Chapter 10 #2
Cameron opens his mouth to reply, but I’m not done.
“And the best part?” I throw out an arm.
“The absolute cherry on top of this disaster sundae? You’re asking me to do this now.
You want me to add ‘fake girlfriend to the human equivalent of a thundercloud’ to my to-do list when I’m already drowning as I try desperately to make this all work.
Should I put that before or after I work enough to pay off my credit card debt so I don’t once again get rejected when I apply for a loan in eighteen months? Hmm?”
I drop my arm, my hand hitting my thigh with a thwack.
The apartment goes quiet. Cameron stares at me in startled surprise. Then it hits me that I just unloaded an entire week’s worth of frustration onto him. Shit.
As heat floods my cheeks, I bow my head, covering my face with my hands, worried I’ll burst into tears.
His question didn’t deserve my ridiculous reply.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “That was… I didn’t mean to—I have a lot going on right now.”
“What do you need the loan for?”
I peek at him from between my fingers. “What?”
“The loan you mentioned,” he repeats, his tone low. “What’s it for?”
“Breast implants.”
I don’t know why I say it. Probably because I don’t want to explain my failed dreams to a man who’s living out his.
“Liar,” he says, voice flat. “You have perfect tits.”
His comment startles a laugh from me. “Thanks, I think.”
“The loan?” he asks in that authoritative grumbly voice of his. “What’s it for?”
“A commercial pastry kitchen,” I admit, shoulders slumping, too tired to deflect. “I’ve been trying to expand for months, but I can’t get a loan for reasons I’d rather not get into. I have the business plan, I have the clients… fuck, I have everything except someone willing to bet on me.”
Cameron studies me silently, the look on his face unreadable. “What if you did?”
All I can do is blink. Huh?
“Fuck the loan,” he says. “I’ll bet on you instead and invest in your business.”
I sag against the counter and sigh. “Do you even know what my business is called, Cameron?”
He levels me with a glare that would raze buildings in a Marvel movie. “Crumb & Co.”
All I can do is sigh and hang my head.
He just offered to invest in my business like he was offering to pay for dinner. Like it’s not the most out-of-pocket thing I’ve heard all week. And I watched Carrie Ann Inaba give Post Malone’s foxtrot on Dancing with the Stars a six earlier this week, so the bar is high.
Cameron, who’s apparently chatty fucking Kathy all the sudden, doesn’t seem to care about my lack of participation.
“You can use my investment to get your kitchen, and whatever else you need to get it up and running, and in return, you’ll be my fake girlfriend and help me deal with my ex and keep my teammates off my back. ”
Ah. So there’s the catch.
My stomach twists into a knot.
Investing in me benefits him.
“Cameron, that’s… you can’t just—” I blow out a breath.
I don’t even know where to start. “This isn’t Pretty Woman.
You can’t just throw money at me. This is my dream, not a problem you can solve by opening your wallet.
I don’t need to add ‘financially dependent on the NHL’s grumpiest goalie’ to my mess of a life. ”
“I’m not throwing money at you. I’m proposing a business arrangement.
” His eyes meet mine, and I swear there’s a vulnerability to them.
“You help me deal with my ex and nosy teammates. I invest in your business. We both get what we need. And if your bakery succeeds, I make money. If it doesn’t…
” He shrugs. “Then I lose some money. I can afford it.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never run a small business,” I mutter.
He snorts. “Maybe not owned, but I’ve invested in several.”
“Really?” I ask, spine snapping straight.
“Yep.” He raises a brow, as if daring me to question him again.
“The average NHL player retires by the time they hit thirty-five. I’m thirty-two.
I’ve been strategic with my money.” Nodding toward the cookie boxes, he adds, “And I know a smart business venture when I see one. Your stuff is good, Kennedy. My teammates don’t shut the fuck up about your brownies and the whole team got into a bidding war over your baking class at the charity gala. ”
A thread of hopefulness weaves its way through me. “You’ll be impressed, too,” I tell him. “Once you try my gluten-free cookies.”
