Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
kennedy
My “quick connect” with Diane Weber ran long—over an hour past schedule—and by the time I find street parking by my building, all I want is to peel off my bra and dig out my heating pad.
I hit puberty late, and when it finally arrived, it hit me like a Mack truck going full speed.
I’d spent years wishing for boobs—every birthday candle from age thirteen on—and apparently, someone was listening because the universe delivered with interest. Unfortunately, said interest includes period cramps violent enough to sometimes make me question whether my uterus is trying to stage a coup.
They’re not always horrible, but every so often, usually when I’m stressed, they hit hard like this and sap all my energy.
Within minutes of locking my door behind me, I’m changed into my rattiest sweatpants and old college shirt (sans bra), with a heating pad pressed against my cramping abdomen.
As much as I’d love to lie on my couch for the rest of the day, I’m too busy for that kind of luxury.
I shuffle over to the refrigerator, where I’ve been chilling three dozen anatomically perfect penis cookies.
My client is the maid of honor in her best friend’s wedding and the bachelorette party theme is Same Penis Forever.
Naturally, she wants a variety of edible dicks.
The only specification she gave me was to include all penises—pale, tan, dark, circumcised, uncircumcised, pierced, tattooed—basically a full spectrum of phallic diversity.
To keep it classy, we decided to include an assortment of other bachelorette-themed cookies too. This way, when the bride’s relatives see the photos later, there’s at least a little elegant, Instagram-worthy content mixed in with the chaos.
As I wait for the oven to preheat, I pick up my notebook—the one Maya says sends her into fight-or-flight mode—and settle on a kitchen stool. I don’t blame her, considering I use more colored markers than there are Skittles in a family-size bag and my shorthand looks like hieroglyphics.
Elbow on the table, I flip through the notes I scribbled during my meeting with Diane.
As annoying as it was being stuck in her office for that long, it was worth it.
Because the pay? Holy shit. Wedding cakes are typically priced “by the slice.” Of course, that price varies based on the design complexity, ingredients (buttercream vs.
fondant), flavors, fillings, delivery, and tiers.
I’m all about knowing my worth and charging for my work, but even with all of that considered, her number is way more than I would usually charge.
Like Taylor Swift dominating the Billboard Hot 100 for twenty-six consecutive weeks level of excessive.
I told Diane that, to which she responded, “If someone gives you more than you’re expecting, you don’t question it. You say thank you and run with it.”
So I said thank you and shut the hell up.
The numbers pile up on the page in front of me: ingredient costs, structural support for five tiers, transportation, timing for a June wedding in potentially warm weather.
Yet even with all of that, Cam’s investment will allow me to hire a part-time assistant to help with some of the admin tasks that keep me away from the kitchen.
I’m daydreaming about never having to answer a customer email or update my website again when my phone rings, startling me back to real life. And when Cameron’s name flashes on the screen, my heart does this irritating skip-and-stutter thing.
I asked him about PDA strictly from a practical standpoint. He’s the one who turned my question into a teaching moment and man, oh man, did I learn a lot. My number one takeaway? That Cameron Davies can kiss.
Swiping accept on the call, I greet him with a “’Sup, baby cakes?”
“Baby cakes?” he replies, his voice deliciously grumpy.
I tap the speaker button and set the device on the table. “Sugar plum? Honeybun? Sweetie pie?”
The grumpiness evaporates, and in its place is a low, soft chuckle. “Any reason those are all dessert related?”
“I’m in work mode,” I answer, adjusting the temperature on my heating pad. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing this afternoon? Want to hang out?”
Excitement flutters in my chest. Hang out? Like, spend time together? I sit up a little straighter, more alert despite the cramps.
“I wanted to go over some of the get-to-know-you questions we didn’t finish,” he continues. “Figure it’ll be easier in person than over text.”
My dumb excitement deflates like a popped balloon.
Oh.
Of course that’s what he meant. We wouldn’t really hang out. Just… work on logistics. No matter how real the kiss felt, this is all for show.
I stare at my phone for a moment, mortification sweeping over me.
It’s ridiculous, the way my heart picked up speed at the thought of spending time with him.
“You know we don’t have to go over all the questions, right?
They were more of a starting point to get the ball rolling. It’s not like an interview process.”
