Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
cameron
Cameron Davies
FYI—Sir Mix-a-Lot isn’t dead.
Kennedy Caplan
I can assure you she is. The funeral occurred this morning.
Cameron Davies
She???
Kennedy Caplan
Yes, my mixer is a girl. Or was until she tragically died a slow, painful death.
Cameron Davies
Sir Mix-a-Lot is your mixer…
Kennedy Caplan
Yes. Sir Mix-a-Lot Vin Diesel Caplan.
Cameron Davies
You gave your mixer a middle name? And chose Vin Diesel?
Kennedy Caplan
Yep. Because she was fast and furious in her prime.
I snort as I read Kennedy’s text. Is it odd that she named her mixer? Maybe. But then again, there are plenty of hockey players out there who name their sticks, swearing it gives it luck.
“What are you laughing at?” Logan peers at me from across the aisle, his voice carrying over the low hum of the plane’s engine.
“Nothing.”
“You were laughing at nothing? Hmm. May want to get that checked out by a doctor.”
I tilt a brow up. “A doctor? Really?”
“Yep,” he replies. “You’ll already be there since you have third-degree burns on your ass from being a liar, liar, pants on fire.”
Logan’s still peeved at me on Frisbee’s behalf.
His dad had to put the dog in the laundry room during dinner—where he had access to his bed, toys, food, water, and a doggie door—because he wouldn’t stop following me like a shadow.
It’s not my fault Frisbee doesn’t understand that it’s not him, it’s me.
Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. “Logan. If anyone should see a doctor, it’s you. You’re fucking nuts, man.”
Logan turns to his seat mate, glowering. “You’re just jealous of my nuts.”
Shaking my head, I turn back to my phone, ignoring the rest of their argument. Everyone’s in a shit mood after our loss, and Logan’s itching for a fight.
I tuck my phone into my pants pocket, then pull the leather portfolio Kennedy gave me out of my bag. Cole’s zonked out in the seat next to me, so there’s minimal risk of anyone reading over my shoulder.
Her business plan meticulously organized—color-coded tabs, printed spreadsheets, notes in her loopy handwriting about logistics and timelines.
It’s impressive as hell. I can’t say that I thought her business plan would be bad, but I didn’t expect it to be so…
professional? Sharp? Good? I also didn’t grasp the full scope of what she had in mind.
She probably knew that which is why she gave me this heavy-ass binder.
I pictured her in a classic bakery setup: a little shop on the corner with a glass case full of pastries. A cute place people visit on Saturday mornings.
I was so, so wrong.
This isn’t the kind of place where patrons line up for muffins and focaccia. She’s focused on custom orders for weddings, birthdays, and events, plus bulk batches for restaurants or coffee shops. No walk-ins, no daily grind of retail hours, no chasing the chaos of a storefront.
If that wasn’t enough, she’s gone into great detail about expanding her offerings for dietary restrictions.
Gluten-free cookies, dairy-free pastries, vegan cakes, even low-sugar options for people who want indulgence without the crash.
She’s mapped out suppliers, recipe testing schedules, and how to market those items to customers who usually feel like an afterthought. Customers like me.
Not that she thought about me at all. This is purely about the business opportunity.
Every page is proof that agreeing to this arrangement was the right call for her and she knows it.
She’s smart enough to recognize a good deal when she sees one.
Because I’m useful to her, just like she’s useful to me.
I’m reading through her monthly expense reports from the last few months when she texts again.
Kennedy Caplan
Have you read my business plan yet? Do you hate it so much you’re embarrassed to tell me? Or are you so obsessed with my brilliant brain you’re too stunned to respond?
Cameron Davies
Reviewing it now. So far, so good.
Are you available tonight? We can discuss details about this and our “relationship.”
Kennedy Caplan
Why are you texting me like a corporate guy in a suit?
I reread my last message, but I don’t see the issue. It looks normal to me. I glance over at Cole. He’s still passed out with his mouth hanging open slightly, his e-reader resting against his stomach, the cover of some monster romance on the screen. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Cameron Davies
How am I supposed to text?
Three dots appear immediately, and I can practically see her typing wildly, her fingers flying over the screen like she’s a court reporter.
Kennedy Caplan
Maybe like a human? You sound like you’re scheduling a meeting with me.
Are you wearing a tie right now? Be honest.
I look down at myself automatically—joggers and a hoodie. No corporate attire in sight.
Cameron Davies
I was just trying to say it looks good and we should talk.