He nods as if this is a given. “I know.”
Eyes closed, I pinch the bridge of my nose and make a mental pro-con list. Am I really even considering this idea? Yes. Yes, I am. “What would I tell people when they ask how I funded it?”
“To mind their own business.”
Head tilted, I scoff.
He rolls his eyes. “But if they ask, tell them the bank approved your loan. I’ll be a silent investor. You said it yourself: I’ve never operated a small business. That’s your area of expertise.”
I shake my head, doubt creeping in and threatening that hope. “It’s just… I need to know I did this myself. That I earned it.” The words come out quieter than I intended. “I need to prove I can do this on my merit. Not because some guy wrote me a check.”
His expression softens in a way I’ve never seen.
“You would do it on your own merit. I’m not buying you a building or a bakery.
I’m investing in you. You’ll be doing all the work, building up your reputation, creating new recipes, dealing with customers.
” He angles forward. “The only difference is you’ll have the space to do it in. ”
Fuck, I hate when a man makes a good point, because on principle, I hate agreeing with men.
“You’re coming up with more reasons to say no,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I don’t think your friends will believe we’re dating,” I admit. “Before our dinner the other night, you hadn’t strung more than ten words together when speaking to me.”
“It’s not personal.” His shoulders tense, his focus dropping to the floor.
With a sigh, he meets my gaze again. “And they’ll buy it, don’t worry.
We set the wheels in motion when you bid on the charity date since my ex doesn’t know I rigged it.
I’ll tell my friends we actually had a great time on our date and started falling for one another. ”
Actually had a great time. The words hit like a slap.
The implication is right there, right? That we didn’t actually have a great time.
That it was an obligation, a chore. For him, maybe.
I should say no. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to say no, to tell him to leave so I can save the shreds of dignity I have left.
But God, a real space. Professional equipment. The ability to wow the socks off Diane Weber. An actual chance to make this work.
“I want you to go through my business plan,” I say, nervous energy pulsing through me. “And if you like it, I’d want a real contract with percentages and timelines and exit clauses. I’m not doing this on a handshake.”
A look that might be respect flickers across his face. “Fair enough.”
“And limits on the fake dating. I’m not moving in with you or getting your face tattooed on my arm—”
“What about on your ass?”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh. Okay, maybe Cameron can make a joke.
“No, ass tats either. We’ll do team events, some dates, and be flirty when we’re around your friends.”
He quirks a brow. “Social media posts?”
I pause to consider. “You never post on your socials, so it’d be suspicious to suddenly be posting a new girl constantly.”
And if we announce it on social media, my sisters will definitely see. Neither of them cares about sports enough to pay a lick of attention to who an athlete may be dating, but if I’m tagged in a post, they’ll most definitely know.
“Okay.”
“And no scowling at me in public like I’m torturing you with my presence.”
His mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “I don’t scowl.”
“You absolutely scowl. You have resting murder face.”
He grunts. “First I’m a human equivalent of a thundercloud, and now I have resting murder face?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if you glared at puppies from time to time.”
There’s that lip twitch again. “I’ll work on it.”
“You better. Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. No one can know this is fake. Think you can handle that?”
Cameron licks his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. “Can you?”
The challenge in his voice makes my pulse pick up. This is a terrible idea. Possibly the worst plan I’ve ever agreed to. Fake dating a grumpy hockey player who makes my heart do weird things just by existing? While he helps me materialize my dreams?
Yeah, what could possibly go wrong?
“Yes,” I confirm before I can change my mind. “But I want to be clear. This is business. You’re an investor, not my sugar daddy or whatever. I’m going to pay you back every cent with interest.”
He dips his chin. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“This is going to be a disaster,” I say.
He chuckles, the sound raspy. “Maybe.”
“I mean it.” Nervous energy floods me. “This is a terrible plan.”
“Possibly.”
“But we’re doing it?”
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression one I can’t quite name. All I know is that it makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
“Yeah,” he agrees after a beat. “We’re doing this.”
God help us both.