I force myself to meet his eye. He’s watching me carefully, and something passes between us—an understanding, maybe.
His smile is soft, a sharp contrast to the cut of his jaw. “Yeah. It is. But at least you’re doing what you love now.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
cameron
With a sigh,I sink back in the plush chair and rest my hand on my abdomen. If Kennedy hadn’t told the server I was gluten-free, I would have left dinner starving. Instead, I’m considering unbuttoning my pants at the table. A far cry from what I was expecting.
Kennedy’s a far cry from what I was expecting, too. While she’s still loud, unfiltered, and wildly unruffled, she’s down-to-earth, direct in a way that’s honest rather than offensive (mostly), and smart. And not just book smart, but perceptive. She noticed that I wasn’t eating the appetizers. She understood that she had to be the one to break the silence because I’m terrible at small talk. And despite her clear eagerness for every detail about my breakup, when it came down to it, she simply asked if I was okay.
“Well?” she asks, licking cream cheese frosting off her fork.
Damn. I’ve never seen someone eat a piece of carrot cake so enthusiastically.
I shake my head. “I don’t have any interest in watching middle-aged women fight over manufactured drama. The whole premise is ridiculous.”
She throws her hands up with the kind of exasperation usually reserved for explaining basic math to toddlers. “That’s theentire point. It’s ridiculous, yet completely entertaining.”
“The point is to watch people be terrible to each other?”
“The point is to watch people be terrible to each otherwithout consequences,” she corrects with maybe more intensity than is warranted. “It’s controlled chaos. A train wreck to be enjoyed with wine and commentary.”
“Fine. If I agree to watch an episode, will you stop talking about it?” I ask, my voice playful in a way I didn’t know it could be.
Thehmphshe gives is adorably cute. It’s indignant in a teasing way. “I’ll never stop talking about why reality TV is the cultural glue that holds our society together. But…” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I will stop talking toyouabout it.”
Rather than appease me, it sets me on edge. An uncomfortable burn spreads through my chest, and suddenly, I don’t like the idea of missing out on Kennedy’s dissertation-worthy speeches about howThe Real Housewives of Las Vegasis the great equalizer and how everyone—no matter if they’re a garbage man, barista, or doctor—is similarly invested in the lives of people they’ll never meet. Sure, it’s trivial, but Kennedy makes it sound riveting. And the thought of her sharing a rant with someone else, with her eyes bright, hands gesturing wildly, bothers me more than it should.
“You would’ve made a great lawyer.”
Instantly, a flicker of disappointment shadows her face. It passes over her quickly, like a small cloud gliding by the sun, but I catch it.
And fuck, do I wish I could take those words back.
“Maybe, but I’m an even better baker,” she says, a subtle defensiveness in her tone, like she’s had to justify her career choice before. Nodding to herself, she adds, “I’ll make you dessert to prove it. What do you like? Cookies, cupcakes, brownies?”
“You don’t have to.” Guilt gnaws at my stomach. My comment was shitty, and here she is, letting me off easy.
“Obviously,” she argues back, rolling her eyes. “I’ll make you something because I want to. Because it’ll be delicious and then I’ll get to watch your eyes sparkle and your face light up with joy.”
“That sounds like a bit much,” I reply with a small chuckle. “The most you’ll probably get is a thank-you.”
She shakes her head, blond hair brushing against her shoulders, her expression one of absolute certainty. The kind of confidence only people who know exactly what they’re capable of possess. “Nope. There will be sparkling eyes.”
“That confident, huh?” I ask, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
“Cameron.” She says my name like it’s both an answer and an accusation. “I’ve made grown men cry over chocolate chip cookies. I’ve had marriage proposals after the first bite of my red velvet cake. I once had a man offer me a kidney for my cinnamon rolls.”
I grimace. “A kidney seems excessive.”
“You say that now. Wait until you taste them.” She grins, that spark of mischief back in full force. “So what’s it going to be? Or should I surprise you?”
I should say no. Saying yes means more interactions with Kennedy, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone. But her genuine excitement makes it impossible to say anything but “baker’s choice.”
Her face lights up, the happiness there warming my chest.
Dammit. I’m in serious trouble. Kennedy doesn’t do anything halfway, and there’s no tempering my reaction to her either.
