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As dinner is over, most members have removed their masks, Cam and I no exception. Not that he needed the simple black mask to look dangerously handsome—he was that the day I met him. I just didn’t anticipate the end would be quite so hard.
On the dance floor, I look up at Cam, determined to enjoy tonight as it’s likely to be our last date. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since our arrival, although he was attentive and charming at dinner, and as soon at the music began he asked me to dance, dragging me away from some long-time business associate and saving me from talking shop. And he’s kept me here, for song after song. It’s as if he doesn’t want to let me go, as if he too wants to live in denial for as long as possible.
Like me, apparently, because I ask, ‘How is work on the cottage coming along?’ I steer the conversation away from the inevitable train wreck I can sense approaching from the haunted look in Cam’s eyes.
He takes the bait with a small indulgent smile. ‘Good. I ripped out the old kitchen today and knocked down a wall.’ His arms grip me a little tighter and I feel cherished, as I always do in his arms. ‘I’d like to show it to you sometime, if you’re free.’ His hand presses between my shoulder blades and I rest my head on his chest, sniffing him, inhaling deeply and hiding from his searching stare.
‘I’d love to see it.’ It’s not a lie. He’s so passionate about his beloved cottage, so committed to undertaking all the renovations with his own two hands...
‘Tomorrow?’ I feel the enthusiastic thudding of his heart under my cheek and my stomach tightens with a reminder that I’m going to have to end this sooner rather than later, before Cam develops crazy ideas of attachment or worse...
I look up, real regret pinching my eyebrows in a frown. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t tomorrow. I’m required at t
hat family barbecue I told you about. I’m dreading it, to be honest.’
‘Still?’ he asks.
I sigh. I thought I wouldn’t have to think about this until tomorrow, but it’s a perfect distraction from wondering how and when to end the incredible journey with this man. ‘Well, things between my father and me are strained at the best of times. I’ll have to tolerate his snide remarks that I stole Jensen’s’ business out from under his nose, for the sake of family harmony and for my mum.’
He glances down before he says, ‘Why go at all if that’s how he’s going to behave?’
‘What do you mean?’
His jaw clenches in the way I’ve learned means business. ‘I mean, if your father is going to make things awkward because he’s a sore loser, why put yourself through that?’
‘Cam...’ I say, a hint of warning in my voice. I know he means well, but someone telling me what to do is almost as bad as someone telling me what I can’t do, and guaranteed to make me dig in my heels.
‘What? I’m serious. You owe him nothing. You said yourself he was distant while you were growing up, and then he overlooked you for CEO. He’s had enough chances. If you’re good enough to steal a client from him, perhaps he should have valued you more when he had you on his team—it’s too late for sour grapes.’ His face grows sombre and I wonder if he’s making comparisons, thinking about his own father. And he’s right. My father has always made me feel as if I’m not good enough, probably the reason relationships and I don’t work, but I told Cam those things in moments of shared intimacy, not to have them thrown back in my face.
The storm that’s been brewing all day strikes, my hackles rising. ‘Perhaps he has had enough chances, but just because you’re carrying resentment about your father doesn’t mean I have to do the same.’
He frowns, his eyes sharp with anger. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you should. This isn’t a competition, Orla. We’re not talking about me. I’m simply suggesting he doesn’t deserve you if he’s going to disrespect you.’ He grapples his frustration under control and I hold him closer, each of us stepping back from the edge.
I ignore the warning bells sounding inside my head. I want to rewind. I want to go back to the start, diving from that yacht in Monaco, seeing the delight and awe on Cam’s face. But there’s no going back. I’ve had my six-week proposition, and although our differences didn’t seem to matter at the start they’re still there, bigger and uglier than before.
Cam drops his mouth to the top of my head, presses an apologetic kiss there and says, ‘Just let me know when you have time to visit the cottage.’
A wise woman would offer a non-committal smile. I shrivel, thinking about my week ahead and the week after that... I can’t commit, even to a brief visit to the cottage I so long to see in person because it’s important to him.
This is what I’ve told him from the start.
My throat burns, but I swallow, resolved to be honest, not to drag out the inevitable pain of us ending. ‘I will, but it won’t be for a while—I’m flying to London the day after tomorrow.’
Cam says nothing. His feet stop shuffling around the dance floor. The air around us hisses with awkward tension.
He leans back so I’m forced to lift my head from his chest and look up. ‘But you’ve only just returned to Sydney.’ He presses his lips together, disappointed. ‘Do you absolutely have to go again? Don’t you have people all over the world, people who can do everything for you?’
I feel weighed down by sadness. I wanted to do this in a thoughtful way, perhaps over coffee. But Cam’s invested. Hell, I’m invested, and the time for thoughtful is long gone. ‘I do have people, but this is my life, my job—you know that. Nothing’s changed.’
Liar. Everything’s changed...except me.
His expression hardens, his jaw tense.
I feel trapped, his arms, which only seconds ago were comforting, now feel like chains. ‘Why am I defending myself, Cam? It’s not a feeling I like.’
He rubs one palm down his face, hurt and defeat lurking in his expression, and my stomach lurches with nausea. ‘I’m not trying to make you defensive. I just... Look, you don’t need to explain your actions or defend them, never with me.’ His hands find my waist and he tugs me close again, as if trying to re-create the intimacy of earlier. ‘I’ll just miss you, that’s all.’ His voice is low, heartfelt, torture to my ears, because I believe him. I want to be able to return the sentiment but it’s as if my tongue is stuck in my throat.
He presses a kiss to my forehead and whispers, ‘I’ll wait. Come and visit the cottage any time you can.’
