Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
kennedy
I’m halfway through The Real Housewives of Las Vegas reunion when the lock on my door turns. I don’t move an inch, knowing it’s Cameron. I gave him a spare key after he nearly blew a gasket at me for leaving it unlocked for him.
At his lack of greeting, I sit up and turn toward the door. “Cam?”
“You give anyone else your key?” he asks from the entryway, though I can’t see him.
“No.” I roll my eyes. “But you usually make a big deal about announcing yourself.”
“Because you nearly knocked me out with a baking sheet the last time I didn’t.”
“Having your ass slapped when you think you’re alone in your apartment is terrifying,” I defend myself. “And it should be impossible for you to move so quietly when you’re the size of Sasquatch.”
He walks into the living room, a small smile on his lips. “I feel like I should be offended that you keep comparing me to mythical creatures.”
“Who said Sasquatch isn’t real?”
“Science.”
With a heavy exhale, he drops onto the couch, his body folding awkwardly as he tries to fit his six-five frame into the space. He settles his head in my lap with a bone-deep groan.
I thread my fingers through his hair, and instantly, he melts against me, the tension in his shoulders easing. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he says. “It’s not official yet, but we found out who the new team owner is.”
His eyes are closed, lashes dark against his cheeks so he can’t see the smile tugging at my lips.
Apparently, the team’s previous owner has been considering selling for months, and Gigi’s idiotic actions forced his hand.
According to the rumor mill—a.k.a. Logan, who somehow knows everything—she’s also been completely cut off from her trust fund. Karma really is a bitch.
That news didn’t stop Cameron from having his assistant scatter all five hundred keys with Gigi’s number on them throughout Boston, though.
“Who?”
“Jake’s dad.”
My hand freezes mid-stroke. “I’m sorry… what?”
He chuckles, the sound low and vibrating against my thigh. “Technically, his company is handling the acquisition. The paperwork hasn’t been signed, but it’s pretty much a done deal.”
I don’t know anything about Jake’s relationship with his dad, but based on the edge in Cameron’s tone, it’s not a good one.
“Holy shit. Is he even allowed to do that? Don’t leagues have rules about conflicts of interest?”
“When you’re a billionaire, there’s not much you can’t do, sweetheart,” he says through a weary sigh, his eyes still closed. “And from a purely professional standpoint, it makes sense. It’s a good business decision.”
“How high on our shit list is he?”
“Our shit list?” His lips quirk slightly, amusement flickering across his exhausted features.
“Yes. We share a shit list now. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine, baby.” I resume stroking his hair, watching his face carefully. “So where does Jake’s dad rank?”
“High,” he finally answers, his jaw tightening. “Very high.”
Interesting.
“Why don’t we like him?”
“You know I love you,” he says, opening his eyes to meet mine, his expression apologetic, “but it’s complicated and not my story to tell. I don’t even know all the details. Just enough to know that man has left some serious damage in his wake.” With that, his eyes flutter shut again.
I shift, settling in further, and go back to stroking his hair, letting my fingers work through the tangles. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He peers up at me again, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re not going to seduce me into telling you?”
I choke out a laugh. “No, Cameron, I’m not going to deploy my womanly wiles to get to the bottom of Jake’s daddy issues.”
At least not today.
His hand finds mine, and he laces our fingers together and gives me a grateful squeeze. “How was your day?”
“Exhausting,” I admit, unable to keep the proud smile off my face. “But productive.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, his tone bordering between demanding and pleading.
I tell him about my latest orders—a four-tier wedding cake for a couple who want each layer to represent a different season and a corporate event requesting two hundred custom cupcakes.
I describe the interview I had with a potential assistant, a culinary school grad who seems promising.
Then I show him photos of the mural Sophie finished for the entryway, the sprawling design that makes it feel welcoming and homey instead of boring and beige.
The order inquiries and commissions have been rolling in nonstop since news of Cameron’s investment broke.
I had to wade through mountains of emails from weirdos and opportunists for the first few weeks—people asking for money; pitching their own “groundbreaking” business ideas; or worse, propositioning me with messages that went straight to trash.
But then the world moved on to other “scandals.”
Huge shout out to the Devils player who started a full-blown WWE match during a game and got suspended for the next eight.
Sure, maybe people initially heard of me through Cameron. Maybe his name opened doors that would’ve stayed closed otherwise. But they remain open because of my baking, because of the quality of my work, and because I’m damn good at what I do.
Cameron listens intently, his thumb tracing absent circles on the back of my hand.
He asks about flavor profiles, about the potential assistant’s experience, about whether I’m charging enough for my time.
Of course, he also makes snide remarks about customers who are being “stupid dumbass idiots,” which is a new three-for-one insult I absolutely adore and plan to steal.
We talk until my stomach grumbles loudly enough to interrupt me mid-sentence.
“What do you want to do for dinner?” I ask, glancing toward the kitchen. “I don’t have a lot in the fridge, so we’ll probably have to order in.”
“Felix’s,” he suggests without missing a beat.
I laugh. “Again?”
“I thought you liked it there, too,” he says, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “But we can order something else if you want—”
“Felix’s is perfect,” I cut him off, squeezing his hand.
Tyler, the sweet and sensitive soul that he is, ordered pizza for the whole team from Felix’s after a big win last month.
He didn’t make a big deal out of it or draw attention to the gesture, but he quietly let Cameron know that every single pizza was safe for him to eat.
He ordered exclusively gluten-free, and no one else on the team was any the wiser.
It’s now Cameron’s favorite restaurant. I wouldn’t be surprised if his next business investment involves buying a stake in the place. The way his face lights up when we pull into their parking lot is genuinely adorable.
“You sure?” he asks, already looking more relaxed at the prospect. “I know I’m predictable.”
“You’re consistent,” I correct, tapping his nose with my pointer finger. “Besides, their burrata is incredible.”
He grins up at me.
My stomach flips, taking a momentary break from the hunger pangs.
“God,” he says, “I love you.”
“For enabling your Felix’s addiction?”
“Among other things.” He pulls me down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “But yeah, mostly that. You’re sure you’re fine with it?”
I wink. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not particularly skilled at lying to make people feel better.”
He barks out a laugh. “Using my own logic against me?”
“Something like that.” I hover closer and kiss him. “And by the way, I love you, too.”
He scrolls through his phone to place an online order, his brow furrowed in concentration like he’s studying game footage instead of a restaurant menu he’s memorized. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the ends.
I love how he’s quiet and content and existing in my space like he belongs here.
Because he does belong here. And I belong with him.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up, a smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m admiring,” I tease. “There’s a difference.”
“Consistent and admirable.” He finally looks at me, eyes teasing. “You’re really working the positive spin tonight.”
“I learned from the best,” I point out. “You fake-dated me so well I actually fell in love with you. That’s some premium-level acting.”
His expression softens, phone forgotten in his hand. “Sweetheart, I stopped acting about two weeks in. Everything after that? That was just me hoping you’d eventually catch up.”
My heart does that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he says things like this—casual devastating honesty delivered like it’s nothing but a simple truth.
“Well,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly thick, “I caught up.”
“Yeah.” He sets his phone down and maneuvers me until I’m draped across his body. “You really did.”
We may have started off fake, but like this—lying here in my apartment with Cameron’s arms around my waist, gluten-free pizza on the way, and my favorite show cued up on the TV—I’ve never felt anything more real in my entire life.