Chapter 17 #2
“I don’t hate fun,” he says defensively.
I scoff. “Name one fun thing you’ve done this month that wasn’t hockey.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. “I went to dinner with Sophie and Jake.”
“Hate to break it to you,” I say, patting his arm, “but consuming calories is a basic human necessity, so that doesn’t count.”
“This,” he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. “This is fun.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest, and for once I don’t have a quick comeback. “That’s very sweet of you to say. Thank you.”
He nods once, jaw tight like the admission cost him dearly, then goes back to unloading the cart.
An hour later, I’m loath to admit that I’m glad Cameron drove. Not only would my car have been bursting at the seams if we’d packed it with all these supplies, but as he pulls up to Crumb & Co.’s new pastry kitchen, I’m jumpy and anxious. There’s no way I’d be safe behind the wheel.
“This is it?” He ducks and leans my way, scrutinizing the building.
My breath catches in my chest as I take in the exterior of Crumb & Co.’s kitchen. The building sits on a secondary commercial street, wedged between a vintage clothing boutique and a chiropractor’s office. It’s not a retail shop, but I’m definitely getting a decal with my logo for the front window.
“This is it.”
“It’s…”
When he doesn’t continue right away, I brace myself.
“A gray building.”
I blow out a breath. “Were you expecting a gingerbread house?” Shifting, I settle back into the car’s heated seat. I’m trying not to sound offended. I didn’t think he’d cry tears of joy or whip out confetti and champagne, but “it’s gray” is about the least enthusiastic response he could have given.
“No, I just—” He holds my gaze and shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t know. I expected something more. You’re bright and colorful and energy personified. The building’s just… gray and fading.”
“Stop, you’re going to make me blush,” I tease, although I’m not entirely joking.
I point to the stop sign farther down the street. “If we make a left there and loop around, there’s a back entrance for deliveries. It’ll be easier to unload there.”
And if your eyes are on the road, they’re not noticing the way my flushed cheeks now match my earmuffs.
He makes no move to put the car in drive. “Why don’t you head in while I pull around?”
“You sure?” I ask, already opening the door.
“Yup.”
I grab my purse and hop out, trying not to read too much into the way his eyes follow me as I walk to the front entrance and turn the stiff lock with shaking hands. Cameron waits until I wave at him from the front window before he drives off.
The front area is small, with just enough room for a table or two for order pickups and cake tastings, but I don’t spend much time there. It’s not the pièce de résistance. That’s through a set of swinging doors.
The kitchen is easily three times the size of the front.
Large windows on the side wall let in natural light and another is exposed brick.
Two full-size convection ovens stand side by side, their glass doors revealing spacious interiors.
A gas range with four burners anchors the cooking line, sturdy and professional, and counters line the perimeter.
In the center of it all is a maple table, the honey-colored wood adding warmth against the vinyl-coated concrete floors and stainless-steel appliances.
It’s perfect. And it’s mine.
As I stand in the middle of the space, slowly turning, my nose burns with unshed tears.
I curse myself for not having the foresight to wear waterproof mascara, but then again, I don’t know the last time I got so emotional.
Maybe when the original Hamilton cast reunited at the Tony’s?
When Jana and Cory (who had my vote from episode one) won Love Island last season?
When Wilton brought back my favorite piping tips after they’d discontinued them years before?
A knock on the delivery door has me jerking in surprise. I didn’t think it was possible, but in the time I’ve been inside, I’ve forgotten about the six-five grump who’s accompanied me all day.
I turn the lock, then yank the door open with a flourish. “Welcome to Crumb & Co.”
Population: us and my crippling fear of fucking up.
Cameron’s lips kick up into a smirk. “Are you going to let me in?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “You never did confirm or deny if you’re a vampire.”
His lips twitch like he wants to laugh but doesn’t want to admit how much he enjoys my teasing. “Kennedy.”
I waggle my brows, but step aside.
He’s already loaded down with a stack of boxes from my apartment. Once he’s set them on a counter, he leans against it, assessing the kitchen slowly. To me, it’s a dream come true, but I’m sure the simplicity of it all is woefully underwhelming to an outsider.
“It’s great,” he finally says.
My heart flutters in response to those words. Ugh. I hate how much his approval means to me.
I fan myself dramatically. “Slow down on the compliments, Cam. Next, you’ll tell me my walk-in cooler has great temperature regulation and really does it for you.”
