Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
cameron
With a sigh, I sink back in the plush chair and rest my hand on my abdomen. If Kennedy hadn’t told the server I was gluten-free, I would have left dinner starving. Instead, I’m considering unbuttoning my pants at the table. A far cry from what I was expecting.
Kennedy’s a far cry from what I was expecting, too.
While she’s still loud, unfiltered, and wildly unruffled, she’s down-to-earth, direct in a way that’s honest rather than offensive (mostly), and smart.
And not just book smart, but perceptive.
She noticed that I wasn’t eating the appetizers.
She understood that she had to be the one to break the silence because I’m terrible at small talk.
And despite her clear eagerness for every detail about my breakup, when it came down to it, she simply asked if I was okay.
“Well?” she asks, licking cream cheese frosting off her fork.
Damn. I’ve never seen someone eat a piece of carrot cake so enthusiastically.
I shake my head. “I don’t have any interest in watching middle-aged women fight over manufactured drama. The whole premise is ridiculous.”
She throws her hands up with the kind of exasperation usually reserved for explaining basic math to toddlers. “That’s the entire point. It’s ridiculous, yet completely entertaining.”
“The point is to watch people be terrible to each other?”
“The point is to watch people be terrible to each other without consequences,” she corrects with maybe more intensity than is warranted. “It’s controlled chaos. A train wreck to be enjoyed with wine and commentary.”
“Fine. If I agree to watch an episode, will you stop talking about it?” I ask, my voice playful in a way I didn’t know it could be.
The hmph she gives is adorably cute. It’s indignant in a teasing way. “I’ll never stop talking about why reality TV is the cultural glue that holds our society together. But…” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I will stop talking to you about it.”
Rather than appease me, it sets me on edge.
An uncomfortable burn spreads through my chest, and suddenly, I don’t like the idea of missing out on Kennedy’s dissertation-worthy speeches about how The Real Housewives of Las Vegas is the great equalizer and how everyone—no matter if they’re a garbage man, barista, or doctor—is similarly invested in the lives of people they’ll never meet.
Sure, it’s trivial, but Kennedy makes it sound riveting.
And the thought of her sharing a rant with someone else, with her eyes bright, hands gesturing wildly, bothers me more than it should.
“You would’ve made a great lawyer.”
Instantly, a flicker of disappointment shadows her face. It passes over her quickly, like a small cloud gliding by the sun, but I catch it.
And fuck, do I wish I could take those words back.
“Maybe, but I’m an even better baker,” she says, a subtle defensiveness in her tone, like she’s had to justify her career choice before. Nodding to herself, she adds, “I’ll make you dessert to prove it. What do you like? Cookies, cupcakes, brownies?”
“You don’t have to.” Guilt gnaws at my stomach. My comment was shitty, and here she is, letting me off easy.
“Obviously,” she argues back, rolling her eyes. “I’ll make you something because I want to. Because it’ll be delicious and then I’ll get to watch your eyes sparkle and your face light up with joy.”
“That sounds like a bit much,” I reply with a small chuckle. “The most you’ll probably get is a thank-you.”
She shakes her head, blond hair brushing against her shoulders, her expression one of absolute certainty. The kind of confidence only people who know exactly what they’re capable of possess. “Nope. There will be sparkling eyes.”
“That confident, huh?” I ask, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
“Cameron.” She says my name like it’s both an answer and an accusation. “I’ve made grown men cry over chocolate chip cookies. I’ve had marriage proposals after the first bite of my red velvet cake. I once had a man offer me a kidney for my cinnamon rolls.”
I grimace. “A kidney seems excessive.”
“You say that now. Wait until you taste them.” She grins, that spark of mischief back in full force. “So what’s it going to be? Or should I surprise you?”
I should say no. Saying yes means more interactions with Kennedy, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone. But her genuine excitement makes it impossible to say anything but “baker’s choice.”
Her face lights up, the happiness there warming my chest.
Dammit. I’m in serious trouble. Kennedy doesn’t do anything halfway, and there’s no tempering my reaction to her either.
“Best decision you’ve made all day,” she declares. Then, with a sly smile, she says, “Second best if you count agreeing to watch reality TV.”
I huff. “I haven’t agreed to that yet.”
“Yet,” she emphasizes, that certainty once again appearing.
Our conversation is interrupted when our server returns and sets a stack of containers and a bag on the table. “Leftovers,” he announces. “And the owner was wondering if you wouldn’t mind taking a photo with him.”