He doesn’t respond right away. When he’s does, the ogre tone is back. “So you don’t want to know which true crime case I want to solve?”
A stray giggle slips through my lips. “I’m around most of the afternoon if you want to swing by.”
“Okay. Cool.”
“Fair warning, though. There are a lot of dicks here, so don’t be alarmed.”
“I’ll be right over.”
With that, he disconnects the call.
Okay, then.
Rolling my eyes at his abruptness, I stand, pressing my hips forward to stretch my back. Fuck, being a woman sucks sometimes.
While I wait for Cameron, I pop the two trays of cookies into the oven and gather my piping bags, tips, and edible markers, and prepare the various colors of royal icing.
I’m carefully mixing shades (pale peach, warm tan, and deep brown), trying to get the skin tones just right, when there’s a knock at the door.
The man in question isn’t big on enthusiastic greetings. I’m not sure he’s big on anything enthusiastic at all. So when I pull the door open and he starts nearly shouting, I practically jump out of my skin.
“Why are you surrounded by dicks?” he barks. “Our relationship may not be real, but it’s a little messed up for you to be fucking around on me already.”
I press my lips together to keep myself from laughing at the verklempt look on his face.
His hair is tousled from the winter winds, sticking up in a way that makes him look younger than his thirty-two years.
His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, his eyes wild with an energy that’s all directed at me.
Oh no.
A trickle of unease courses through me.
He thinks I meant actual dicks.
Like other human male penises.
And with his ex…and what she did…
“Cookies,” I blurt out, waving so frantically toward my kitchen it’s a miracle I don’t sprain my wrist. “Dick cookies.”
Jaw snapped shut but tense, the realization hits him in stages: confusion first, then comprehension, then a wave of mortification that turns his face an even deeper shade of red.
“You made…” His eyes dart from me to the kitchen and back again.
“Dick cookies,” I confirm matter-of-factly, as if the task is the most normal thing in the world.
“The maid of honor wants them anatomically accurate. It’s actually harder, no pun intended, than you’d think to get the, uh, proportions right.
” My own cheeks heat a little now. “I didn’t want to order a dick cookie cutter, so I repurposed the rocket ship I’ve used for a few kids’ birthday parties. ”
“You’re baking dick cookies,” he says, voice strained.
I rock back on my heels, still holding the door open even though the cold is making me sincerely regret not putting on a bra. “Yes. Now do you want to come in? Before my heating bill gets any higher?”
He doesn’t move for a minute. Like he hasn’t quite processed this interaction yet. Eventually, though, he shuffles forward. “Yeah.”
I step aside and he brushes past me, shoulders rigid and hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.
I wish I could pretend I don’t see the hurt he thinks he’s hiding behind a careful blank expression, but I’ve never been one to ignore any kind of issue.
And the pain won’t just disappear because we’re playing pretend.
I turn to face him fully, crossing my arms over my chest. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but let me say my piece, and then we can move on and never talk about it again.”
His shoulders tense further, lifting halfway to his ears. “You don’t have to—”
“Cameron.” I look at him, waiting until he meets my eye. “I’m not going to do that to you. What she did. Even in this fake thing we’re doing, I’m not going to—” I wave vaguely, looking for words that won’t make this worse. “I won’t do that, and I won’t make you feel like that. Okay?”
The silence stretches between us while he processes, that careful mask slipping just enough that I catch a glimpse of softness under his sharp features.
“Okay,” he says finally.
“Okay. And since we’re being honest and open, I’d like to state for the record that I did look at real penises for inspiration, but it was via porn.
The maid of honor really wanted a variety, and try as I may,” I say, arching a brow, “I’ve only seen a certain number of dicks, and none of them were tattooed. ”
Cameron chuckles, the rough sound sending goose bumps down my spine and breaking the tension. “Neither is mine.”
“Right,” I answer, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “So, in all fairness, to get the likeness right, I had to watch porn. I even paid for a fucking subscription to one of the for-women, by-women sites so I wouldn’t have to scar myself for life wading through videos.”
He grins, those green eyes brighter suddenly. “At least you can write off the expense.”
“My accountant is a huge stickler about what I can and cannot write off.” I sigh deeply. “Conversations about that and tax evasion always cause very big arguments.”