Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
kennedy
I’m in love with Cameron Davies and I’m really fucking annoyed about it.
So annoyed that instead of developing gluten for an order of scones, I end up punching it into submission.
The dough fights back, clinging to my knuckles.
Dumb, stupid dough. Who does Cameron think he is, making me fall in love with him like he’s some kind of sexy, tattooed, talented, secretly sweet man?
Fuck him.
Ugh.
I punch the dough again, harder this time.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to stay in a neat little box labeled Grumpy Goalie I’m Fake Dating.
He wasn’t supposed to let his guard down.
He wasn’t supposed to let me see the man beneath all that carefully constructed armor.
A man who actually listens when I talk about buttercream ratios, who remembers small details I’ve mentioned in passing, who sends me a period care package because he knows I have bad cramps, who looks at me like I’m more than just a convenient solution.
“What did that dough ever do to you, sweetheart?”
Jumping, I spin around, heart rate spiking, and find the man himself leaning against the kitchen doorframe, two coffee cups in his hands and that infuriatingly perfect half smile on his face.
I punch the dough extra hard. “It gave me a funny look.”
Smirking, he pushes off the wooden frame, wandering over, and sets one of the cups on the counter beside me. “That’s for you. Oat milk, extra shot of vanilla.”
My heart does a stupid little flip. Of course he knows my order, the same way I know his. “What are you doing here? And how did you get in here? I locked the door.”
“I know the code. I’m the one who upgraded your security, Kenn,” he reminds me.
Oh, right. After he found the back door unlocked a couple of weeks ago, he lectured me for thirty minutes on safety protocols and then purchased and installed a top-of-the-line security system.
Complete with cameras, motion sensors, and a keypad that looks like it belongs in a bank vault.
I told him it was overkill, and he ignored me. Very on brand for us.
“And my session with Marcus got pushed, so I had some free time.” He props himself up against the counter, completely at ease in my kitchen. Like he belongs here. “I saw the decal on the front window when I parked.”
I wipe the flour from my hands onto my apron. “Looks good, right?”
“Mm-hmm. Sophie still going to paint a mural on the wall?”
“Yep.”
I turned the front area into a small consultation space. It’s nothing fancy, but it gives me an area to meet with customers and set up tastings. I no longer have to apologize for meeting them in a coffee shop or try to make my apartment look professional.
“I’m sure she’ll do a—”
My phone vibrates itself to the corner of the counter, an unfamiliar number flashing on my screen.
“I think someone took a page out of my book and put my number on a list for spam callers,” I tell Cameron, snickering. “This is the sixth call I’ve gotten in the past hour.”
He chuckles, knowing how much I enjoy toying with telemarketers. “And you didn’t answer?”
“My hands have been otherwise occupied.” I survey the four cakes on the counter waiting to be decorated, the huge box of chocolate chip muffins, and then the oven, where three dozen cookies are baking.
“Fair enough,” he muses, handing me my phone.
I swipe accept. The caller has probably already disconnected, but I go for it anyway. “First National Sperm Bank, are you calling to make a deposit or a withdrawal?”
“Is—sorry, is this not Kennedy Caplan? With Crumb & Co.?”
Motherfucker.
My stomach plummets to the floor.
Did I learn nothing from my original call with Diane Weber?
“Sorry, yes, this is Kennedy,” I admit, cheeks flaming. “I thought you were a telemarketer.”
Cam’s eyes widen in horror and he stumbles back a step. At least I didn’t add the you squeeze it, we freeze it.
“Oh, okay.” The woman on the other end of the call clears her throat. “I’m Ashley Lowenstein. With the Boston Herald.”
My heart skips a beat. What are the chances that two non-spam calls to my personal number turn into opportunities?
What if the Boston Herald wants to do a piece on one of my cakes?
Maybe a journalist saw that I was tagged in one of Grace Ashford’s Instagram photos.
It was a carousel post, and there was only an artsy photo of the table and half a piece of cake from the tasting, but still.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say after an awkward pause.
“I’m calling to see if you’d be interested in giving us a quote for our upcoming article on Crumb & Co.”
Jaw dropping, I toss Cameron a thumbs-up. “Yes, of course.”
“Great,” Ashley replies, her tone brisk and professional. “When did Cameron Davies first approach you about backing Crumb & Co., and were you concerned at all about the optics, given your personal relationship?”
The words hit me like ice water, every muscle going rigid.
Investment. Cameron Davies. Relationship.
I wheeze out a breath. “I-I’m sorry, what?”
“The investment,” she repeats, voice even, as if she’s reading from notes.
“Our sources confirmed that Cameron Davies provided significant financial backing to Crumb & Co. after your initial bank loan application was rejected due to credit issues. We’re running the story tomorrow, and I wanted to give you a chance to comment before we go to print. ”
I squeeze the phone so hard that my knuckles ache. “How did you—” I stop myself, my mind racing, my heart cracking right down the middle.
This isn’t a feature piece… it’s a fucking exposé.
“No comment.”
“Kennedy, I really think it would be in your best interest to—”
“I said no comment.”
