Page 9 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)
The stairs of my Gulfstream fold down onto the tarmac at Van Nuys Airport, and I force myself to move despite every muscle in my body protesting the transition from pressurized cabin to California afternoon heat.
Forty-eight hours touring solar manufacturing facilities across Germany and Denmark, followed by an eight-hour flight that did nothing to cure the exhaustion settling into my bones.
But the renewable energy expansion for Sterling Industries had been worth the trip.
The German facility’s efficiency ratings exceeded projections, and the Danish wind-solar hybrid technology could revolutionize how we approach sustainable infrastructure development.
Numbers that would have impressed me more if I hadn’t spent half the flight thinking about Lianne instead of profit margins.
My driver waits beside the black Mercedes, engine running, ready for the ninety-minute drive back to Los Angeles through traffic that’s guaranteed to be hell at this hour.
“Straight home, Mr. Judd?” Harry asks as he opens the rear door.
“Actually, change of plans.” I check my watch—three-thirty PM, which means Lianne should be wrapping up her afternoon meetings. “Luminous Events. Downtown.”
Harry nods without question, though I catch his glance in the rearview mirror as I settle into the leather seats.
He’s worked for me long enough to know when I’m making impulsive decisions, and showing up unannounced at an event planning company after an international business trip definitely qualifies.
I should have rescheduled this meeting. Should have told Lianne that reviewing floral arrangements—even though I told her I didn’t want to micromanage—can wait until I’ve slept for more than the four hours I managed between Frankfurt and LAX.
But after a week of back-to-back negotiations and facility tours, the thought of seeing her again was the only thing that kept me functional during the endless flight home.
Too bad jet lag is a particular kind of hell when you’re trying to look professional and alert because right now, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
I also look like hell, my shirt wrinkled despite my best efforts, and my hair doing that thing it does when I’ve spent too many hours in recycled airplane air. Because private jet or not, it’s still the same air.
As we pull into the parking lot of Luminous Events, I do a quick check of my current state.
With my shirt wrinkled despite my best efforts and my hair doing that thing it does when I’ve spent too many hours in recycled airplane air—private jet or not, it’s still the same recycled air—Lianne is going to take one look at me and wonder if I’ve forgotten basic grooming.
I mean, I don’t look that bad. Just not the usual “together” Cameron Judd she’s known.
But then, the Cameron she used to know was an immature asshole who traded her love for the security of the family name.
Still, I’m here, because missing this meeting would mean waiting another week to see her, and apparently my self-control has limitations I’m only now discovering.
I take the elevator to the third floor, grateful for the few seconds of quiet before I have to pretend I’m a competent businessman instead of someone who’s struggling to remember what time zone he’s in.
“Mr. Judd, welcome back,” Amanda says as I step into the lobby. “How was Europe?”
“Productive,” I manage, though the truth is more complicated. The acquisition went through, Sterling Industries expanded into new markets, and I spent most of the week thinking about a woman who probably wishes I’d stayed in Europe permanently.
“Miss Peralta’s ready for you in the conference room. Can I get you some coffee? You look like you could use it.”
God bless Amanda for her diplomatic phrasing.
“Coffee would be perfect. Black, please.”
She nods and disappears toward what I assume is a kitchen, leaving me to find my own way to the conference room.
Through the glass walls, I can see Lianne arranging what looks like a small forest of floral samples on the table.
She’s wearing a burgundy dress that hugs her curves in ways that make my jet-lagged brain forget how to form coherent thoughts, her hair pulled back in a neat bun that emphasizes the elegant line of her neck.
Beautiful. Even exhausted and running on fumes, that’s the first thought that hits me when I see her.
She looks up as I approach, and I catch a flicker of something—concern?—before her professional mask slides into place.
“Mr. Judd, you look tired,” she says. “How was your trip?”
“Long. But successful.” I settle into a chair across from her, grateful to sit down before my knees decide they’ve had enough of supporting my weight. “Thank you for accommodating my schedule. I know the timing isn’t ideal.”
