I drop my arm, my hand hitting my thigh with athwack.
The apartment goes quiet. Cameron stares at me in startled surprise. Then it hits me that I just unloaded an entire week’s worth of frustration onto him. Shit.
As heat floods my cheeks, I bow my head, covering my face with my hands, worried I’ll burst into tears.
His question didn’t deserve my ridiculous reply.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “That was… I didn’t mean to—I have a lot going on right now.”
“What do you need the loan for?”
I peek at him from between my fingers. “What?”
“The loan you mentioned,” he repeats, his tone low. “What’s it for?”
“Breast implants.”
I don’t know why I say it. Probably because I don’t want to explain my failed dreams to a man who’s living out his.
“Liar,” he says, voice flat. “You have perfect tits.”
His comment startles a laugh from me. “Thanks, I think.”
“The loan?” he asks in that authoritative grumbly voice of his. “What’s it for?”
“A commercial pastry kitchen,” I admit, shoulders slumping, too tired to deflect. “I’ve been trying to expand for months, but I can’t get a loan for reasons I’d rather not get into. I have the business plan, I have the clients… fuck, I have everything except someone willing to bet on me.”
Cameron studies me silently, the look on his face unreadable. “What if you did?”
All I can do is blink.Huh?
“Fuck the loan,” he says. “I’ll bet on you instead and invest in your business.”
I sag against the counter and sigh. “Do you even know what my business is called, Cameron?”
He levels me with a glare that would raze buildings in a Marvel movie. “Crumb & Co.”
All I can do is sigh and hang my head.
He just offered to invest in my business like he was offering to pay for dinner. Like it’s not the most out-of-pocket thing I’ve heard all week. And I watched Carrie Ann Inaba give Post Malone’s foxtrot onDancing with the Starsa six earlier this week, so the bar is high.
Cameron, who’s apparently chatty fucking Kathy all the sudden, doesn’t seem to care about my lack of participation. “You can use my investment to get your kitchen, and whatever else you need to get it up and running, and in return, you’ll be my fake girlfriend and help me deal with my ex and keep my teammates off my back.”
Ah. So there’s the catch.
My stomach twists into a knot.
Investing in me benefits him.
“Cameron, that’s… you can’t just—” I blow out a breath. I don’t even know where to start. “This isn’tPretty Woman. You can’t just throw money at me. This is my dream, not a problem you can solve by opening your wallet. I don’t need to add ‘financially dependent on the NHL’s grumpiest goalie’ to my mess of a life.”
“I’m not throwing money at you. I’m proposing a business arrangement.” His eyes meet mine, and I swear there’s a vulnerability to them. “You help me deal with my ex and nosyteammates. I invest in your business. We both get what we need. And if your bakery succeeds, I make money. If it doesn’t…” He shrugs. “Then I lose some money. I can afford it.”
“Spoken like someone who’s never run a small business,” I mutter.
He snorts. “Maybe not owned, but I’ve invested in several.”
“Really?” I ask, spine snapping straight.
