Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
kennedy
I don’t know if I want to kiss or kill Cameron Davies.
Okay, maybe I wouldn’t kill him, but a swift kick to the nuts would satisfy me.
He’s gorgeous. That infuriatingly effortless kind of handsome: dark brown hair that looks like he’s ready for a red carpet when in reality, he probably hasn’t touched it since he rolled out of bed.
Piercing green eyes that could cut through steel.
And don’t get me started on his lips. Full and pouty, like they belong in a cologne ad. Or on a woman’s neck. Probably both.
When he opens his mouth and says, “I need a favor” with an expectant look on his face, that urge to knee him in the dick only intensifies.
“Hello to you, too, Cameron.” I flash him with my brightest smile. “I’m doing great. Thanks for asking. How have you been?”
He blinks slowly, as if it genuinely didn’t occur to him that conversations require basic human politeness.
In his defense, the two of us rarely talk.
Sure, our best friends are dating, and his sister and I are close, but Cameron and I have always sort of…
orbited each other. Parallel paths. Minimal contact.
Like two planets, each pretending the other doesn’t exist unless forced into the same room.
“Glad to hear it,” he says flatly, “but I still need a favor.”
I shuffle forward as the line at the bar moves. “And I need to breathe without my lungs trying to fold in on themselves, but here we are.”
He rears back. “What?”
I’m not about to explain the pitfalls of my Spanx shapewear to him, so I shake my head. “Never mind. What’s the favor?”
“I need you to bid on me.”
Now it’s my turn to say “what?”
He huffs, his jaw ticking. “I need you to bid on me during the live auction.”
“I know what you meant, Cam. I’m just having trouble understanding why.” I wave to the left, where a group of women are actively checking him out while sipping martinis. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem nailing a date. Or nailing your date.”
I smirk at my joke, but he only rubs his brow in response.
“I know I won’t have a problem being bid on—”
“Cocky,” I accuse as I shuffle forward in line again.
“Honest,” he counters. “But there’s a person here that I’d really prefer didn’t win and the only way to guarantee that is to rig the system, which is where you come in.”
I practically vibrate with anticipation.
Nothing gets me going like the promise of juicy gossip.
I know, I know. Gossip is technically toxic or whatever, but if it doesn’t affect my life or anyone I know?
I want all the details. It’s why I’ve devoured every iteration of The Real Housewives that Bravo has ever aired.
Give me the drama, hold the consequences.
“Oh.” I angle in closer. “Tell me everything.”
“No.” His response is immediate; his expression doesn’t change.
I wait for more information, but it doesn’t come. He’s silent, as if “no” is a complete sentence. It is, but I have no intention of doing him a favor like this without having background information. “Then my answer is no, too.”
The people in front of us depart from the bar with fresh drinks in hand, and I wiggle my way to the front. The free drink aspect of an open bar is great, except that, well, everyone wants free drinks.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a tired smile and rolled-up sleeves. “We’ve got a few specialty cocktails available.”
I glance at the cutesy acrylic menu and grin at the three hockey-inspired drinks: Slapshot Spritz, Power Play Punch, and Bobcat Bramble.
I’m a sucker for a good themed party. The other week I had three bachelorette party dessert orders, each with a creative theme.
Her Last Rodeo, Seashells and Wedding Bells, and She’s Fresh off the Market.
Despite my body vibrating with excitement at the idea of a delicious Power Play Punch, I order a Dr Pepper. I need to be in tiptop shape at the bank tomorrow. All my dreams are riding on that loan approval. If they reject me, I—nope. Not even going there. They have to say yes.
Tilting his chin up, the bartender asks, “And you?”
It takes everything in my power not to look back at Cameron.
It’s a challenge to ignore a six-five muscular man towering over me like this.
Especially one who smells like he walked straight out of one of those mafia romance novels my best friend got me hooked on.
He has a dominating aura that makes him hard to ignore, and trust me, I’ve tried.
“I’ll have the Slapshot Spritz,” Cameron orders with a completely straight face.
