The Chase Ch. 03

Shortly after our wedding, I realized that Cameron's proposal was just a formality. There was no way he would have allowed our wedding not to happen.

That was the weekend he flew me to his place in Vermont. I texted Bertie as we landed. Her response was immediate: TEXT ME THE ADDRESS WHEN YOU GET THERE. I WANNA SEE IT ON GOOGLE MAPS!

I texted back: YOU'RE NOSY.

Bertie's reply made me chuckle: WHATEVER. I BET IT'S ONE OF THE HOUSES YOU SEE IN BETTER HOMES AND GARDENS OR SOME SHIT.

Cameron looked inquisitively up from his phone. "It's Bertie," I said. "She wants to know if your place has been in Better Homes and Gardens."

"My place here?" He looked thoughtful for a moment. "It was in Town and Country a couple years ago."

I stared at him. "That's insane."

"If you like the house," he said, reaching for my hand, "I can probably get Vanity Fair to do a feature on it."

"And if I don't like it?"

"I'll tear it down."

I laughed until I saw Cameron wasn't joking. I looked down at our hands. "I guess I'd better like it then," I said, half-smiling.

"I want you to like all our homes." His lips brushed back and forth across my knuckles. I stared at him. Our homes? Our relationship had moved quickly—no one could deny it—and now he was moving us at warp speed. "How would you feel about designing one with me?"

"Designing...a-a home?"

"Yeah," he said, still clutching my hand, "I've been thinking about unloading one of my L.A. properties. We could start from scratch." He kissed the inside of my wrist; the feel of his stubble there was surprisingly exciting. "Baby, don't forget your purse."

"What? Oh, right," I said dazedly. Cameron was already preparing to deplane. We passed the new few minutes in silence; he helped me down the airstair and held my hand as we walked to the waiting car. Our plane had arrived at a tiny airport.

As we drove, the homes grew larger and more distant from the road. I made a game of asking Cameron whether each one was his. "It's that one!" I said, pointing to a beautiful brick house.

"Nope."

I waited until I could see another house peeking through the lush trees. "It's that one!"

"Nope."

"This whole drive is basically HGTV porn, by the way."

He chuckled. "I don't know what that means, but it sounds like a good thing." He put his arm around me. "We're here." He nodded out the window. We had reached the circular driveway of a vast, Tudor-style house. It was all dramatic cedar and stone. A two-story library was visible through tall casement windows.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

"Holy shit, it's good?"

"Holy shit, it's holy-shit-fuck-me good!"

"Don't mind if I do."

I smacked his chest with the back of my hand. "Hush! It's beautiful. I love it."

He led me into the house. I smelled something baking—something sweet and delicious. Cameron turned to me. "I had Maria make some cupcakes."

I got only a glimpse of the remodeled gourmet kitchen as we headed upstairs, but I could see that "some cupcakes" meant a whole shit-ton of cupcakes. And there were huge flower arrangements everywhere. It was clear Cameron's staff had been busy.

"Mr. Wainwright!" A pretty, middle-aged woman stopped us on the stairs. "If you two have a moment to go over the menu, I'll—"

"Of course," he said, impatience lacing his voice. "Just give us a moment."

"Whenever you're ready." She flashed a smile at me. I wondered how many cooks were in Cameron's employ.

I wanted to step into every room we passed, but Cameron led me to the master bedroom. "I want to show you something," he said, smiling. I held my breath as he led me to a window and unlatched it. Northern hardwood forests stretched and sloped as far as the eye could see. I breathed deeply through my nose.

"What do you think?" he said, coming to stand behind me.

"I'm seeing whether it smells like the candles that are supposed to smell like a forest."

"And does it?" His hands slid around my waist.

"It's better than the candles."

"Kiss me," he said, turning me to face him. His lips were soft at first, but the instant I opened my lips, his tongue slid between them, and I moaned. He pressed me against him, one hand at my lower back and the other behind my head.

I broke the kiss off with a shaky smile. "That is also better than the candles."

He smiled back and then took my hands in his. "I need you to be serious for a moment."

"I am serious," I said, batting my eyelashes up at him. "I'm seriously enjoying your mouth right now." I reached up and tried to pull him toward me.

"Baby, I need to say this, and I won't be able to get it out if you keep doing that."

"Doing what?" I purred, wondering how long I could stall. I wasn't sure why I was stalling, really, but the air felt eerily still, and I dreaded Cameron's next words the way I dreaded an especially loud peal of thunder.

