Page 23 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)
“The Martinez reception needs to accommodate the bride’s gluten-free requirements, but the groom’s family specifically requested the traditional cake service,” Amanda says. “Should we do a separate dessert station or?—”
“Separate station,” I say absently, my attention split between the weekly team meeting and the iPad balanced on my lap.
Our conference room buzzes with the familiar energy of final preparations—Terry spreading fabric swatches across the polished table, Sandra consulting vendor timelines on her laptop, Amanda’s careful notes filling her leather portfolio.
While my team discusses floral arrangements and dietary restrictions for Saturday’s Martinez wedding, I’m scrolling through three weeks of calendar entries that started the morning after he spent the night at my townhouse.
Each entry reads like evidence of how completely my professional boundaries have collapsed.
That morning floods back in vivid detail—Cameron appearing at my office door with two cups from the café down the street, knowing without asking that I’d be stressed about the vendor presentations.
The way he’d moved through my space with easy familiarity, setting the coffee on my desk before sliding his hands along my shoulders.
His fingers had found the knots of tension between my shoulder blades, working them loose while I reviewed contracts.
“You realize you don’t have to be perfect at everything,” he’d murmured against my temple, his breath warm on my skin.
“Says the man whose company expects perfection from their event planner.”
“I’m not talking about Sterling Industries.” His voice had dropped to that intimate register that still makes my pulse race. “I’m talking about us.”
Us . The word had hung in the air between us, heavy with promise. Three weeks ago, it felt like a declaration, a commitment to something real and lasting. Now, staring at the innocent planner entry, it feels naive.
“Lianne?” Amanda’s voice pulls me back to the present, her concerned expression cutting through my memory. “The ceremony timeline?”
“Ceremony starts at four, cocktail hour immediately following. No gaps in service.” I force myself to focus, but my fingers are already scrolling to another entry. “The musicians know to transition seamlessly between sets.”
“Perfect. And the backup plan for weather?”
“Covered. The tent rental includes sidewalls that can be deployed in under twenty minutes.” I flip to last weekend’s entries, my heart doing that familiar flutter it’s been doing for three weeks straight.
Saturday, March 19, 9:00 AM — Farmers’ market
The Santa Monica Farmers’ Market had become our weekend ritual—Cameron insisting on carrying my reusable bags while I selected ingredients for dinners we’d cook together in my kitchen.
He’d developed opinions about which vendors sold the best produce, learned the names of the regular sellers, started conversations about seasonal availability that showed he was paying attention to details that mattered to me.
That particular Saturday, Mrs. Chavez at the strawberry stand had beamed at us with the satisfaction of someone watching a love story unfold.
“You two are here every week now,” she’d said, handing us sample berries with a knowing smile. “Such a lovely couple.”
Cameron’s grin had been boyish, proud, like we’d won something precious simply by being seen together. “You’re getting quite the reputation,” he’d teased, loading organic tomatoes into my bag. “Mrs. Chavez thinks you’re domesticating me.”
“Are you domesticated?”
“Completely.” He’d stolen another strawberry sample and kissed me right there between the heirloom tomatoes and artisanal honey, his lips sweet with berry juice. “And I’ve never been happier about losing my independence.”
The memory makes my chest tight with something between warmth and unease.
Three weeks of falling back into each other, of building routines that felt permanent, of believing this time would be different.
But something about scrolling through these entries feels like examining evidence of a relationship that exists only in my calendar, separate from his real world.
Thursday, March 24, 6:30 PM — Dinner at Guelaguetza
I’d wanted to share my favorite Oaxacan restaurant with him, the place Maya and I had discovered during our struggling years when authentic mole negro felt like a luxury we could barely afford.
Cameron had been game, curious about the unfamiliar flavors, asking thoughtful questions about ingredients and preparation methods.
But I’d noticed how he checked his phone during dinner, how he lowered his voice when answering a call from his assistant. Not dismissive exactly, but... careful. Like he was managing two different lives and making sure they didn’t intersect inappropriately.