“Does it?”
“Does it what?”
“Have great temperature regulation.”
He’s completely serious, waiting calmly for an answer about my cooler specs.
My throat tightens. “The cooler is top of the line.”
“Good,” he says with a single nod. “How do you feel?”
The question is so simple, but when I open my mouth to answer, the words get stuck in my throat.
Instead, the tears I’ve been holding back slip down my cheeks one after another.
A sob works its way out, despite the way I try to choke it back.
It’s a loud, strangled sound that has me really, really cursing myself for not wearing waterproof mascara.
Cameron’s at my side in an instant, one large hand wrapping around the back of my neck and pulling me against him in a much-needed hug. “Was it something I said?”
I shake my head against his chest.
He sighs, and some of the tension drains from his body. “Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
Except I do know. It’s everything. The walk-in cooler with its perfect temperature regulation, the professional gas range with its heavy cast-iron grates, never having to stress about fucking up an order because my oven is being a temperamental bitch.
It’s real. I did this.
Cameron doesn’t call me out on my very obvious lie. Instead, he holds me as I let everything go.
“I’m happy,” I manage, wiping at my face, probably smearing mascara everywhere. “And terrified. And so fucking overwhelmed I can barely breathe. But mostly happy. Is that a normal number of emotions to feel at once?”
He moves a hand under my chin, tilting my face up so I’m forced to look into his eyes. “This is a big deal, so yes.”
“I promise I’m not usually this much of a disaster.” I let out a watery laugh. “Okay, maybe I am, but it usually doesn’t involve crying.”
He brushes a stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb, and the gesture sends a jolt of warmth through me.
“You’re not a disaster and you never have to apologize for being human and having feelings.
You’ve spent years working your ass off and now you’re ready to go.
” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “That’s terrifying. ”
“It’s lonely,” I admit, my voice coming out smaller than I intended, more vulnerable than I want to be.
I love what I do with every fiber of my being: the early mornings, the precision, the way a recipe clicks into place after the fifth attempt and some stern words to my whisk. I wouldn’t change any of it.
But sometimes when I’m up at two in the morning prepping dough, I think about my friends who can simply leave work at work. Who have coworkers to eat lunch with. Who can make happy hour plans without having to confirm they don’t have three custom cake orders due Friday.
I chose this, and I’ll keep choosing it, but fuck if the weight of doing it alone doesn’t pull me down sometimes.
And not just physically, but professionally.
I don’t have anyone to bounce ideas off in real time, a teammate or confidant who understands why I’m stressed about whether I should raise prices or how the hell to respond to a weird email from a potential wholesale client.
I’m not unhappy, but I can’t deny that I wish I had a support system at the ready instead of having to actively seek one out when I’m at the end of my rope.
“I get it,” he replies slowly. “Not a lot of people to share the pressure with.”
The tightness in my chest loosens at his words. He doesn’t try to fix the issue or minimize it or tell me it’ll get easier. He just… sees it. Sees me. And maybe that’s all I need. Someone to acknowledge that yes, this is hard, and yes, I’m doing it anyway.
I nod, exhausted from my unexpected outburst. “Thank you.”
I don’t specify for what—for going to MetroMart with me, for the hug, for the understanding, for making me feel seen—and he doesn’t ask me to.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve seen a lot of meltdowns in the locker room,” he says. “Jake once cried because someone ate his postgame sandwich.”
I pull back slightly, wiping under my eyes so I don’t give full wild raccoon vibes. “Really?”
“Someone, a.k.a. Logan, even though he won’t admit it, ate his corned beef sandwich from Goldblatt’s. It wasn’t in the fridge after we lost, and Jake went postal.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, and soon I’m giggling at the thought of Sophie’s crush sobbing over a sandwich. It’s exactly what I need. A distraction to pull me back from the edge of my emotions and to remind me that crying doesn’t have to be this big, heavy thing.
Cameron cups my face, his gaze searching mine. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m going to unload the rest of the stuff.” He nods to the box on the counter. “Do you want to start organizing in the meantime?”
“I can help bring stuff in.”
“No offense, but you struggled to lift a ten-pound bag of flour.” He steps back and winks. “You’d be more of a hindrance than a help.”
With another laugh, I wipe the last of the tears away. Cameron’s already focused on the task at hand. Handling the moment with ease, making me feel like falling apart every once in a while is okay, and maybe a little necessary.