Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
kennedy
I scan the contract, skimming the legal jargon since it all swims together. Halfway down the page, I force myself to slow down and examine it word for word. This is too important to speed-read. I blink a few times to clear my vision and refocus.
Holy shit. This is happening.
“Twenty percent equity,” I murmur, more to myself than to Cameron. I was bracing myself for forty. Most investors would laugh in my face at twenty percent for this kind of capital.
I flip to the next page, my hands trembling slightly, and peer over at Cameron, who’s tracking my every movement like a hawk. “Your lawyer was okay with this?”
“My lawyer tried to push for more equity.” He shrugs. “I told him to fuck off.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest, but I shove it down and keep reading. A couple of sections down, I pause and go back, rereading to make sure I’m understanding correctly.
“Nondisclosure clause,” I say, tapping the paper. “You can’t tell anyone you’re an investor without my written consent. Not even your teammates?”
“Not even my teammates,” he confirms. “As far as anyone’s concerned, the bank approved your loan. This is between you, me, and our lawyers.”
“What’s this about IP rights?” I ask, needing to focus on something concrete before I embarrass myself by getting emotional.
“I have no claim to any recipes, branding, trade secrets, or anything like that. If you develop the next cronut or whatever, that’s your intellectual property.”
“Cronut,” I repeat, fighting a smile. “Very current reference.”
He grunts and taps his fingers against the table. “I don’t know what’s trendy in the pastry world.”
I chuckle, then get back to reading. I’m another three pages in when a phrase catches my eye. “Wait.” I drag my finger over it. “What’s this clause about ‘investor has right to quarterly financial reviews’?”
He hovers closer, his focus on the document. “Standard stuff. I’m putting a significant amount of money in. I need to know the business is stable.”
My stomach twists. “You’ll look at my books and judge whether I’m doing a good enough job?”
“It’s not about judgment,” he says, his tone quiet. “It’s about transparency. You’d do the same if you were in my position.”
“I wouldn’t be in your position because I don’t have money to throw at people’s dreams,” I snap. The moment the words are out, I regret them. Fuck. I close my eyes. “Sorry. That was—”
“Fair,” he interrupts, which makes it worse somehow. “But for the record, I’m not throwing money at your dream. I’m investing in a solid business plan. There’s a difference.”
I read the clause again, slower this time. What if, six months from now, he regrets this? What if the numbers aren’t good? What if he looks at my financials and realizes he bet on the wrong person?
“What if I fail?” The question comes out smaller than I intended.
“Then we figure it out.” His voice is steady, certain. “The clause doesn’t give me any control, Kennedy. I can’t fire you or override your decisions. I can only see what’s happening.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
Attention set on the document, I just breathe, giving myself a moment to look at the proof.
It’s right in front of me. Someone—Cameron fucking Davies, of all people—believes in me enough to put his money where his mouth is.
I continue reading, asking a question here and there, and eventually sit back and nod.
“It looks good to me, but I’m going to have my lawyer look it over before I sign. ”
I don’t have a lawyer, but I do have an old law school friend. One I made a last-minute anniversary cake for when he forgot, so he owes me big time.
The lines around Cameron’s eyes crinkle as he grins. That simple look has me fighting the urge to fan my face.
“Now.” I shift in my seat and clear my throat. “Let’s talk about the part where I have to pretend to be madly in love with you.”
His smile drops abruptly. “I never said madly in love. Just dating.”
“Fake dating,” I correct. That word feels important right now. “We should probably establish some rules and figure out what Operation Fake Girlfriend looks like.”
He shoots me an incredulous look. “Operation Fake Girlfriend?”
“Every good plan needs a name,” I tell him. “So what are you thinking?”
“Honestly, I haven’t thought that far ahead.” He roughs a hand down his face. “I’ve never fake-dated anyone before.”
“Neither have I.” I rest my elbow on the table and my chin in my cupped hand. “You know, if you heeded my advice to watch reality TV, you’d have a better understanding of fake relationships in general.”
The smirk he gives me is annoyingly sexy. “I’ll get right on that.”
I ignore his sarcasm and continue on. “I should probably come to more of your games, right? Maybe attend a few away games that are semi-local?”
He tilts his shoulders in a half-shrug.
Sighing, I pick up my phone. Nailing down details and specifics will take trial and error, and simply asking Cameron won’t achieve anything except exasperation.
“All right, let’s get to know each other instead.”
“Like what’s your favorite color?”
“Pink, but no,” I reply. I scroll to my notes app and tap on the list I created, then hand the device over to Cameron. “Here. This is my full list of get-to-know-you questions.’”
His brows furrow as he scans them. “What the fuck is this?”
The confusion in his deep tone is adorable.
“A list of questions that are supposed to help us get to know each other better,” I reply, angling closer to him. “Obviously. I just told you that thirty seconds ago, remember?”
“Knowing what animated character I had a crush on as a kid will help you know me better?”
“Yes. If you were more into Kim Possible than Shego, you probably like the more wholesome, heroic vibes over edgy and antagonistic.”
“That’s… I don’t even know what that means, to be honest.” He sighs, scrolling down the list. “And why do you need to know my social security number?”
I laugh, a thrill running through me. “I snuck that one in there for fun.”
“You want to know how I like my eggs cooked? What the one thing I want to un-invent is? My preferred brand of condoms? Jesus, Kennedy.” He slumps back in his chair.
“These are things a girlfriend would know about her boyfriend,” I argue.
And I’m curious.
Sue me.
“This is going to take us a year to get through,” he huffs, focus never straying from the screen. “Some of these questions are outlandish.”