“Sorry about that,” he’d said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Work never really stops.”
“I understand. I’m the same way with events.”
But it hadn’t felt the same. His work seemed to involve levels of social complexity that mine didn’t—family obligations, board expectations, the kind of inherited responsibilities that come with names like Judd and connections stretching back generations.
“Terry, can you double-check the lighting cues for the ceremony?” I ask, pulling myself back to the meeting. “I want to make sure the transitions are seamless.”
“Already confirmed with the technical team,” Terry replies. “Though I should mention that we received a last-minute addition to the guest list. The bride’s cousin is bringing a plus-one.”
Plus-ones. The bane of every event planner’s existence, especially when they arrive with forty-eight hours’ notice. But we’re professionals. We adapt, accommodate, make the impossible look effortless.
“How many additional guests are we talking about?”
“Just one, but she has dietary restrictions. Severe shellfish allergy.”
“Send the updated information to catering immediately. Better to over-communicate than risk an emergency.” I make a note on my iPad, adding it to the growing list of final details that separate successful events from disasters.
Out of habit, I open Instagram to check industry accounts—something I do religiously to stay current on trends and competition. Usually it’s helpful research, giving me insight into what our target clientele values and how they celebrate milestone moments.
The first few posts are standard luxury event content—a Malibu wedding with cascading white orchids, the photographer capturing the way sunlight filters through the ceremony arch; a corporate gala at the Beverly Hills Hotel featuring ice sculptures that probably cost more than most people’s cars; a charity auction in Newport Beach with celebrity guests posing beside art pieces worth more than most people’s houses.
I mentally catalog details that might inspire future proposals—the way dramatic lighting transforms a simple venue, the strategic placement of branded signage that feels elegant rather than commercial.
A tech executive’s anniversary party catches my attention—floating candles in an infinity pool, string quartet positioned on a glass platform above the water.
The kind of impossible logistics that require months of coordination and unlimited budgets.
I screenshot the lighting design for future reference, already imagining how we might adapt the concept for a waterfront venue.
Next is a pharmaceutical heiress’ daughter’s sweet sixteen—a winter wonderland theme in July, complete with imported snow machines and crystal chandeliers suspended from temporary pavilion structures.
Over-the-top even by our standards, but the execution is flawless.
The kind of event that generates referrals for years and establishes a planner’s reputation among the ultra-wealthy.
Then I see it, and my heart stops.
The story is a carousel of photos from what looks like an elaborate children’s birthday celebration.
Professional photography captures every detail of a full carnival setup—a carousel, cotton candy machines, an actual ferris wheel installed in what appears to be a Bel Air backyard.
The kind of extravagance that makes my biggest budget look modest.
But it’s the third slide that steals my breath and makes the conference room fade around me.
Cameron, devastatingly handsome in a navy blazer and perfectly pressed khakis, standing next to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
She’s blond with the kind of effortless elegance that comes from a lifetime of personal stylists and European finishing schools.
Her smile is confident and warm, her hand resting casually on Cameron’s arm with the familiarity of someone completely comfortable in his world.
Behind them, I can see glimpses of the elaborate party setup, but all I can focus on is how natural they look together, how perfectly they fit into this world of casual extravagance.
The caption reads— Gorgeous celebration for little Alessandra Judd-Martinelli’s 3rd birthday!
Her mom Sandra threw the most amazing carnival-themed party — a full ferris wheel in the backyard!
Uncle Cameron looked so handsome with family friend Isabella Vitale.
These two are giving us serious power couple vibes!
Alessandra Judd-Martinelli. Cameron’s niece. Sophia’s daughter.
The recognition hits like ice water, followed immediately by a sickening realization.
Last weekend, Cameron had mentioned something about a “casual family thing” — I’d been rushing between vendor meetings for the Martinez wedding, distracted by timeline pressures and budget approvals.
When he’d asked if I wanted to join him, I’d barely looked up from my laptop.
“I have that Malibu vendor site visit,” I’d said, already mentally calculating drive times and appointment schedules. “Maybe after the gala, when things settle down.”