Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
kennedy
I should have trusted my instincts, but Cameron made a compelling case.
His SUV is bigger than my car. Big enough, in fact, to fit the kitchen supplies I’m bringing from my apartment and a MetroMart haul.
He’s lucky the period care package he sent was super sweet.
That’s the only reason I let him win this argument.
Now, white-knuckling the passenger seat as he blazes through the parking lot, I’m sincerely regretting my decision. We’ve already had three near-misses, and we’re not even at the store entrance yet.
“Cameron, there’s an elderly man crossing—”
“I see him,” he says, barely slowing down as a gentleman who looks exactly like Carl from Up shuffles across our path with his cane. “He’s got plenty of time if he picks up the pace.”
Cameron’s driving philosophy is terrifyingly simple: “I have the bigger vehicle, therefore the right of way, and if they didn’t look both ways, that’s natural selection at work.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” I screech as he takes another turn down an aisle too fast. “I thought we had a good thing going, but your driving is making me second-guess that. Is this payback for all the cookie dick pics?”
The car jerks to a stop and my head bounces against the headrest.
“What? No. I like your—” He inhales deeply, jaw tight, before glancing over at me. “There are just too many fucking people here. People annoy me.”
I resist smiling. “Shocking revelation. Truly. I don’t know how I missed that.”
“Not helping,” he mutters, easing the car forward at a marginally less homicidal speed.
“You play hockey in front of thousands upon thousands of people multiple times a week,” I remind him. “That’s significantly more people than the number shopping at this specific MetroMart right now.”
“Occupational hazard.” He grips the steering wheel as a man in a Bobcats hoodie does a double take and waves at him through the windshield.
“On the ice, I’m surrounded by plexiglass and the attention’s spread between all the players.
Here, they can walk right up and talk to me. Ask to take photos and shit.”
“The horror,” I reply dryly. “Human interaction in a public space.”
“Mock me all you want,” he grouses, “but you’re not the one who gets stopped at the grocery store and pulled into a conversation about your save percentage.”
“We all have our crosses to bear,” I tell him.
He grins, and for a second I think it’s because of my response.
It’s not.
He cranks the wheel, making a sharp turn and cutting off a red minivan, slotting into the parking spot they’ve clearly been waiting for.
The smile widens as he shifts into park.
I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “What? It’s a spot.”
In the rearview mirror, the minivan driver is giving us the evil eye. I immediately lift a hand in an apologetic wave—sorry, so sorry. I had nothing to do with this. He’s feral. I don’t know what to do with him.
The driver flips us off and peels away.
“You’re a monster,” I tell him.
“I prefer ‘efficient.’” He kills the engine like he didn’t just commit a parking lot crime.
I mutter obscenities under my breath as I unbuckle and prepare to exit the warmth of the car.
“Don’t forget your earmuffs,” he mutters, voice gruff and authoritative.
He reaches over the console, handing them to me with the most serious of expressions.
“Surprised you didn’t hide these from me, considering how much you hate them,” I tease as I slip them over my ears.
He glances over his shoulder as he steps out of the car. “It’s cold and they keep you warm.”
Okay, then.
As we stride toward the store, I link my fingers with Cameron’s. I’m not much of a hand-holder—side effect of being a hand talker—but I’m a little nervous that he may make a run for it if I don’t. He gives my hand a small squeeze and doesn’t let go.
“Our first order of business is hot dogs.” I tug on his hand, dragging him to the small food court by the registers. “I don’t want to shop hangry.”
“I can’t eat the bun,” he says, his tone flat.
“I know. Trust me, okay?”
He replies with a sharp nod. It’s not exactly the enthusiasm MetroMart’s famous dogs deserve, but I’ll take what I can get.
I order two hot dogs sans buns, but with all the fixings, then march straight to the bread aisle while Cameron trails behind me like a tattooed shadow. I grab a package of gluten-free buns, rip it open, and assemble our hot dogs.
His eyes widen, pure incredulity sketched across his features. “Kennedy. You can’t just—”
“Eat something I’m going to buy?” I shrug. “Yes, I can.”
Without breaking eye contact, I bite into my hot dog. The groan that follows is unbidden but well-deserved.
“I cannot believe you just did that.” He peers over his shoulder, as if looking for the FBI agents who are going to rappel down from the ceiling and take me to Guantanamo Bay for eating a hot dog.
“There’s not a rule against it.”
