“Yep.” He raises a brow, as if daring me to question him again. “The average NHL player retires by the time they hit thirty-five. I’m thirty-two. I’ve been strategic with my money.” Nodding toward the cookie boxes, he adds, “And I know a smart business venture when I see one. Your stuff is good, Kennedy. My teammates don’t shut the fuck up about your brownies and the whole team got into a bidding war over your baking class at the charity gala.”
A thread of hopefulness weaves its way through me. “You’ll be impressed, too,” I tell him. “Once you try my gluten-free cookies.”
He nods as if this is a given. “I know.”
Eyes closed, I pinch the bridge of my nose and make a mental pro-con list. Am I really even considering this idea? Yes. Yes, I am. “What would I tell people when they ask how I funded it?”
“To mind their own business.”
Head tilted, I scoff.
He rolls his eyes. “But if they ask, tell them the bank approved your loan. I’ll be a silent investor. You said it yourself: I’ve never operated a small business. That’s your area of expertise.”
I shake my head, doubt creeping in and threatening that hope. “It’s just… I need to know I did this myself. That I earned it.” The words come out quieter than I intended. “I need to prove I can do this on my merit. Not because some guy wrote me a check.”
His expression softens in a way I’ve never seen. “You would do it on your own merit. I’m not buying you a building or a bakery. I’m investing inyou. You’ll be doing all the work, building up your reputation, creating new recipes, dealing with customers.” He angles forward. “The only difference is you’ll have the space to do it in.”
Fuck, I hate when a man makes a good point, because on principle, I hate agreeing with men.
“You’re coming up with more reasons to say no,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I don’t think your friends will believe we’re dating,” I admit. “Before our dinner the other night, you hadn’t strung more than ten words together when speaking to me.”
“It’s not personal.” His shoulders tense, his focus dropping to the floor. With a sigh, he meets my gaze again. “And they’ll buy it, don’t worry. We set the wheels in motion when you bid on the charity date since my ex doesn’t know I rigged it. I’ll tell my friends we actually had a great time on our date and started falling for one another.”
Actually had a great time.The words hit like a slap. The implication is right there, right? That we didn’t actually have a great time. That it was an obligation, a chore. For him, maybe. I should say no. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to say no, to tell him to leave so I can save the shreds of dignity I have left.
But God, a real space. Professional equipment. The ability to wow the socks off Diane Weber. An actual chance to make this work.
“I want you to go through my business plan,” I say, nervous energy pulsing through me. “And if you like it, I’d want a real contract with percentages and timelines and exit clauses. I’m not doing this on a handshake.”
A look that might be respect flickers across his face. “Fair enough.”
“And limits on the fake dating. I’m not moving in with you or getting your face tattooed on my arm?—”
“What about on your ass?”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh. Okay, maybe Cameroncanmake a joke.
“No, ass tats either. We’ll do team events, some dates, and be flirty when we’re around your friends.”
He quirks a brow. “Social media posts?”
I pause to consider. “You never post on your socials, so it’d be suspicious to suddenly be posting a new girl constantly.”
And if we announce it on social media, my sisters will definitely see. Neither of them cares about sports enough to pay a lick of attention to who an athlete may be dating, but if I’m tagged in a post, they’ll most definitely know.
“Okay.”
“And no scowling at me in public like I’m torturing you with my presence.”
His mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. “I don’t scowl.”
“You absolutely scowl. You have resting murder face.”
He grunts. “First I’m a human equivalent of a thundercloud, and now I have resting murder face?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if you glared at puppies from time to time.”
