Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
kennedy
I may have never taught a class in my life—because teachers possess this elusive, unicorn trait called patience—but I think my setup looks pretty damn good.
I’ve made two stations, each with a stand mixer, piping bags, measuring cups, and printed recipe cards in plastic sleeves.
There are aprons for each of them, and all that’s left to do now is prep the ingredients.
Cameron arrives thirty minutes early, with his hair still damp from a post-practice shower. “How’d the tasting go? What’d they pick?”
I let out a loud laugh. I’ve come to appreciate his lack of standard greeting. What girl needs a hi or hello when she can have a grumpy guy growling questions at her? But really, it’s sweet. He doesn’t want to waste time with pleasantries because he wants to know about my day.
He drops his bag and shucks his coat, watching me with interest.
With a smile, I lean against the counter. “It was great. She chose the champagne cake. How was practice?”
He rolls his eyes and shudders out a breath. “A hot fucking mess.”
“Really?” I tilt forward, curiosity piqued. “Why?”
Cameron’s usual response to that question is “fine” or “good” or another one-worded iteration.
Not because he doesn’t want to tell me, but because to him, practice is just part of his day.
Like eating lunch or drinking a morning coffee.
He doesn’t feel the need to expand because it simply is good and fine.
He shakes his head and steps toward me. “Where to begin? Jake got into it with Henderson, and then Cole stepped in. I’m not sure if that made things better or worse. Then Logan started chirping. It was to take the attention off Jake, but it devolved into a bunch of fights.”
“What did he say?” I ask, a thrill zipping through me. I’m ready for the tea.
“He told Bricks his girlfriend can skate better than he can. That wouldn’t be much of an insult if her leg weren’t broken and she wasn’t stuck in a wheelchair for the time being.
” He lets out a loud breath. “He asked Hayes if his stick was just for show since he hasn’t scored in five games.
Then he told Peruzzi that the only reason he made the team was because his mom fucked the GM. ”
My jaw drops and I audibly gasp. “Did she?”
“No.” Cameron shakes his head. “It was the assistant GM and Peruzzi was already on the team when it happened.”
“Holy fuck,” I say, trying not to smile too brightly.
“Yeah.” Cameron’s chuckle is throaty. “It was intense.”
“I’m low-key living for the drama, though.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “I had a feeling you might be.”
“You played well, though?”
“Mm-hmm.” He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me against him. “I was a bit distracted thinking about this blond baker with freckles and the best ass on this side of the Atlantic.”
I choke out a laugh, my heart flip-flopping a little. “Oh, really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I lightly tap his cheek. “Get that look off your face.”
He shifts closer, testing my resolve. “What look? The one that says I want to be inside you so badly I can barely think straight?”
Heat blooms in my core, but I tamp it down. “Yes, that one.”
“Fine. I’ll wait until later.” He brushes his nose against mine, a slow tease. “Put me to work and tell me about the tasting.”
I have him rinse off dishes while I prep ingredients and spill all the details on the Anderson-Chen tasting.
“He said the Earl Grey was bland?” Cameron looks over his shoulder, unadulterated shock written in the lines on his face. “What the fuck is he expecting? It’s a subtle and simple flavor.”
“Thank you!” I throw up my arms. “He may be the worst Just Tell Me Where to Stand Partner I’ve ever met.”
He tosses the dish rag into the sink and turns to face me fully. “Please expand.”
I laugh, more than delighted to share my labeling system.
“The worst kind of partner is the Just Tell Me Where to Stand Partner. They’re physically present, but mentally already on the honeymoon.
Every decision is ‘whatever you want, babe.’ Their main contribution is showing up and not complaining too loudly. ”
“We hate them,” Cameron replies, but it’s more a question than a statement.
“Correct.” I nod once. “They suck the energy out of the room and usually stress their significant other out rather than let them enjoy the experience.”
He nods to himself as he rinses out a mixing bowl. “Okay. Who’s next?”
“Next, we’ve got the opposite end of the spectrum. The Fully Invested Partner. They’re the ones who veto three font choices for the invitations and know the difference between ivory and champagne linens because they’ve compared them.”
Cameron nods. “Intense, but at least they’re helping.”
I dip my chin. “And my personal favorites—” I pause to drum my hands against the table “—are the Support but Delegate Partner. They care because their partner cares, and they’ll have opinions about the big stuff but won’t die on any hills that involve napkin colors or frosting flavors.”
