“Okay, minimal bullshit,” I concede.
I may not date or be interested in anything more than a night (or two) with a woman, but maybe I should ask Kennedy out, if only for the Gigi-repellent factor. One experience with Kennedy’s unhinged energy, and my ex would probably change her number and move out of Boston again.
CHAPTER TEN
kennedy
My glass wentfrom half full to half empty to bone dry in the span of a few days. First my standing mixer broke. Not just broke but died. Sir Mix-a-Lot—yes, I named it—made a grinding noise that sounded like a demon being exorcised and then gave up entirely, leaving me elbow-deep in brioche dough that I had to finish by hand, which took forever and ruined my nails.
Then my favorite couple got voted offDancing with the Stars. While it shouldn’t matter, it felt like a personal attack because their tango got nines from every judge.
After that, a customer called to tell me they’d gotten the date of their event wrong and they actually need everything by tomorrow rather than next week. So I spent the entire night hunched over, baking and decorating like an underpaid Elf in Santa’s workshop.
And because the universe wasn’t done kicking me while I was down, I ran out of sugar halfway through. I didn’t have time to go to MetroMart to buy more in bulk, so I had to pay for emergency delivery at triple the price.
So yeah. The glass isn’t just empty. It’s been smashed on the floor and I’m walking around barefoot without a shoe in sight.
And now? Now I’m diagnosing a twenty-something boy (who’s too old to still be wearing his frat letters) as colorblind.
“Are you sure?” he prompts for the third time. “Because she’ll be really upset if I show up with the wrong thing. She’s always harping on me for not listening, so…”
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. A man who doesn’t listen? Shocking.
“Ipromisethis cake is blue and purple, just like she ordered.”
Clients often send mood boards or inspiration for what they want, but his girlfriend provided me the Pantone codes of her birthday party invitation, so I know damn well the colors are right.
He purses his lips. “But itlooksgrayish.”
“Right,” I drawl, tamping down on my impatience. I really need a bubble bath followed by an eleven-hour nap. “But if you’re color blind, the blue and purple will be hard to distinguish. Because your eyes can’t perceive the red tone accurately. That’s why it may look different to you.”
He opens his mouth to argue, so I quickly add, “But if your girlfriend doesn’t love it, have her reach out to me.”
His shoulders relax, as if having the pressure put on me, rather than him, is enough to assuage his fears. Taking that as a good sign, I slowly shut the lid on the cake box and hold it out like a sacrificial lamb at an offering.
If only I had a pastry kitchen so I wouldn’t have to give customers my address and deal with asinine conversations like this.
As much as I don’t want to clean up after all the work I’ve done, if I don’t do it now, the bowls and spoons in my sink will pile up like they’re trying to summit Everest, so I get to work. I’m dancing along to theS.I.Xalbum, elbow deep in suds(unfortunately from dish soap and not a bath bomb) when my phone rings and Cameron’s name flashes across the screen.
For a moment I only stare at it.Why would he be callingme?
Finally, with a sigh, I dry my hands on a dishtowel that readsCake it Till You Make Itand swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey,” the deep, gravelly voice on the other end of the phone says. “It’s Cameron. Cameron Davies.”
I bite back the urge to ask if he always introduces himself like he’s James Bond and instead say, “Yes, I know. I have your number saved since we tend to end up in group chats together.”
The line goes silent for a second, then he clears his throat. “Right. I’m outside your door.”
I whip around, wisps of hair floating around my face. “Why?”
“Am I at your door?”
“No, why doesn’t the government finally admit what’s so classified about Area 51?” I deadpan. “Yes, why are you at my door?”
“Can you just let me in?” he grumbles.
It’s tempting to snark back with “Oh, now you want to come in?” But I fight the urge and trudge to the door instead, my fuzzy socks providing no resistance against the wood floor. When I throw it open, I find the Bobcats’ goalie standing on my welcome mat like he’s got a bone to pick with the world. If he wants to argue about who’s having a worse week, I have no doubt we can go toe to toe.
