Page 20 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

My hands shake as I unlock the door, and I’m grateful Cameron is still finding parking because it gives me a moment to breathe before he sees how rattled I am.

This isn’t like that night at the hotel, where everything happened in neutral territory, in a space that belonged to neither of us. Bringing him here, to my home, feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.

The townhouse smells like the jasmine candles I lit last night as I decompressed after a long day, before I knew I’d run into him tonight.

The living room windows frame the Pacific, dark now except for the scattered lights of boats in the distance.

I bought this view with my first major contract—proof that I’d made something of myself after being told I didn’t belong in their world.

Everything here tells the story I wanted to tell—the cream leather sofa I saved for months to afford, the Filipino art pieces that honor where I came from, the orchids I replace every week because I like having something alive and beautiful in my space.

It’s the home of someone who built her own success, who doesn’t need anyone else’s validation.

But it’s also lonely.

Carefully arranged, perfectly controlled, designed for a woman who doesn’t let anyone close enough to mess up the pristine surfaces or leave their coffee mug on the marble countertop.

This place is beautiful, but it’s also safe. A fortress I built to prove I didn’t need anyone.

Until tonight.

Tonight, I’m about to let someone past all those carefully constructed walls.

The doorbell rings, and I take one last look around my perfect, controlled space before I open the door and let chaos back into my life.

Cameron is standing on my doorstep with his hands in his pockets, looking as nervous as I feel. He’s loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, small concessions to casualness that somehow make him more attractive rather than less polished.

“Hi,” he says in a low voice that makes my pulse skip.

“Hi yourself.” I step back to let him enter, hyperaware of how his presence immediately changes the energy of my space. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Coffee?”

“Wine sounds good,” he says, taking in the details of my space, his gaze lingering on the carefully chosen art pieces, the orchids on the side table, the ocean view. “This is beautiful, Lianne. The view is spectacular.”

“I fell in love with it the moment I saw it,” I admit, pulling a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from my wine refrigerator. “It was completely impractical—more expensive than anything I should have been considering. But I wanted to wake up every morning looking at the ocean.”

“Smart investment. There’s something about the water that puts everything else in perspective.”

I pour wine into glasses, grateful for the familiar ritual of being a hostess. It gives my hands something to do while my mind processes that Cameron Phillip Arthur Judd is standing in my living room, about to drink wine on my sofa, looking at me like I’m the most important thing in his world.

“To successful negotiations,” I say, offering him a glass and immediately regretting the reference to business when that’s not what we’re here for.

“To second chances,” Cameron counters, touching his glass to mine with a soft clink.

We settle on my sofa, close enough that I can smell his cologne but far enough apart that we’re not quite touching. The wine helps settle my nerves, but it doesn’t do anything about the electricity crackling between us or the way Cameron’s eyes keep finding mine across the rim of his glass.

“I have a confession,” he says after we’ve made small talk about the neighborhood and the restaurants within walking distance.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been thinking about this moment since Tuesday night.” He pauses, his voice dropping lower. “What we’ve been missing.”

“Cam...”

“I can’t stop thinking about that night in Santa Barbara. The way it felt to hold you again, to make love to you.” His eyes search mine. “Tell me you’ve been thinking about it too.”

I set down my wine glass, my hands trembling slightly. “Every night,” I admit quietly. “I’ve been thinking about it every night.”

Cameron sets down his wine glass and turns to face me fully. “I don’t want to spend another four years wondering ‘what if.’ Not when I know how right it feels to be with you again.”

The honesty in his voice, the way he’s looking at me like he’s seeing straight through every professional facade I’ve maintained, makes something flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with want.

“Cam…”

“I know this is complicated,” he continues, reaching out to touch my face with the gentle reverence I remember from when we were together. “I know we have history and professional obligations and probably a dozen reasons why we should keep things simple.”

As his thumb brushes across my cheekbone, I lean into the touch despite every logical reason to maintain some distance.

“But I don’t want simple,” he murmurs. “I want you. All of you. The brilliant event planner who creates magic for other people, the woman who volunteers at community centers because she believes in giving back, the person who remembers every detail about wine pairings and flowers and what makes celebrations meaningful.”

Each word hits me like a caress. It’s as if he’s seeing me—really seeing me—in ways that go beyond the professional competence I’ve used as armor for four years.

“I want you too,” I whisper, the admission slipping out before I can second-guess it.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his hand still cupping my face. “Because this time, I’m not running away in the morning. This time, I want to see where this leads us.”

Instead of answering with words, I kiss him. It starts soft, familiar, like coming home after a long journey. But when Cameron responds immediately, his free hand coming up to tangle in my hair, the kiss deepens into something that speaks of second chances and the courage to risk everything again.

This is different from our desperate night in Santa Barbara or our interrupted moment in my office. This is happening in my home, in my space, with the conscious choice to let him back into my life completely—not just for one night, but for whatever comes next.

“Lianne...” he murmurs against my mouth, and my name sounds like a promise, like everything he’s been trying to tell me since we found our way back to each other.

I respond by shifting closer, eliminating the careful distance we’ve maintained on my sofa.

Cameron’s hands frame my face as he kisses me with an intensity that makes me remember exactly why I fell for him in the first place—not just because he’s beautiful, but because when he focuses on something, he gives it his complete attention.

Right now, that attention is focused entirely on me.

His hands move to my waist, pulling me closer until I’m on his lap, my body fitting against his like it’s been designed for this exact moment. Every nerve ending is alive, aware of nothing else but his touch, his scent, the way his breathing changes as I press closer.

“I’ve tried so hard to convince myself I didn’t miss this, miss you,” I whisper against his lips, my hands exploring the muscles of his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.

“How did that work out for you?” Cameron’s voice is rough as his mouth moves to my neck, finding a sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me gasp and arch against him.

“Terribly,” I gasp, the feel of his tongue against my skin making me forget every logical reason why this might be a mistake.

His hands are everywhere now—tangling in my hair, skimming down my sides, pulling me impossibly closer as I lose myself in the sensation of being wanted this desperately by someone who matters this much.

He kisses me again, deeper this time, with the kind of focused intensity that makes everything else disappear except the feeling of his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, the solid warmth of his body as I press closer.

I can feel his arousal through the fabric of his trousers, evidence of his desire sending heat spiraling through me.

When I shift against him, the movement draws a low groan from his throat that sends my pulse racing even faster.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathes against my neck, his hands still tangled in my hair. “I’ve missed you.”

“I know,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Me too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Then don’t,” I say, surprised by my own boldness. “Don’t stop.”

“Trust me, Lianne,” he murmurs, his voice rough with want. “I have no intention of stopping.”

The heat in his voice, the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world, makes every nerve ending in my body suddenly alert. When he shifts me back onto the couch and stands up, extending his hand to me, I don’t hesitate.

I take it and let him pull me to my feet, the movement bringing us chest to chest, so close that I can feel his heart beating as fast as mine.

“Come here,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on mine again, more urgent this time, more demanding as I melt into him, my hands finding the buttons of his shirt because suddenly, anything standing between us is a barrier to everything I want.

From here, it’s a slow dance toward the stairs that lead to my bedroom, Cameron’s hands everywhere—tangling in my hair, tracing the line of my spine, finding the zipper at the back of my dress with a familiar skill that reminds me he knows my body. Still knows my body.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my neck. “Do you know how many nights I’ve thought about this? About having you in my arms again?”

“Tell me,” I breathe, because I need to hear it, need to know that the longing hasn’t been one-sided.