Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
kennedy
With a sigh, I shift in the leather seat of the black town car Cameron ordered. I figured we’d take a rideshare, but Cameron looked at me like I’d grown a second head when I mentioned that. He grumbled “fuck no” and then went into the bathroom to sponge bathe.
I glance at the bruised goalie on my left. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He looks up from his phone and rolls his eyes.
Drama king.
“I’m fine.”
“Right, but when I say I’m fine, I’m usually not fine.”
He levels me with a glare that would probably have his opponents on the ice knocking each other over to hide in the penalty box.
I simply wait him out.
He tried to hide his bruise this morning so I wouldn’t see how terrible it looks now. But it’d be impossible to miss the deep purple-black mark on his inner thigh unless I wore a blindfold.
“Kennedy, I’m fine,” he grumbles. “And if you ask me again if I want to cancel brunch, I’m going to think you’re the one who wants to cancel.”
A scoff escapes me. “Why would I want to cancel? I love brunch.”
He turns to the window, watching as skyscrapers whiz by as our driver navigates the streets like a pro. “Maybe because you don’t want me to meet your sister.”
I wave off the notion. “Don’t be stupid.”
He shrugs, but when he lowers his shoulders again, they sink, and there’s vulnerability there I haven’t noticed.
Oh. He actually thinks I don’t want him to meet my sister.
I lace my fingers with his and rest them on the empty middle seat. “Fallon texted me this morning and told me to avoid sex for forty-eight hours because it could aggravate your bruise. Clearly, we did not do that, so yeah, I’m a little worried that your leg is hurting and you need to rest.”
Cameron and our driver—through the rearview mirror—shoot me matching looks of horror.
Whatever. As if sex between two consulting adults is so taboo.
“Fallon told you that we shouldn’t have sex? That’s so fucking out of line,” he practically growls. “How did she even get your number? She—”
I squeeze his hand. “Before you get all riled up, Cole gave her my number so she could check in on you and get an accurate answer since she rightfully predicted that you’d underplay it. And she only told me about the sex rule because I specifically asked about it.”
His mouth drops. “You asked Fallon if we could have sex?”
“I asked the Bobcats’ athletic trainer if I could have sex with the starting goalie while he’s injured,” I correct, releasing his hand and patting him on his good leg. “And she was totally chill about it. She’s great, by the way. We’re grabbing drinks next week.”
“Kennedy.” His tone is resigned, like he can’t believe I did that, but his lips twitch a little, like he finds the whole situation kind of funny.
I smile brightly. “Now do you see why I’m concerned? It has nothing to do with you meeting my sister.”
He gives my hand a quick squeeze in response and doesn’t let go.
“I do have a request before you meet Amelia, though,” I admit, going for casual and failing spectacularly.
He raises a brow, a signal to continue.
“Can you maybe… not mention anything about Crumb & Co. kitchen?”
I pray he’ll leave it at that, knowing damn well he won’t.
Right on cue he asks, “Why?”
Easy question, complicated answer. I falter as I consider how to explain years of inadequacy in a way that doesn’t make me sound pathetic. “It’s complicated.”
“More complicated than Nick stealing Jennifer’s vote and then Dan using his immunity idol, only for Carl to play his idol nullifier?”
“Ugh, don’t talk dirty to me when we can’t have sex for another twenty-four hours.” I wiggle, giddy over how much he’s gotten into Survivor. “But yes, a little more complicated than that.”
“Explain.”
It’s a response that’s so Cameron—brusque and abrupt—that I can’t help but smile. Doesn’t mean I’m going to do what he says, but still. It’s cute.
“I want to understand,” he tries again, softer this time, his eyes searching mine.
Head tipped back against the seat, I study the ceiling of the car. It’s pristine, probably detailed weekly. Without a spot to fix my attention on, I let my eyes go out of focus while I search for the right words.
“You already know my dad’s one of the most respected historians in his field,” I start, glancing over. “What you don’t know is that my mom’s a pediatric oncologist, Amelia’s a forensic accountant, and Frankie’s a biomedical engineer.”
“Okay,” he says with an easy shrug. There’s no surprise in his expression, as if he’s not impressed.
“And then there’s me.” I smile wanly and laugh, but the sound is hollow. “I dropped out of law school, have had more part-time jobs than I can count on both hands, and paid for a year-long porn subscription just to make sure my dick cookies were anatomically accurate.”