“Those sound like the best,” he agrees. “Involved, but not in a way that’ll get them banished to the couch for the foreseeable future.”
An unexpected laugh flies from my lips. “You get it.”
While we wait for Tyler, we get back to work, and I regale him with spectacularly memorable experiences—like the groom who asked mid-tasting, in front of me, if they could just get a MetroMart sheet cake to save money because “all cakes taste the same.”
The rookie arrives twenty minutes later, looking absolutely panicked by his tardiness. Cameron’s scowl doesn’t help, though my reassuring smile doesn’t seem to put him at ease either.
I elbow Cameron and shoot him a look. “Don’t stress, Tyler,” I say to the rookie. “Is everything okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair and puffs out a breath. “Yeah. I’m helping plan my brother-in-law’s bachelor party, and his groomsmen are… scratch that, one groomsman, is the bane of my existence. I spent an hour explaining why we can’t hire fire dancers.”
Cameron cocks his head to the left. “Instead of strippers?”
Snorting, Tyler shakes his head. “No strippers either way. The fire dancers are for ‘ambiance.’” He uses finger quotes around the word.
I hum. “They’re popular in Hawaii as part of—”
“The bachelor party is in Florida,” Tyler interrupts, his voice flat. “Boca, to be exact.”
“My grandparents live there,” I comment, lips twitching.
“So do mine,” he says. “We’re staying at their house.”
Cameron barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Doesn’t your future brother-in-law have a house in Monaco?”
This only seems to stoke Tyler’s ire. “Yes.”
“Ah. I see why the fire dancers would raise some questions,” I admit with an apologetic smile.
“Exactly.” He shakes his head as if it’ll erase the stress. “Anyway, that’s why I was late. I’m ready to bake now, though.”
“Then let’s do it. We’re making cookies and cinnamon rolls.” I clap once, then gesture to the ingredients I’ve laid out—flour, yeast, butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon.
Tyler shuffles toward Richard Mixon, but I quickly redirect him. “Your ingredients are in front of Count Mixula.”
Sophie and Maya bought me a second KitchenAid mixer in celebration of the kitchen space. I was going to name it Miximus Prime, but then Cameron came up with the vampire-inspired name, which was obviously the way better option.
“Why does it matter which mixer?” Tyler asks, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Not that I’m upset with Count Mixula or anything.”
“Cameron’s ingredients are celiac friendly.” I point to the gluten-free flour. “Yours are not.”
Cameron’s playful expression softens as he takes in the ingredients laid out specifically for him. If he thought I’d force him to bake treats he can’t enjoy, he clearly doesn’t know me at all.
“Oh shit, I didn’t know you were celiac.
” Tyler turns to Cameron. “Have you been to Felix’s?
I went a couple of weeks ago. Their gluten-free pizza is better than their normal—sorry, not that celiac isn’t normal—I just mean it’s better than the regular one they have.
And not like ‘good for gluten-free better’ but legitimately better.
We can go sometime if you want.” He snaps his mouth shut, his eyes wide and his ears going pink.
If it wouldn’t send Cameron into cardiac arrest, I’d kiss Tyler on the lips (platonically) for how effortlessly kind he is. Cameron’s celiac isn’t a secret, but he hates feeling like an inconvenience, and Tyler’s invitation is so easily offered.
We start on the cookie dough since they’ll need time to cool completely before decorating.
The two men duke it out over who gets what cookie cutter like they’re negotiating draft picks.
Tyler’s very passionate about the star shape, which Cameron doesn’t care for.
But Cameron nearly gives the rookie a black eye when he lunges for the rocket ship.
When I raise a brow at his reaction, he simply shrugs.
“I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid.”
In order to maintain my composure, I have to press my lips together for a moment. I don’t have the heart to remind him that the rocket ship shape in his hand doubles as my dick cookie cutter.
Besides half of Tyler’s dough ending up in his stomach rather than the cookie sheet, the experience is seamless.
As the cookies bake, we move onto cinnamon rolls.
Normally, I’d use yeast, but since this is a beginner-level class and Tyler told me in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t have the patience to wait two to three hours for cinnamon rolls, we pivot and use biscuit dough as our base instead.
The conversation is easy and light as I lead them through the process, and by the time we pop them into the oven, the cookies have cooled and Cameron seems much more at ease with his teammate.