Hi Kennedy,
I hope this email finds you well. I’m writing regarding the cake commission for the Ashford-Chen wedding. After careful consideration and discussion with the family, we have made the difficult decision to terminate our contract effective immediately.
As you know, the Ashford and Chen families maintain very high-profile public images, and given the recent media attention surrounding your association with Mr. Cameron Davies—particularly in light of his on-ice conduct last night—we feel this is in everyone’s best interest.
I want to be clear that this decision reflects no judgment on your talent or professionalism. Perhaps when things settle down, we will come upon an opportunity to collaborate.
I wish you all the best moving forward.
Warm regards,
Diane Weber
I stare at the email until the words blur together. It’s not unexpected. In my gut Iknewthis kind of media scrutinywouldn’t bode well for a high-profile wedding, but the confirmation still stings.
Six thousand dollars and five tiers of champagne cake with raspberry filling gone just like that. And the worst part? I can’t even be mad. Perception matters as much as reality in certain situations. Honestly, Diane’s mention of a potential working relationship in the future is more than I hoped for.
I set my phone on the counter with a deep breath out and head to take a shower. The bathroom tile is cold under my feet as I twist the nozzle and turn it so it’s as hot as it’ll go. When steam billows out on the other side of the glass door, I tug Cameron’s t-shirt over my head and drop it in a heap on the floor.
The water hits my skin like needles, almost too hot, but I don’t adjust it. I let it beat against my shoulders and down my back, watching the steam rise around me.
Losing the Ashford-Chen wedding should be sending me into a full panic. Instead, I just feel… over it.
Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet or maybe I’ve been grieving it for the past twenty-four hours without realizing. Maybe Cameron pushing me to tell Amelia made me appreciate that my opinion should matter to me more than anyone else’s, and even without the contract, I’m still proud of myself.
I’m lost in thought, still standing under the shower’s spray, when Cameron says my name, his voice deep and sleep addled. Startled, I nearly trip over myself. My heart slams against my ribs as I spin and find my no-longer-fake boyfriend standing a foot away from the glass shower doors like a creepy kid in a horror movie.
He’s wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, looking at me with those green eyes that make my chest ache in the best way possible.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, pressing a hand to my chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Does he apologize? Nope. He simply strips naked and opens the shower door, letting the cold air in momentarily as he joins me and steps under the spray. Trying to, at least.
“Your shower is small,” he comments, maneuvering himself to get the other side of his body wet.
“My shower is normal.” I move a piece of hair plastered to my cheek. “You’re just the size of a Viking, but with a way better ass.”
“Were Vikings known for their lackluster butts?”
I shrug, lips quirking up. “No. I just wanted to compliment yours.”
He laughs, wrapping his arms around me and nuzzling into my neck. “I saw the email, sweetheart.”
“The one about the cruise?” I ask, tucking my head into his chest. “I’ve always wanted to go to Saint Lucia.”
“Kennedy,” he grumbles.
“Oh, c’mon, that was funny.” I tilt my head back, resting my chin on his chest. “It’s rude to look through someone’s phone, by the way. Total invasion of privacy.”
He leans down and rests his forehead against mine, water dripping down our faces and into our eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry. It’s my fault you lost out on the contract.”
“A big contract.”
“I know.”
“One that would’ve been amazing for my portfolio.”
“I know,” he says, his voice a broken whisper.
