt and perfectly pressed slacks. “That seems unusually thorough.”

Before I can respond, a third person emerges from my house, and I understand why the Ferrari looked unfamiliar.

“Cameron, it’s been forever,” Isabella Vitale, blond and beautiful in her white linen pantsuit, says as she extends a manicured hand. “Your parents have told me so much about what you’ve been up to lately. You’ve been so busy.”

I shake her hand and summon my social training, the kind of polite charm that’s been drilled into me since childhood. “Welcome to Los Angeles. How are you finding it after Milan?”

“Different, but charming in its own way. Your parents have been wonderful hosts.”

My parents beam as if they’ve successfully orchestrated this encounter, as if their thirty-year-old son needs help in finding a girlfriend. Or in their case, a wife.

“We were just heading to the club for brunch,” my mother says. “Isabella’s parents are meeting us there. You should join us.”

It’s not really a request. It’s a family obligation wrapped in social courtesy, the kind of thing I’ve been navigating my entire life.

“I should probably shower and change,” I say, looking down at my wrinkled clothes from yesterday. “I’m not exactly dressed for the club.”

“Nonsense,” my father says. “You look fine. Besides, Charles and Patricia are eager to meet you.”

“Fine, but give me twenty minutes,” I say before heading into my bedroom.

Charles and Patricia Vitale. Major players in international fashion and luxury goods, with business connections that span three continents.

The kind of people whose friendship could benefit our family business’ European expansion plans.

Which means this isn’t just a social introduction. It’s a business opportunity disguised as a family gathering.

“Of course,” I agree, because turning down potential business connections over personal preferences is exactly the kind of short-sighted thinking that would prove I haven’t learned anything about strategic relationship building.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my father’s Mercedes, following my mother and Isabella in the Range Rover toward the Pacific Palisades Country Club.

I’ve managed a quick shower and changed into clothes appropriate for weekend brunch with people who consider casual dress a form of subtle rebellion.

“Isabella seems lovely,” my father says as we navigate the winding roads that lead to the club. “Accomplished, well-educated, excellent family connections.”

“Mmm,” I reply, which could mean anything.

“Her father’s fashion empire has been expanding into sustainable luxury goods. Very forward-thinking for their industry. Could be valuable partnerships there.”

“Possibly.”

“Your mother thinks you two would get along well,” he continues. “Similar backgrounds, shared interests.”

I glance at my father, wondering if he actually believes that shared backgrounds and business connections are sufficient foundations for romantic relationships, or if he’s just following the script my mother has provided.

“Dad,” I say carefully, “I’m not looking for anyone to set me up with right now.”

“Of course not. This is just a friendly introduction. No pressure.”

But we both know there’s always pressure when my parents arrange friendly introductions with eligible daughters of business associates. It’s just not something we say out loud.