He smiled a little tightly as he looked at me and reached into his jacket pocket.

The next several seconds passed slowly. I was conscious only that my heart was beating loudly and that something momentous was happening. It wasn't unlike the sensation you have when you're falling: time slows, and your brain waits to see how bad the fall will be as your body goes on autopilot.

Cameron knelt before me, an open ring box in his hand. "Be my wife, Tessa."

I blinked at him. I had glanced briefly at the ring. Later I would have the presence of mind to notice the words "Harry Winston" inside the blue ring box. Later I would hold the platinum band between my fingers and wonder how many college educations it would pay for. As he knelt before me, though, I could only stare at him with my mouth agape. Too soon, my brain chanted. Too soon.

"It's not too soon," he said. Oh God, had I said the words aloud? He removed the ring from its cushion. "Marry me," he repeated.

I barely knew him. I knew I loved kissing him, and I knew he spoiled me ridiculously, and I knew I would miss all the wild extravagance when we parted ways, but I barely knew him. This was all wrong.

"I love you, Tessa," he said, still holding the ring out to me. "Please. It's not too soon. Don't make me wait any longer."

"Holy shit, Cameron. I need time to—"

"Do you love me?"

"Has it even been two months?" I looked at the ring as if it had the answer.

"Just tell me you love me."

"No, you tell me something. Why can't we go at a normal pace?"

"Baby," he said with a sigh, "I don't give a fuck about 'normal.' Do you love me?" He rose to his feet.

I did love him, but I hadn't decided whether it was just that first rush of love you feel when you haven't fully discovered each other. I knew he was passionate and generous and sexy as hell, but I couldn't have told you where his parents lived. I couldn't have told you what his childhood phobias were. I couldn't have told you where he went to high school. He had told me so little.

But I did love him. "Yes," I whispered.

His smile was brilliant. "Then marry me." He kissed me gently. "Say you will."

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding. I could change my mind later, couldn't I? Engagements sometimes fell apart. I could make him happy in this moment and then give the ring back if I had to. "I'll marry you," I said, watching his face.

"Tessa," he said, immediately sliding the ring on my finger, "you don't know what this means to me."

Well, that was damn true. I didn't know what it meant to him. I didn't know why he'd proposed so quickly. I didn't know why he had fallen for me so fast and so deeply.

"Will you help me figure out the menu?" he asked, leading me back out to the hallway.

"The menu? What?" I was distracted by the princess cut diamond on my finger.

"We've got to figure out the menu, baby."

"The dinner menu?" I turned to peer into a guest room as we walked down the hallway.

"The menu for the reception."

I stopped in my tracks.

Bile rose in my throat as each new realization hit me. The sculptural vases downstairs were full of wedding flowers. The woman who had stopped us on the stairs was a caterer. This ceremony was going to happen immediately if not sooner.

I shook the caterer's hand and smiled woodenly as she cooed at my ring. I nodded my head at appropriate moments as she and Cameron discussed the reception menu, but I had no idea what I was agreeing to. As soon as I could, I excused myself and snatched my phone from my purse. Bertie had to know what was going on.

Bertie: YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME. AM I INVITED?

Me: THAT'S YOUR FIRST QUESTION? HOW ABOUT WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

Bertie: ARE YOU OKAY? WHEN IS THIS HAPPENING?

Me: I DON'T KNOW. TOMORROW?

Bertie: JESUS. I'D CONGRATULATE YOU, BUT I'M FREAKED OUT.

Me: I'D BETTER GET BACK.

Bertie: ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE OKAY? WHAT ABOUT A PRE-NUP?

I smiled. Leave it to Bertie to think about the pre-nup.

Me: DON'T ASK ME! I'M JUST THE BRIDE.

I headed back to the kitchen and continued nodding at appropriate moments. Yes, Chilean sea bass was fine. No, I'd never had lemon risotto with lobster, but it sounded fine. Yes, it was all fine.

"Cameron," I said abruptly, startling both him and the caterer, "we have not discussed the prenup."

The caterer turned discreetly away and busied herself with taking notes on her tablet. Cameron gripped my elbow and led me out of the kitchen.

"No prenup," he said quietly as we walked.

"You don't want one?"

Even in the soft light of the dining room, I saw a blood vessel in his temple pulse. "No need for one." His phone buzzed. "The hairstylist has sent me her vision board or whatever the hell she calls it. I'll forward it to you."

