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 labeledGrumpy 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? Andhowdid 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 swipeaccept. 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 learnnothingfrom 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 theyou squeeze it, we freeze it.
“Oh, okay.” The woman on the other end of the call clears her throat. “I’m Ashley Lowenstein. With theBoston Herald.”