“Of course. Time-sensitive decisions can’t wait for convenient scheduling. You did receive the contract, yes?”
I nod. “I did. Thank you.”
“Good.” She gestures to the floral arrangements spread across the conference table.
“Now, about the floral arrangements you wanted to be involved in, I’ve put together several options for the centerpieces and accent pieces.
Each represents a different aesthetic approach while staying within the budget parameters we discussed. ”
I try to focus on what she’s showing me, but the combinations of colors and textures blur together in ways that have more to do with my current mental state than the quality of her work.
There are roses and lilies, something that might be orchids, and arrangements that range from classic elegance to contemporary minimalism.
They’re all beautiful. They’re also all completely interchangeable in my current condition.
“These are excellent,” I say, which is true even if I can’t quite process the individual merits of each option. “You’ve covered the full range of possibilities.”
Lianne studies my face with the kind of attention that suggests she’s noticed my lack of specific feedback.
“The roses represent traditional corporate elegance,” she explains, moving to stand beside an arrangement of white and cream blooms. “Classic, sophisticated, appropriate for Sterling Industries’ established reputation.”
I nod, trying to look like I’m processing this information instead of thinking about how her perfume smells like jasmine and something uniquely her.
“The orchids are more contemporary,” she continues, indicating an arrangement of white and green flowers. “Modern, innovative, forward-thinking. They’d complement the ‘legacy and innovation’ theme we discussed.”
More nodding. I’m becoming an expert at looking engaged while my brain runs on autopilot.
“And the mixed arrangements offer versatility.” She moves to a display that combines several types of flowers in what looks like carefully orchestrated chaos. “Different textures and colors, visual interest without overwhelming the space.”
She’s good at this. Even in my current state, I can appreciate the thought and strategy behind each option. Lianne doesn’t just arrange flowers—she creates experiences, tells stories through design choices that most people wouldn’t even notice but would definitely feel.
“What about peonies?” I ask, the question coming out before I can think better of it.
Lianne freezes, her hand hovering over the mixed arrangement she was adjusting. “What about them?” she asks, her voice carefully neutral.
“They’re elegant. Sophisticated. They’d work well with the overall aesthetic.” I’m improvising now, trying to justify a suggestion that came from somewhere deeper than business strategy. “Soft colors, interesting texture.”
“Peonies,” she repeats, her voice carefully neutral, and I can see the exact moment she realizes why I’ve suggested them.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers unconsciously touching one of the rose arrangements on the table.
“They’re beautiful flowers. Expensive this time of year,” she says finally, her professional mask firmly in place but something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want for the centerpieces?”
She’s not talking about logistics or sourcing—we both know her vendors can get any flowers we need. She’s asking if I’m sure I want to bring her favorite flowers into an event that’s supposed to be strictly professional.
“But they’re beautiful,” I say, meeting her eyes across the conference table. “Some things are worth the extra cost.”
As the words hang between us, it’s as if we both know I’m not really talking about flowers anymore.
After all, peonies were her favorite flowers, a detail I’ve remembered for four years despite my best efforts to forget everything about our time together.
I used to have them shipped from Oregon for her birthday, for our monthly anniversaries (all seven of them), for random Tuesday afternoons when I wanted to see her smile.
Pale-pink peonies that she’d arrange in the simple glass vase she kept on her kitchen counter, flowers that cost more than her weekly grocery budget but made her happy in ways that justified every penny.
“Cameron,” she begins, then stops, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I think we should focus on practical options that serve Sterling Industries’ needs.”
I take a sip of the coffee, grateful for the caffeine even though it’s grown lukewarm during Lianne’s presentation. The silence stretches until I can’t stand it anymore.
“You’re absolutely right,” I say finally. “The roses then, the traditional arrangement. That’s the right choice for Sterling Industries.”
It’s the safe choice, the practical choice, the option that doesn’t carry emotional baggage or memories of Oregon peonies and kitchen counter vases.
Lianne nods, making notes in her portfolio with movements that are a little too brisk, a little too controlled.