I stab the end button with a finger, a sense of numbness creeping into my bones.
How do they know about Cameron’s investment? Why do they care?
That’s a dumb question. Of course they care. The best goalie in the league invests in a bakery that just so happens to be owned by his girlfriend. Sounds suspicious as fuck with a side of favoritism and a heaping scoop of sleeping my way into a business deal.
Cameron hovers close, asking me what happened. I don’t answer. Instead, I scroll to my voicemail inbox. There are five new messages, all from the past hour, all that I assumed were spam but now have a sinking feeling are anything but.
With a shaking finger, I hit the speaker button and click play on the first voicemail.
“Hi, Kennedy. This is Ray Lyon with The Atlantic. I’m calling about your pastry kitchen and Cameron Davies’s involvement in the financing. If you could give me a call back at—”
I tap the screen, moving to the next one.
“Ms. Caplan, this is Jennifer Wu from Boston Magazine. We’re doing a piece on athlete investments in local businesses and would love to get your perspective on—”
Next.
“Kennedy, Jordyn Michaelson here from Sports Daily. Listen, we’re running a story on Cameron Davies and his off-ice activities, and your bakery came up as a point of interest. Specifically, we’re looking into whether there’s a conflict of interest given your romantic relationship and—”
Pulse pounding, I cut the message off.
The next voicemail on the list causes my spine to stiffen. It’s from Diane.
“Hi, Kennedy. It’s Diane Weber. I just got a call from a reporter friend who knows you’re doing the cake for the Ashford-Chen wedding.
He asked whether I knew Cameron Davies was involved in your business.
I didn’t tell them anything, but honey, you need to get ahead of this. Call me back as soon as you can.”
The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the counter. I stare at it, certain it’s a bomb set to detonate.
Cameron gently urges me onto a nearby chair and crouches next to me, worry lines creasing his forehead. “I don’t—this wasn’t… I didn’t—”
“I know.” Not for a single second did I think that Cameron would give out that information. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is.” His jaw clenches. “My investment should’ve been under lock and key. That’s what I promised you. I’m going to fucking destroy whoever messed up.”
I rub my eyes, the past fifteen minutes suddenly feeling like fifteen hours. “You don’t have to do anything. This isn’t your problem.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Are you going to break up with me just because my end of the bargain was compromised?”
I can’t even begin to decode what he’s asking, but anger overrules despair for the first time since Ashley’s call. “What? No. Obviously not. And fuck you for thinking that. I—”
“Exactly, so why the fuck do you think I’d let you handle this on your own?”
We stay like that, glaring at one another, until the fight drains out of me. “Fine.”
“Fine.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m going to grab my phone out of the car so I can call Sloane. And my lawyer. And anyone else I can think of who can help me figure out what the fuck happened. Okay?”
I nod, but the kitchen feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I built this. I worked for this. I earned this.
But I can already picture the headlines, the social media posts, the Reddit threads that will dissect every detail of my relationship with Cameron, every success I’ve earned in this industry.
Every wedding cake. Every new customer. Every five-star review. They’ll all be marked with an asterisk now. Of course she succeeded—her boyfriend’s a millionaire athlete.
I think I’m going to be sick.
My phone buzzes with a text. Then two more in rapid succession. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help myself.
Unknown
Sleeping with someone for a business loan? Classy.
Unknown
Gold digger alert.
Unknown
Does Cameron know you’re using him? Your cakes probably suck anyway. Can’t succeed on talent so you had to fuck your way to the top.
With trembling hands, I block the numbers. Then I turn off my device. Cameron’s back five minutes later, phone pressed to his ear, body so tightly wound I worry he may combust. He scoops me up, taking my spot before settling me in his lap.
“I don’t know, Sloane.” He huffs out a breath.
While Sloane responds, he angles in and presses a kiss to my shoulder, the sweet gesture in stark contrast to the “hell hath no fury” look on his face. “Call my lawyer,” he barks. “And my manager. I don’t know who I’m suing yet, but it sure as fuck is going to be someone.”
He ends the call and zeroes in on me, his eyes swimming with concern. “We’re going to figure this out, sweetheart.”
My chest cracks at the care in his words and actions. “That won’t stop the world from thinking that the only reason I’m successful is because you wrote me a check.”
Frustration burns in his eyes—not at me, but at the situation and his inability to fix it. “That’s not true.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true. That’s what they’ll think.” My voice breaks. Inhaling a shaky breath, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, as if that will stop the tears from welling.
“I’ll release a statement saying the investment is legitimate, that you have a solid business plan, and that my personal life has nothing to do with my professional decisions. Because that’s the truth, Kenn. We—”
“No.” The word comes fast and sharp, so I take another breath in and slowly release it. “I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to have to defend myself for taking an investment. I just—” My voice cracks. “I want everyone to leave me alone.”
He cradles the back of my head against his chest. “You can be alone, sweetheart, but we’re going to be alone together, okay?”
I lean into him, eyes screwed shut, letting myself take comfort in the solid warmth of him, not believing it’ll work out, but wanting to so badly.