Kennedy Caplan
Right, but I’ve sounded more excited about pretty wallpaper.
Cameron Davies
Fine, I’ll try again.
Your portfolio’s unreal. You’re a genius, Kennedy. Want to hang later and figure out how we’re going to pull this off?
The dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
Kennedy Caplan
MUCH better, even though you sound like a frat bro.
And yes. I’m free tonight. Want me to come to you? I’m sure you’re tired from your back-to-back away games.
I frown down at the message, caught off guard. Did she really just agree that easily? I figured we’d have some back-and-forth about how tonight doesn’t work. That she’d make a comment about how I need to be more conscientious about her schedule.
But nope. She agreed quickly and even offered to come to me. No guilt trip, just straightforward consideration.
It throws me off more than it should. I’m used to the push and pull that comes with so many relationships that Kennedy’s flexibility and understanding are unexpectedly refreshing.
Cole stirs beside me, so I type out a quick response and tap send.
Cameron Davies
Are you sure?
Kennedy Caplan
Yep! I’ve always wanted to meet a dragon, so I’m excited to visit your place.
I swallow back a chuckle.
Cameron Davies
I live in a condo, not a castle. And I don’t have a dragon.
Kennedy Caplan
That’s exactly what someone with a dragon would say. See you (and Percival—that’s what I’ve named your dragon) later!
Maybe Logan’s right. Maybe I do need to see a doctor.
Because a simple text shouldn’t have me smiling more than even a good save on the ice does.
I’ve showered and picked up enough that my place looks lived in but not messy, but also like I didn’t try too hard.
I think. I considered turning the fireplace on no less than twenty times.
It’s early December and cold outside. If it were my sister or my buddies coming to hang out, I wouldn’t think twice.
But fireplaces convey images of couples huddling up together, drinking hot chocolate, and trying to warm up.
And I don’t want Kennedy to read into it.
Or me. I can’t read it into it either.
A knock on the door makes my stomach flip, and the unbidden reaction has me clenching my fists. What is wrong with me? I’m the one who asked if she was free tonight, and we’re only meeting to go over her business plan and work on the details of our arrangement.
Why am I acting like a fucking middle schooler about to see his first pair of tits?
Shaking my head, I stride to the door. I swing it open with more muscle than intended, wincing as it rebounds off the wall behind it.
Kennedy’s blond hair falls loose around her shoulders, a few strands clinging to the most ridiculous pair of earmuffs I’ve ever seen.
They’re bright pink and look like they belong on a cartoon character.
Her cheeks are flushed a similar color from the cold, and she’s practically drowning in a puffy white coat that nearly touches the ground.
“Hi,” she says with a smile that’s partially hidden by her scarf.
I massage my nape, trying to ease the tension building there. “Uh, hey.”
She raises a brow expectantly. Is she waiting for me to shake her hand? High five her? Hug her? I stare at her awkwardly, not really knowing what do.
“Can I come in?” she asks with a pointed glance behind me. “I’m freezing my ass off, which is a feat, considering there’s a lot of it.”
“You have fuzzy donuts on your ears,” I blurt out.
Oh, Jesus Christ.
My face goes hot instantly, and I have to resist the urge to slam the door closed and run away.
She stares at me for a beat before throwing her head back and laughing. It’s a nice sound, whimsical and loud. An open invitation to join in. It quells some of my anxiety.
“That’s a new one. Maya says they look like cotton candy pom-poms, but I like them.”
Without waiting for an official invite, she slips through the doorframe like this is her place instead of mine. I shut the door with an imperceptible sigh and turn, nearly colliding with her back.
She scrutinizes the foyer like we’re on an interior design show. “Huh. On the floorplan I found online, the kitchen was to the right, and the foyer wasn’t so big. Have you done renovations?”
I jerk back, stumbling over myself. “What?”
She has the gall to throw me a wink. “Kidding, although I could’ve found the floor plan if I was motivated enough. It’s a travesty the FBI hasn’t recruited me. I’m seriously skilled at digging up information.”
“That’s alarming on so many levels,” I mutter.
“Your place is nice,” she continues, peeling off her winter gear. “I was expecting something more sinister. Maybe some leather and gargoyles? Disappointed that the dragon isn’t here, but I suppose the city isn’t the best place for a fire-breathing creature.”
Heartbeat slowing to a normal rate now that I know my private residence isn’t public information, I roll my eyes. “Percival is a snowbird. He winters in Florida.”
Her smile grows even wider. Turning her head to the left, she asks, “Kitchen this way?”