My heart skips a beat. What are the chances that two non-spam calls to my personal number turn into opportunities? What if theBoston Heraldwants 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 theendbutton 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 clickplayon the first voicemail.
“Hi, Kennedy. This is Ray Lyon withThe 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 fromBoston 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 fromSportsDaily. 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.”