He doesn’t respond, but he watches me intently, waiting, listening.
“They love me,” I continue, my throat tight. “I’ve never once doubted that. And they’re supportive in their own way, but the kitchen is mine—”
“Kenn—”
“It’s the first thing I’ve done that feels real.” I need to get this out before I lose my nerve. “That feels like it could actually turn into something, and I need to prove to myself that I can do this before I have to prove it to them.”
Silence stretches between us. With each second that passes, more dread seeps in. I want to unlock the car door and roll into traffic. I want to take back every word I just spilled across the expensive leather interior of this car.
But then Cameron lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss to my knuckles with a gentleness that seems impossible for someone the size of a yeti.
Then he opens his mouth: “That’s stupid.”
That response has my feelings of inadequacy quickly rolling into anger, and fire ignites in my veins. “Excuse me?”
“That’s stupid,” he reiterates, as if he really thinks I need him to repeat himself.
“Why is it stupid?” I snatch my hand from his and cross my arms over my chest. “I plan to tell them after the Ashford-Chen wedding.”
“Sure, your career path is different from theirs and not what you originally thought it’d be, but that doesn’t make it any less legitimate.”
“I know, but—”
He shifts so he’s facing me, wincing a little as he does. “Are you proud of yourself?”
The question stops me cold. I open my mouth, then close it again.
Am I? I haven’t let myself sit with that question long enough to come up with an honest answer.
Every time I have a particularly successful event, a new client, or a recipe that finally works, I move the goalpost. There’s always the next thing to achieve, the next milestone to hit.
I never pause to celebrate, to be proud of what I’ve already done.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts.” Cameron pinches my chin between his fingers and tilts my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Let yourself be proud without conditions or clauses. Stop waiting for permission from other people to feel good about what you’ve built.”
His words settle over me, heavy and true.
I swallow hard and nod, because at the end of the day, I am proud.
I have a walk-in cooler big enough for all my inventory without having to play Tetris with cake boxes.
I can make buttercream ahead of time and store it properly.
I have repeat clients who request me specifically.
I made eight dozen cupcakes on Tuesday morning, which would’ve taken me two full days at home.
I did that.
Sure, Cameron’s investment made the expansion possible, but he’s never once held that over my head.
He’s never brought it up or acted like I owe him anything beyond what we agreed to on paper.
Honestly, he doesn’t even act like he invested at all.
He treats this like my business. If he asks questions, it’s because he’s genuinely curious.
Not because he’s checking in to ensure I’m doing what he thinks I should be.
Whatever we are now, it stopped being about business somewhere between period cramps, MetroMart, and wearing the wrong jersey.
“You’re right,” I finally say, my voice quiet.
“I usually am,” he says with that slight smirk, but his eyes are soft. “Also, your sister’s a forensic accountant? We really need to talk about why you thought it’d be a good idea to consider tax fraud.”
I wave the thought away with the flick of my hand. “Nah. She owes me for all the times I covered for her when she was out past curfew.”
Cameron chuckles as our driver pulls up to the restaurant.
“I won’t say anything about the kitchen,” he murmurs, suddenly serious, “but I think you should. You deserve to be proud of yourself. Let your family be proud, too. I know I am.”
The sincerity in voice makes my throat constrict. It’s rare for someone to see what I’m doing and genuinely recognize the weight of it, the effort, the fear and determination all tangled together. But maybe it’s because I haven’t given them the chance to.
“I’ll think about it,” I reply softly.
“Ta-da!”
My niece Hope lifts Cameron’s arm like she’s the referee at a playoff game declaring the winner, her tiny hands gripping his wrist. Scratch that. Cameron’s the one holding his arm up, muscles flexed just enough to keep it steady so she thinks she’s doing all the heavy lifting.
His tattoos are no longer stark black line work but a rainbow of color courtesy of Hope and her washable markers. A tulip on his forearm is now hot pink and lime green, and the compass near his elbow has been given a purple center with orange rays shooting out like a sunset.
She beams up at him with gap-toothed pride, and Cameron looks down at her handiwork with a pleased smile.
“What do you think?” she asks, bouncing in her seat. “It’s beautiful, right?”
“It’s a masterpiece,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.
My chest squeezes inconveniently.
“Time to eat your breakfast, Hope,” my brother-in-law Leo says. “It’s getting cold.”