“I was scared that I didn’t measure up,” I admit, voice small. “You and Frankie are so accomplished, and I dropped out of law school for… a pastry kitchen.”
She leans across the table and smacks me in the tit. It’s a sisterly move that I’ve done more times than I can count, but Cameron looks positively scandalized. I choke out a wet laugh at the way he looks from Amelia to my chest, his ears turning red.
“Kennedy Ariel,” Amelia snaps. “Are you seriously telling me you think that by possessing a degree, I’m somehow better than you?”
“You’re a financial detective,” I choke out.
“And you make people happy.” Her voice is fierce. “You create beautiful and delicious things and turned a passion into a business from nothing. Do you know how often I pull up your Instagram so I can brag about you?”
My breath catches.
I don’t. I really don’t.
Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been so busy comparing myself to everyone else that I never stopped to appreciate my dreams.
A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe at it angrily. “This wasn’t supposed to make me cry. I hate crying.”
Cameron leans over and presses a quick kiss to my hair, his lips warm. It’s a simple gesture, barely more than a brush of contact, but it’s grounding in a way I didn’t know I needed. A silent message that saysI’m herewithout words.
“For what it’s worth, you would’ve made a terrible lawyer,” Leo teases, cutting through any remaining tension. “You’re far too combative, and who knows what kind of justice you’d enact if things didn’t go your way in court.”
I let out a watery laugh as all the weight of the secret leaves my body, and the certainty that I’d disappoint everyone who matters pops like a balloon.
“Now tell us about this kitchen.” Amelia drums her fingers on the table, her face lit up. “I want to know everything. Square footage, equipment, all of it.”
So I do. I tell them about the space, the industrial ovens, the walk-in cooler, and the perfect prep stations. Every few sentences, I catch myself downplaying or adding a disclaimer, but Amelia and Cameron pull me back, asking questions and celebrating details I thought were too small to matter.
Leo asks about my business plan, my insurance, and whether I’ve consulted a lawyer about the investment agreement with Cameron. But neither he nor Amelia questions my choices. They just want to make sure I’m protected.
“I want to see it in person,” Amelia announces when I finally finish my spiel. “And try everything.”
“Her snickerdoodle cookies are my favorite,” Cameron says with a smile that’s unusually bashful.
“Snickerdoodles are my favorite dogs,” Hope says, completely serious.
I hadn’t realized she was listening. She seemed so engrossed in finishing her food so she can get back to her art project. Cameron and I exchange a look before bursting into laughter, and just like that, the rest of my anxiety dissipates, like someoneopened a window in a stuffy room and I can finally breathe again.
Amelia smiles at me. “What do you two have planned before you head back to Boston? Anything fun?”
“We have tickets to seeHamilton,” Cameron announces.
I whip around and blink at him. “No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“We checked this morning,” I remind him.
Well,Ichecked this morning. I scrolled through ticket sites while Cameron was on the phone with his manager. The Sunday matinee forHamiltonwas completely sold out. There were tickets available forCharlie and the Chocolate FactoryandLion King, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Cameron’s hard-on for history is the only reason he was even willing to sit throughHamilton.
“I’m the best goalie in the NHL, sweetheart, of course I got tickets.” He says it with absolutely no shame, like it’s a statement of fact. Which, sure, it is, but still. “Orchestra level, middle section, aisle seats.”
Aisle seats so he can sit with his leg stretched out.
Warmth blooms in my chest, and before I can think better of it, or remember we have an audience, I lean over and plant a kiss on his lips. It’s not subtle or brief. It’s the kind that makes Hope break into squeals and clap.
When I pull back, Cameron’s smirking like he’s just finished a shutout game.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