I nod my agreement, stretching my hands out wide, then relaxing them. Sloane warned me they’d ask for a photo—they ask all the athletes and actors who come here—but it doesn’t make the request any less annoying.
“This is why I hate eating out,” I grumble once he’s walked away. And questioning every dish to make sure there’s no gluten isn’t high on my list of enjoyable activities, either. Although Kennedy sure as hell had no issue doing it for me. Sort of embarrassing, sort of nice.
Kennedy smiles and tips her wineglass back, finishing the last of it in one long drink. “Definitely not what a girl wants to hear.”
I frown, confused by her comment. When the words eventually process, my cheeks flush. Jesus, get it together Cameron.
We don’t have to wait long for the owner to appear. He’s a short man with a ridiculous mustache. “Ah, the auction winners,” he says, gesturing for us to stand. “Come, come. We’ll take it by the lantern, yes? Good publicity—you support charity, we support you. Everyone wins.”
We move to the side wall where a colorful painting of the restaurant back in its speakeasy days hangs in a gauche gold frame. Kennedy slides naturally into place beside me while I hesitate a moment before wrapping my arm around her waist.
“Closer together now,” the server instructs.
With ease, Kennedy shuffles in, leaning into me more fully.
I can smell her perfume—a light and sweet scent, maybe vanilla—and her sweater is soft beneath my palm. With the way my hand spans the curve of her waist, I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch.
“Beautiful!” The server snaps several photos and then shows us the screen. “I’ll email these to the charity organizers and post on our social media. Thank you both so much.”
Kennedy tells me she lives close by, so I insist on walking her home, despite her assertion that she can make it a few blocks without my “manly intimidation tactics.” As the night air cools around us and she chatters about the meal, about how this was worth every penny of the money—my money—she bid, about how it may snow tomorrow even though leaves still litter the ground, I’m grateful I pushed to accompany her.
Soon we’re standing in front of her building, and I don’t know what to do or how to act. This is a date, but not actually a date, although it feels like a date.
Kennedy turns to face me, clutching her purse in front of her with both hands. “Surprisingly, I had a lot of fun,” she says, rocking slightly on her heels. “You were very tolerable.”
“High praise.” I chuckle, not bothering to hide my smile.
“I mean it,” she insists. “You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be.”
I snort. Honestly, I wasn’t nearly as insufferable as I thought I’d be either. “Back at you.”
She bites her lip like she’s having an internal debate. When she speaks, the words tumble out. “Do you want to come up? I’ve got beer—wait, shit, you can’t drink that… I also have wine.”
I know exactly what she’s offering. We had a surprisingly good time, so why not extend the evening? Then we’d wake up tomorrow and it would be what it was—nothing serious, nothing that requires definitions or explanations.
A month ago, I would’ve said yes without thinking twice.
Hell, two weeks ago I probably would have.
But standing here, looking at her with her mess of blond hair, recalling the way her sharp tongue stung but also thrilled me, and the way she made me laugh more tonight than I have in months, I know I can’t do it.
“I should get going.” I shake my head even though a part of me, a larger part than I’d like to admit, wants to say yes.
Her face shift as she pulls her keys from her pocket. The expression isn’t one of hurt or embarrassment. No, it’s more like she’s recalibrating and adjusting expectations.
I open my mouth to explain, but snap it shut again. What am I supposed to say? I’m not coming up because I want to too badly? Because you argued with me about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie for twenty minutes and I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life?
Sighing deeply, because it’s really not her, it’s me, I say, “It’s not that—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she interrupts. “We did our due diligence and went to dinner.”
She’s giving me an out, another one. I should take it, but the forced cheerfulness in her tone makes me feel like an ass.
“It’s just… complicated,” I state lamely.
“It’s fine, Cameron. Really.” She nods, spinning her keys around her finger. “Thanks for dinner. And for not being a complete disaster of a human being.”
I dip my chin. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t starve.”
“Anytime.” She heads toward her door, then pauses with her hand on the handle. “Hey, Cameron?”
“Yeah?”
“For what’s it worth.” She smiles back at me, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I meant what I said. I had a fun time. See you around, yeah?”
The casual dismissal in those words—see you around—stings more than it should. I’m still fumbling with my words, trying to come up with a proper response, when she walks through the door and shuts it softly behind her.
I stand in place, staring at the slightly crooked brass numbers on the door of her brownstone. Then, quiet enough for just me to hear, I say, “For what it’s worth, I had fun, too.”