Amusement rolls through me. Wouldn’t have marked the Bobcats’ goalie as a man who prefers wine to whiskey, but I’m not one to judge.
Okay, that’s a lie. Sort of. I don’t verbally judge people. Unless they deserve it. Like the woman who thought she could cut me in line at MetroMart because she had “fewer than ten items,” as if I couldn’t see the lightbulbs and wine hidden beneath the ugly Hawaiian shirt in her cart.
We wait for our drinks in uncomfortable silence, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. And there’s no way I’ll ask Cameron for more details, no matter how badly I itch to blurt out every question—and there are about fifty—floating around in my head.
I’m opening my purse to reapply my lipstick (lasts twenty-four hours smudge-free! my ass) when Cameron admits, “My ex is here.”
Head snapping up, I assess him. Forget about the lipstick. “Your ex?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, rigid. “Yes, Kennedy. My ex. Is it really that surprising that someone wanted to date me?”
“Oh, calm down.” I wave off his theatrics. “I’m simply surprised. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” he clarifies. “And why would you know? We’re not friends.”
Okay, rude.
“Yet here you are asking me for a favor.” I arch a brow. “Tell me about her.”
His brow creases. “Who?”
“Amy Poehler,” I deadpan. “Who do you think, Cameron? Keep up. Tell me about your ex.”
That crease deepens, his lips turning down as if I just asked him for his social security number rather than a very normal follow-up question. “Why?”
“Consider me curious.” I shrug.
He remains silent, examining my face.
Eventually, I sigh. “Fine, at the very least, tell me why we don’t want her bidding on you.”
“Because we’re not dating anymore.”
I huff out a breath. He’s almost worse than Maya when it comes to sharing details. If the question isn’t asked in the exact right way, they won’t give up anything.
“Yes, I understand the concept of an ex. I want to know why you think she’d even want to date you again.
Were you long distance and the miles between you proved to be too hard, but now she’s back and wants to try again?
” I arch a brow. “Did the spark fizzle out, but she wants to relight the match? Did someone—”
“Can you just do this favor for me without asking a bunch of questions?” he interrupts, irritation coating every gruff word. “If you say no, I have to find a backup, and the auction starts soon.”
With a fake gasp of delight, I place a hand over my chest. “I was your first choice? I’m flattered, honestly.
Here’s the thing, though…” Shuffling a little closer, I lean in conspiratorially.
“If I bid on you, I’m closing the door on all the other single men here tonight, so…
” I pause for good measure and look him in the eye. “What’s in it for me?”
The corners of his lips twitch. “Winning the date with me isn’t enough?”
Ignoring the question, I tap my fingers against my chin. “In return for bidding on a date with you, which I assume you’ll reimburse, since you pay more in taxes than I make in a year, I’d like to request an unspecified favor of my choosing to be redeemed at any point in time.”
He grunts. “Great. Whatever. Fine.”
The bartender sets my drink on a square napkin and slides it across the bar, but I’m too focused on Cameron to bother with it. “Seriously? You don’t even want to stipulate that it has to be legal? That it won’t get you arrested? Banned from the state? Put on a list of some sort?”
He taps his dress shoe against the floor, his look closed off but maybe a little thoughtful, too. “Will it?”
I throw my hands up. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought of the favor yet. It’s a hypothetical.”
“I have a good lawyer,” he states, as if this answers the question. “I’m not worried.”
The bartender hands him his drink, and Cameron tips him with a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill despite the small placard reading “no gratuity needed.” I don’t think I’ve carried cash since I got my first credit card.
It’s a habit that stresses my dad out dearly, but I’m not sure what kind of situation I could find myself in where a five-dollar bill would be make it or break it.
Cameron peers down at me. “So you’re in? You’ll do it?”
I take a sip of my drink and shrug. “Sure. Why not?” I’ve always been a “do it for the plot” kind of girl.
I don’t even have time to ask him what my limit is before he’s grumbling “thanks” and strolling off to do who knows what. Probably to see if laser beams will shoot out of his eyes if he glares hard enough.
