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, Iamproud. 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’sbeautiful, 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.”
She’s been too focused on Cameron’s arm to take more than a bite or two of her eggs and waffle. Not that I blame her. It’s a damn good arm.
She scrunches her nose. “But his other arm isn’t pretty yet.”
“You can make my other arm beautiful once you’re done eating,” Cameron compromises, a smile tugging at his lips. “Deal?”
He briefly cuts his glance to Leo, double-checking that he hasn’t overstepped, but Leo’s already back to enjoying his coffee, probably thankful someone else is negotiating with his tenacious daughter.
She nods, her blond pigtails shaking. “Deal.”
She pets his arm like it’s a fluffy animal, then releases him. Cameron makes a big show of letting his arm drop, barelymissing a plate loaded with pancakes and syrup and whipped cream. She bursts into another round of giggles.
He rests the now free arm on the back of my chair, focusing his attention back on Amelia. “This place is great. I haven’t had pancakes this good in… I can’t remember how long, to be honest.”
“It’s one of our favorites,” she reveals with a wink.