I nod, fighting a smile. “You’ve gotten to the question meant to deduce whether you’re trying to steal my inheritance, haven’t you?”
“Your inheritance?” He lifts his head, his brows pulled low. “What is this? A game of CLUE?”
“It’s not an inheritance in the traditional sense, but if my sisters and I sell the Beanie Babies we collected during childhood, there’d be a decent nest egg. We have the extremely rare Princess Diana Beanie Baby, which is going for four-figures on eBay.”
Cameron’s green eyes lock on me, and I shift under the weight. “I have no interest in your Beanie Babies.”
I bite back the urge to say, “Or me.”
“I’m more of a Mighty Beanz guy,” he finishes.
“What’s Mighty Beanz?”
“They’re these little plastic bean things with faces that wobbled around.” He holds his index finger and thumb about an inch apart. “They—fuck it, I’ll just show you.”
He scoots his chair closer to mine, the move causing a whiff of his aftershave to waft over me, a minty, spicy scent that’s deliciously manly. Without warning, he opens the web browser on my phone.
Instinctively, my heart lurches. Thank God my search bar is blank. It’s not like I’d have porn pulled up or anything, but there’s a very high likelihood the randomness of what I last searched would raise questions.
I once had to explain to Maya why I looked up both “Do mermen have human genitalia or is it covered in scales?” and “How do Survivor contestants not get yeast infections?” and that isn’t an experience I’d like to repeat.
He taps at the screen, and a moment later, images of inch-tall ovoid-shaped toys appear.
“Oh, those things,” I say as he slowly scrolls through the results. “I remember those. Kids would trade them and race them down ramps and stuff.”
“Yup.” His lips kick up at both corners. “I had one of the biggest collections in school.”
The idea of a tattoo-less, beardless Cameron collecting such weird-looking toys only makes me feel more affectionate toward the man. “That’s cute.”
“Not cute, cool.” He hands my phone back. “Why do you even have a get-to-know-you question list handy like this?”
“I have a lot of things handy,” I admit with a shrug.
“That’s what the notes app is for. One is full of tracking numbers for packages I already received.
Another says don’t forget with absolutely no context about what I wasn’t supposed to forget.
Then there are coordinates to a parking spot from a trip to Miami, a pros and cons list about cutting my own bangs, a grocery—”
A raw, throaty laugh interrupts me. It’s louder than I’ve ever heard from him. I can’t help but smile at the sound, heart thumping beneath my ribs. Cameron may not laugh often, but when he does, it’s real and rich and has me fiending for more.
“Jesus Christ,” he says through his laughter. “Anything else?”
“Only my horoscope from three years ago. I saved because it said I’d meet someone important on a Tuesday.”
He makes a humming noise, dropping his head. “I see what you mean now. You really do have a lot of information stored in your notes app.”
I flash him a thumbs-up. I wouldn’t call myself a hoarder, per se, but I have an issue with throwing things out—whether it’s a birthday card, a ticket stub from a show I saw years ago, or a drunken note on my phone titled Why I Think My Uber Driver Was Actually My Soulmate.
I blame my dad. His obsession with artifacts and insistence that the littlest things can reveal the most important information was passed down to me.
I learned at an early age how to document my life.
It’s highly unlikely that historians will study me in two hundred years, but one never knows.
Death Becomes Her only won one award at the Tony’s despite receiving ten nominations, so anything’s possible.
“Send it over,” Cameron says, those three words teetering on the edge of a demand.
I steeple my fingers and cock my head. “A please would be nice, you know.”
“Please send it over.” This time he rolls his eyes. “I’ll look at the questions later this week. I’m too tired to choose my favorite conspiracy theory right now.”
I belatedly note the exhaustion lining his face—the dark bags under his eyes, the way his jaw keeps clenching like he’s holding back a yawn. I thought I was being amiable by coming to him, but I didn’t consider that he hasn’t been home in nearly a week.
Quickly, I tap the little square near the top of the screen and share the note with him, then clear my throat. “One last question… how serious are we supposed to be?”
He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes darting away, his mouth forming an expression that almost looks like a grimace. “I guess serious enough that Gigi backs off.”
“Meeting the family serious?” I push. “Sharing a Netflix account serious?”
“You already know my sister,” he points out. “And I don’t think we need to share a Netflix account.”
“Good, because it’s clear you have no taste in television.
” I brush my thumbs against my knuckles, ducking and digging for the things that need to be said.
“If we’re doing this, we need to be on the same page.
What happens when this ends? The business partnership is in writing, but the relationship part—when do we break up? How do we break up?”
“Kennedy—”
“I’m serious. I need to know what I’m getting into.
” I force my head up, my eyes locking with his.
“I’m already letting you invest in my business, which terrifies me, by the way.
Adding a fake relationship on top of it?
That’s complicated. What if people find out it’s not real? What if it hurts my business? What if—”
“What if you meet someone?” he asks brusquely.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“What if you meet someone you want to date for real? We should have an exit plan for that.”
Oh. Right. Because this isn’t real. This is business. I need to remember that.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to ignore the weird twist in my stomach. “That makes sense. Same goes for you. If you meet someone, or if Gigi backs off and you don’t need the cover anymore, we should be able to end it cleanly.”
“Agreed.”
I stand up quickly, suddenly wishing I hadn’t pushed the conversation so far and made things weird. Collecting my things, I turn, readying to hightail it out of here.
“Kennedy,” he says in that low, gravelly timbre. When I turn back, he wets his lips, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Um, thank you. For doing this. I know it’s asking a lot.”
“You’re investing in my dream, so…” I shrug, going for light. “Fair trade.”
But as I walk to my car, I can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this arrangement is going to be fair. Or simple.