“I feel like ‘societal norms’ is a good enough reason,” he snaps back.
Spine snapping straight, I glare up at him. “Eat the hot dog, Cameron.”
“I’m not eating your stolen goods,” he whisper-yells, his eyes darting from side to side. “Stop trying to make me an accomplice.”
“If I get arrested, it’s definitely not because I ate a bun I’m going to pay for,” I inform him. “It’d be for—”
He covers my mouth with his hand before I can finish the sentence. More like half of my face. Christ, the man has big hands.
“Don’t tell me about your illegal activities.”
I smirk, mumbling nonsense until he removes his hand.
“Says the guy who looks like an extra from Sons of Anarchy,” I tease.
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue the point.
“Eat. The. Hot. Dog.” I hold it out to him, punctuating each word. “Please. I promise it’ll change your life.”
He stares at it like I’m offering him contraband. “This feels wrong.”
“Most good things do.” I shoot him a wink. “Now eat it before I make a scene.”
His jaw twitches as he glances down the aisle. There’s a family of five comparing loaves of wheat bread and an elderly woman feeling up pretzel buns.
“You’re already making a scene.”
“Oh, this?” I gesture at our aisle picnic. “This is nothing. You want a scene, I can give you a scene, baby cakes.”
The nickname earns a real glare, but aggravating him is so much fun.
Finally, he sighs and takes the hot dog. The moment he bites into it, his glower softens. He chews slowly, considering.
“Well?” I prompt.
“It’s… good,” he admits reluctantly, like the words physically pain him.
“It’s the best hot dog you’ve ever had and you know it.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Your face is saying it.”
He takes another bite, bigger this time.
I grin triumphantly. “See? Worth the moral ambiguity.”
“We’re paying for these buns,” he mutters.
“Obviously. I’m not a monster.” I give him a pointed look. “Unlike someone who steals parking spots from minivans.”
“That was strategic positioning.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”
After we finish our hot dogs—and pay for the buns so Cameron can relax—we grab a cart and weave through the warehouse aisles, heading toward the items I’ve listed in the aptly named MetroMart Restock note on my phone.
Without being asked, Cameron pushes the cart and nods, signaling that he’ll follow me. That simple gesture makes my lips curve into a smile. He trails behind me through the baking section and loads the cart with the bags of sugar I need, not once complaining about the weight or quantity.
“How many cookies do you plan to bake?” he asks, eyeing the growing pile.
“I’m pulling back on cookie orders for the next few weeks, but I’d make an exception for you if you’re interested in cock-shaped confections.” I waggle my brows.
“Why are you pulling back?”
I lift a brow at the concern in his tone. “Don’t worry, big guy, business is still booming. Your investment is intact.”
“I don’t give a shit about the money,” he growls, his jaw twitching. “I’m asking why people can’t get your cookies when they clearly want them.”
He looks genuinely offended on behalf of my hypothetical customers, and that makes me feel giddy in a way I shouldn’t.
“I’ll still do some, but I’d rather do them as part of larger dessert tables, not as stand-alone orders,” I explain. “It frees up my schedule to focus on cakes, which I love making. Cookies I just… like making.”
I pluck a bag of powdered sugar off the shelf and add it to our mountain of supplies. “Cookies are fun, and people go crazy for the custom designs. But cakes? That’s where I get to be creative.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. “Cookies are good business, but cakes are what you want to be known for.”
“Exactly.”
In the refrigerated section, I load the big cartons of eggs while Cameron wordlessly rearranges the items to make them fit. For someone who makes his living stopping pucks, he’s got a delicate touch when needed.
Aisle after aisle, we wander, Cameron asking a surprising number of questions as I collect ingredients.
How far in advance do you bake for orders?
Do you ever eyeball it, or is baking too precise for that?
What happens if you mix wet and dry ingredients in the wrong order?
What’s the difference between baking powder and baking soda?
Do you always use the same brands or does that not matter?
The questions are genuine and observational in a way I’m not used to—like he’s interested in not only what I do, but how I do it.
It’s sweet the way he gets quiet after I respond, processing my answers, then asking a follow-up question or moving to another topic.
It feels… domestic. Nice. Easy in a way that makes me forget he’s not actually my boyfriend.
“You’re good at this,” I tell him as we unload the items at checkout.
“Manual labor?”
“At…” I gesture vaguely between us, the cart, the whole situation. “This. Being normal. Even though you hate people and parking lots and probably fun in general.”