"Cameron, think about this for a minute. I know I'm not the one who's supposed to be pushing for a prenup, but I think—"

He grabbed me by the waist and turned me so that my back was against him. He clapped his hand over my mouth and took a deep breath. "No goddamned prenup. Is that clear?"

I nodded and felt him relax a little.

"If you end it," he continued, "I'll give you whatever the fuck you want anyway. Is that understood?"

I nodded again. My eyes kept flickering to the kitchen door. I was afraid the caterer would catch sight of us and wonder what kind of weird roleplaying game we were playing. Cameron buried his nose in my hair and inhaled deeply. "I'm going to let you go now," he said more quietly, "even though holding you like this is getting me hard."

As soon as he'd released me, I turned to face him. "We do not have a marriage license."

He squinted and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We will very shortly. You can scream at me all the way to the town clerk's office. There's no waiting period in Vermont. Come on."

I shook my head as tears burned behind my eyes. "Will your family be here? I haven't even met them." I choked back a sob. "Will my mom be here?" I closed my eyes and felt the tears trail hotly down my cheeks.

"Come here," he said quietly, wrapping his arms around me again. "She's on her way here as we speak," he said, pressing his cheek against my forehead as I wept. "Tessa, I love you. I have to have you." He kissed my hair. "Whatever you want, I'll give it to you. Marry me. Please, baby."

I had just opened my eyes when the doorbell rang. "Please tell me that's my mother," I said tightly.

He sighed and shook his head. "It's your wedding dresses. I had them bring about a dozen for you to choose from." He wiped away some of my tears with his thumbs. "Your mom will be here in an hour or so."

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I needed to see my mom, if only to find out how long she'd known about this barely consensual elopement. I must have looked stricken because Cameron kissed my forehead and stroked my hair as he spoke.

"I want your name to be Wainwright," he whispered. "I need you to be bound to me legally—every way." He squeezed me more tightly. "I want to put my baby inside you."

I stiffened; he must have felt it.

"Please, Tessa"—his breath tickled my ear—"you're mine already. I'll never let you go."

I closed my eyes. My wedding dress options were apparently being carried upstairs, and there I was—crying on the shoulder of my fiancé of five minutes. He was maddeningly handsome. His love for me was enough to make the average couple sick; he drowned me in it the way he drowned me in gifts. My two months with him had been a blur of lavish dinners, VIP rooms, champagne with four-digit price tags, and weekends at fully staffed vacation homes. There had been shopping sprees that had taught me not to point excitedly at things unless I wanted to find out later that they had been delivered to my apartment.

There had been days of fucking that left us both sore. There had been makeout sessions in the backseats of his cars and charity balls that somehow turned into hunts for quiet places to have sex. I remembered the time a cater waiter discovered us fucking against the wall of a broom closet. We had laughed about it afterwards.

I had imagined marrying him, of course, but hadn't I done that with my ex-boyfriends, too? I'd never been good at dating without considering a long-term future. Cameron had obviously been thinking about the long term far more seriously than I had. But wild love like this never lasted, did it?

He kissed my lips gently. "Baby, do you want to look at the dresses? The stylist is in your dressing room."

"I have a dressing room?"

He smiled at my curiosity. "You want to go see it? We need to get the license, but first I want to make sure you're happy with the dresses."

I dabbed a few more tears away and mustered a smile. His hand warmed the small of my back as we walked upstairs. "If you want a bigger wedding later, we'll do it," he said. "You can have as many weddings as you want as long as you're marrying me."

****

As Thatcher stops in front of our townhouse, I see Mrs. Lindblom, our housekeeper, peering at us through the drawing room curtains.

Mildly panicked, I turn to Cameron. "What did you tell Mrs. Lindblom when I left? What did you tell everyone else?"

I had fled the house late one night while Cameron was on an international conference call. I had convinced myself that no one witnessed my escape, but Mrs. Lindblom is watching us so intently that I wonder how much of the story she knows.

"I told them your mother was ill," he says flatly. "They're paid well for their discretion." And with that, he gets out and walks around to open my door.

As we walk up the stone steps, I silently pray that I can make it to the master bathroom without seeing a soul. I look like...well, a woman who has been seized by her husband and fucked in a car and again in a plane.

"We're having a dinner in your honor this weekend," he says as we step across the threshold. Before I can ask him what the hell he's talking about, Mrs. Lindblom greets me with a long hug, the sort that ends with lots of back-patting.

