Page 16 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

The Pacific Palisades Country Club sits on perfectly manicured grounds overlooking the ocean, its Spanish colonial architecture designed to suggest old California elegance.

I’ve been a member since I turned eighteen, attended countless events here, played golf with clients and family friends on the same courses where my father taught me business networking disguised as leisure activities.

Today, the main dining room is filled with the usual crowd—business executives extending their lunch meetings into the afternoon, retired members who treat their bridge games like sacred appointments, a handful of wives discussing charity committee preparations over white wine spritzers, their diamonds catching the light as they gesture.

The Vitales are exactly what I remember from the years my family vacationed in Europe.

Charles is tall and distinguished in the way that comes from generations of money and influence.

Patricia has the kind of understated elegance that suggests a lifetime of shopping at places that don’t advertise their prices.

“Cameron, my boy, how long has it been? Fifteen years?” Charles stands to shake my hand with the firm grip. “Your parents speak very highly of your business acumen.”

“The pleasure is mine,” I reply, settling into the chair between Isabella and my father. “Isabella was telling me about your sustainable luxury initiatives. Impressive market positioning.”

For the next hour, we discuss everything except the obvious reason for this gathering.

European fashion trends. Sustainable business practices.

Investment opportunities in emerging markets.

The kind of conversation that happens between successful families who understand that personal relationships and business advantages are often inseparable.

Isabella listens intently to every conversation, asking thoughtful questions about my company’s expansion plans and offering insights about consumer trends in luxury markets.

She’s exactly the kind of woman my parents think I should be interested in—beautiful, accomplished, from the right background with the right connections.

She’s also nothing like Lianne.

The realization hits me somewhere between the mimosas and the discussion of Italian manufacturing techniques. Isabella is as lovely as I remember, but there’s no spark, no electricity.

When she laughs at my comments, it’s polite rather than genuine. When she asks about my interests, it feels like interview questions rather than curiosity. When she touches my arm while making a point, it’s calculated rather than instinctive.

Everything that should work on paper feels hollow in practice.

“Cameron?”

I look up to find Declan Pierce approaching our table, and I’m surprised by how relieved I feel to see a familiar face that isn’t part of my parents’ social orchestration.

“Declan,” I stand to shake his hand. “Good to see you.”

“You too. How’s the anniversary planning coming along?”

The mention of Sterling Industries’ gala immediately brings Lianne to mind—the way she looked this morning over hotel coffee, the careful distance she maintained during our drive, the professional mask she wore to hide whatever she was feeling about last night.

“Very well. We have an excellent event planner handling the details.”

“That’s crucial for these milestone celebrations,” he says. “Maya and I just went through planning one of our events for Highland Community Center. The right planner makes all the difference.”

Maya. Lianne’s best friend. The woman who somehow managed to navigate a relationship with a billionaire developer despite coming from completely different worlds.

“I’d love to hear how that went,” I say, meaning it more than I probably should.

“Maybe we could grab coffee sometime one of these days. Compare notes on event planning challenges.”

“I’d like that.”

My parents and the Vitales watch this exchange with polite interest, clearly trying to place Declan in the social hierarchy they understand.

“Declan Pierce,” I explain. “Pierce Enterprises. Community development and commercial real estate.”

“Of course,” my father says, recognition dawning. “That partnership with a community center downtown.”

“Highland Community Center,” Declan says as my father nods.

“Very innovative approach to community engagement.”

“Maya deserves all the credit for that,” Declan replies. “She taught me that the best business relationships are built on understanding what communities actually need rather than assuming what they should want.”

“Actually, I should introduce you to someone,” Declan says, glancing toward the bar area. “Elliot Walker just stepped in—he’s taken over day-to-day operations at Pierce Enterprises. I think you’d find his approach to sustainable development interesting.”

Before I can respond, my mother interjects with the kind of smile that suggests she’s ready to redirect this conversation back to more personally relevant topics.

“That sounds fascinating, but we shouldn’t keep you,” she says smoothly. “Isabella, didn’t you want to see the club’s art collection before we head back?”

“Actually,” Isabella says, “I should probably get back soon. I have a video call with my team in Milan this evening.”

Declan takes the hint gracefully. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon. We’ll catch up soon, Cameron.”

The brunch winds down with polite exchanges of contact information and vague promises to continue our business discussions.

Isabella gives me her card with a smile that suggests she’d be receptive to further interaction, and I reciprocate with the kind of courtesy that commits to nothing while leaving possibilities open.

As we walk back to the parking area, Isabella talking on the phone with her assistant, my mother falls into step beside me.

“She’s lovely, don’t you think?” she asks as she slips her arm around mine.

“She seems very nice.”

“Very accomplished,” she says. “And so well-connected internationally.”

“Definitely.”

“Your father thinks there could be significant business opportunities there.”

I stop walking and turn to face my mother directly. “Mom, are we talking about business opportunities or something else?”

My mother’s expression becomes more serious. “I’m talking about your future, Cameron. You’re thirty years old. Most men in your position have established more... personal commitments by now.”

Personal commitments. Such a carefully neutral way to discuss marriage and family expectations.

“I’m focused on building Sterling Industries right now,” I say, which is true even if it’s not the complete truth.

“You can do both. Your father managed quite well, and his generation had fewer resources for balancing professional and personal obligations.”

I think about Lianne working in the passenger seat this morning, completely absorbed in coordinating details for our event. About the way she lit up when discussing wine pairings and cultural considerations. About how natural it felt to collaborate with her on something that mattered to both of us.

“Maybe I’m just more selective,” I say as Mom studies my face, her eyes narrowing.

“Cameron, is there something you’re not telling us? Someone you’re... selective about?”

“No,” I lie, because explaining my complicated feelings about Lianne Peralta would require conversations I’m not ready to have. “I just think compatibility matters more than business connections.”

“Of course it does. But they’re not mutually exclusive.”

She’s not wrong. Isabella could be compatible with me, if compatibility is defined as shared backgrounds and complementary social positions. We could build a pleasant life together based on mutual respect and strategic advantages.

But after spending the last twenty-four hours with Lianne, after remembering what it feels like to connect with someone who challenges me and surprises me and makes me want to be better than I am, the idea of settling for pleasant compatibility feels like giving up before I’ve even tried to fight for something real.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell my mother just as the valet brings her car around and she steps away.

“I’ll be riding home with Isabella,” she says before stepping into the passenger seat.

After they pull away, the valet brings my father’s Mercedes around next, and I slide into the passenger seat while he tips the attendant. We pull away from the club in silence, the afternoon sun casting shadows across the manicured grounds.

“Isabella seems lovely,” my father says after a time.

“She is.”

“Your mother has high hopes for that connection.”

I watch the Pacific glimmer between the perfectly maintained estates. “Mother has high hopes for a lot of things that aren’t going to happen.”

“You aren’t even going to give it a chance?” he asks. “With Isabella?”

I shrug. “I’d rather let things happen organically.”

I turn to look out the window at the ocean, avoiding my father’s gaze. But even as I say the words, I know exactly what it is I’d rather let happen.

And it’s not with Isabella or whoever my parents want me to end up with.