Drink in hand, I slip through the crowd of guests wearing silk and satin and the servers passing champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres.
Normally, when I handle desserts for an event, I’m in and out quickly.
I drop off the goods, confirm setup, and disappear before the first toast. But thanks to my close relationship with the event company the Bobcats’ use, I’ve earned a sort of carte blanche pass to their events.
Oh, and it helps that my best friend is dating the team captain.
Sliding into the open seat next to Sophie at our table, I announce, “Just so you know, I’m planning to bid on a date with your brother.”
Sophie’s eyes widen, and she breaks into a beaming smile.
If I didn’t know she was Cameron’s sister, I never would’ve guessed.
He’s all tattoos and menace, whereas Sophie looks like a literal angel with her blond hair (that’s never seen a box of dye), baby blue eyes, and porcelain skin.
It wouldn’t surprise me if animals flock to her apartment when she cleans, à la Snow White.
“Stop smiling at me like that,” I say with a grimace. “It’s for charity.”
She shrugs, her naturally dark pink lips tipped up at the corners. “A girl can dream, right?”
“I didn’t know Cameron was part of the auction,” Maya says, flipping open the glossy event booklet with all the prize packages listed.
“I don’t think he did either. It seemed last minute. I guess his ex is here, and he’s trying to avoid—”
Sophie gasps and grabs my arm, her lilac-painted nails biting into my skin. “His ex? Who?”
I fix her with a stare of disbelief. “Is there more than one ex?”
Maya snorts, and when Sophie narrows her eyes at her, she raises her hands in surrender.
“Is it really that unbelievable that people would want to date my brother?” Sophie huffs. “I know he’s a little rough around the edges, but he wasn’t always like that. I mean, yes, he’s always been grumpy, but not so… grumpy.”
I take a sip of my drink, relishing the cool liquid, even if it is nonalcoholic. “We just didn’t know he had an ex. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been a manwh—”
“Man who likes variety,” Maya cuts in smoothly, stopping me from accurately calling him a manwhore.
I’m not judging him for it. There’s a reason “why choose” is my favorite romance subgenre.
Sophie’s face softens. “He used to be a relationship guy, then his last ex, Gigi, kind of wrecked him. I don’t know all the details, but after they broke up, he shut down the idea of dating altogether.”
With a hum, I nod. “Which is exactly why I’m bidding on the date but not going on the date.”
“I vote you go on the date,” Maya pipes in.
I glower at my best friend in mutinous challenge over the rim of my glass, desperately wishing it was a Powerplay Punch instead. “Don’t you have your own table to sit at?”
Sophie and I were placed at what we call the “miscellaneous” table. It’s where guests who don’t fit into one of the usual attendee groups—like sponsors, players, or mega-fans—end up. Maya’s at the players’ table with Cole.
She grins at me. “C’mon, Kenn. You’re always complaining about how much dating apps suck.”
I set my drink down and straighten. “Because they objectively do.”
The last date I went on, the guy tried to mansplain the concept of starter dough to me… a literal baker.
“This is your chance to go on a date with a hot hockey player who has tattoos and knows how to work his hips.” She turns toward Soph with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but we’ve seen him do the splits in twelve different ways while saving goals.”
Sophie waves a dismissive hand. “No offense taken.”
With another sip of my drink, I peruse the silent auction items lined up along the wall on one side of the room.
There’s a little bit of everything—signed jerseys, vacation packages, a wine tasting experience that’s already way out of my budget.
None of it holds my attention, though. Not when that’s where he is.
I don’t have much game, but the little I do possess gets thrown majorly off course when Cameron is in the vicinity.
It’s his specific brand of sex appeal: tousled hair, sharp jaw, a mouth that looks like it’s permanently caught between a smirk and a scowl.
And underneath all that grr and fee, fi, fo, fum, he’s a decent guy.
But I can’t afford distractions right now. My business needs all my attention, and Cameron is exactly the kind of distraction that could derail all the goals I’ve been working toward.
So I may bid on a date, but going on the date? No, thanks.