"How is she, my dear?" she asks, her hands on my shoulders.

I glance at Cameron; his mouth is in a tight line. "She's much better. Thank you, Mrs. Lindblom." I hope that's enough to satisfy her. I have no idea whether Cameron told her my mother was in traction or in drug rehab or what. I wonder whether my mother knows how "ill" she's been.

"Honey, would you like me to run you a hot bath?" she asks.

I feel myself relax at the thought of a long bath. Mrs. Lindblom would probably pour in some scented salts and set out my favorite lotions. But before I can speak, Cameron's hand touches the small of my back.

"I think Mrs. Wainwright and I will just retire, Mrs. Lindblom. Thank you."

"Certainly." She turns to me with a smile. "We're glad to have you back, honey. And I know Mr. Wainwright is relieved." She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Just between you and me, he was terribly adrift without you."

Cameron smiles apologetically at her before turning to me. "The night you...were called away, I was hard to live with," he says.

"Don't give it another thought," she replies, dismissing his concern with a wave of her hand.

"Well, Mrs. Lindblom, I vote that we all retire for the evening." He guides me toward the wrought iron stair railing. "Maybe we can get at least a little sleep before the day starts. Thank you for waiting up."

I smile dazedly at her and climb the marble stairs. Cameron tucks my hand around his arm. "Must we have a dinner party?" I ask.

He stares straight ahead. "Yes. I'd like to assure our friends that everything is fine."

"It sounds like they're not really our friends if we have to put on a big show for them," I say quietly. "And I wouldn't say everything is fine, would you?"

"Please stop talking. We'll discuss this in our room."

I sigh and try to let go of Cameron's arm, but he reaches over to grip my hand tightly. There will be no discussion when we reach our room. He has already decided the matter.

As we reach our bedroom, I notice the dark circles under his eyes. "We both need sleep."

"I know."

"Will you let me sleep, Cameron?"

He brings my hand up to his face; his stubble tickles and scratches at the same time. "I'll try, baby. I really will." He gives me a chaste kiss. "Just let me hold you so I know you're there."

I nod and step into my dressing room. Nothing has changed. The shoes have been fastidiously dusted in my absence; the perfume bottles on the mirrored tray are exactly as I left them. As my eyes wander over the shelves of handbags, I remember the long afternoons spent shopping with Cameron's black Amex card. I'm sure the personal shoppers have missed me. The truth is that I've missed them, too. They kept me company as I struggled to find friends among Cameron's acquaintances.

I jump as Cameron's hands slide up my back to rest on my shoulders. "I have something for you," he says.

"Oh?"

He smiles and turns to open one of my accessory drawers. He pulls out a flat leather box.

"How long has that been in there?" I ask, my mouth agape.

He shushes me and pries open the box. I see the gold letters of Chopard on the lining almost before I see the necklace. It looks like a wreath of diamonds; there are settings shaped like flowers and others shaped like petals and delicate tendrils. I stare at it, entranced by the dazzle and the sheer outrageousness.

His voice breaks the silence, and I shake off my daze. "What?" I say, blinking up at him.

"I asked you whether you like it."

"I—it's too much, Cameron." My eyes are drawn helplessly back to the shimmering stones. "They're too wonderful. They're—they're like a fountain." I shake my head incredulously.

He beams and takes the necklace out of the box. "Here, try it on." He flings the box onto a dresser and unclasps the necklace.

"I'm so filthy, Cameron!" I shake my head. "I hate to put on something so beautiful when I need a shower so badly."

His voice, already hoarse with fatigue and travel, goes a bit smokier. "Baby, you can wear it in the shower for me."

I know where this is going. "No."

He sighs and smiles conciliatorily. "Okay, okay." He places the necklace back in the box. "But I'll fuck you awake."

I know he's not joking. "Let me shower and I'll come to bed as soon as I can." I dart into the master bathroom. The heated floors soothe my sore feet. As I step behind the glass walls of the shower, I catch sight of Cameron's reflection in the mirror. "Go away!" I chide before ducking beneath the jets of hot water. I moan softly as the water massages my weary muscles.

When I feel Cameron's hands encircle my waist—when I feel his erection press against my back—I'm not surprised.

****

After Cameron finally leaves for work, I walk a few blocks to my favorite little coffee shop. I know I have to talk with Mrs. Lindblom about a dinner party I have no interest in hosting, but for now, I want to spend an hour just listening to chatter and the whir and hiss of espresso machines.