Tyler lines up for the winning shot and sinks the eight ball with a flourish, and Jake cheers loud enough to wake the dead, as if he had anything to do with it.
“Tough loss,” he says with a shit-eating grin.
Our solid 2—the blue one—sits there alone, the only ball left un-pocketed.
The irony isn’t lost on me. It’s just one more blue ball that won’t be getting any action tonight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
kennedy
My “quick connect”with Diane Weber ran long—over an hour past schedule—and by the time I find street parking by my building, all I want is to peel off my bra and dig out my heating pad.
I hit puberty late, and when it finally arrived, it hit me like a Mack truck going full speed. I’d spent years wishing for boobs—every birthday candle from age thirteen on—and apparently, someone was listening because the universe delivered with interest. Unfortunately, said interest includes period cramps violent enough to sometimes make me question whether my uterus is trying to stage a coup. They’re not always horrible, but every so often, usually when I’m stressed, they hit hard like this and sap all my energy.
Within minutes of locking my door behind me, I’m changed into my rattiest sweatpants and old college shirt (sans bra), with a heating pad pressed against my cramping abdomen. As much as I’d love to lie on my couch for the rest of the day, I’m too busy for that kind of luxury. I shuffle over to the refrigerator, where I’ve been chilling three dozen anatomicallyperfect penis cookies. My client is the maid of honor in her best friend’s wedding and the bachelorette party theme is Same Penis Forever. Naturally, she wants a variety of edible dicks. The only specification she gave me was to includeallpenises—pale, tan, dark, circumcised, uncircumcised, pierced, tattooed—basically a full spectrum of phallic diversity.
To keep it classy, we decided to include an assortment of other bachelorette-themed cookies too. This way, when the bride’s relatives see the photos later, there’s at least a little elegant, Instagram-worthy content mixed in with the chaos.
As I wait for the oven to preheat, I pick up my notebook—the one Maya says sends her into fight-or-flight mode—and settle on a kitchen stool. I don’t blame her, considering I use more colored markers than there are Skittles in a family-size bag and my shorthand looks like hieroglyphics.
Elbow on the table, I flip through the notes I scribbled during my meeting with Diane. As annoying as it was being stuck in her office for that long, it was worth it. Because the pay? Holy shit. Wedding cakes are typically priced “by the slice.” Of course, that price varies based on the design complexity, ingredients (buttercream vs. fondant), flavors, fillings, delivery, and tiers. I’m all about knowing my worth and charging for my work, but even with all of that considered, her number is way more than I would usually charge. Like Taylor Swift dominating the Billboard Hot 100 for twenty-six consecutive weeks level of excessive.
I told Diane that, to which she responded, “If someone gives you more than you’re expecting, you don’t question it. You say thank you and run with it.”
So I said thank you and shut the hell up.
The numbers pile up on the page in front of me: ingredient costs, structural support for five tiers, transportation, timing for a June wedding in potentially warm weather. Yet even withall of that, Cam’s investment will allow me to hire a part-time assistant to help with some of the admin tasks that keep me away from the kitchen.
I’m daydreaming about never having to answer a customer email or update my website again when my phone rings, startling me back to real life. And when Cameron’s name flashes on the screen, my heart does this irritating skip-and-stutter thing.
I asked him about PDA strictly from a practical standpoint. He’s the one who turned my question into a teaching moment andman, oh man, did I learn a lot. My number one takeaway? That Cameron Davies cankiss.
Swipingaccepton the call, I greet him with a “’Sup, baby cakes?”
“Baby cakes?” he replies, his voice deliciously grumpy.
I tap the speaker button and set the device on the table. “Sugar plum? Honeybun? Sweetie pie?”
The grumpiness evaporates, and in its place is a low, soft chuckle. “Any reason those are all dessert related?”
“I’m in work mode,” I answer, adjusting the temperature on my heating pad. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing this afternoon? Want to hang out?”
Excitement flutters in my chest.Hang out?Like, spend time together? I sit up a little straighter, more alert despite the cramps.
“I wanted to go over some of the get-to-know-you questions we didn’t finish,” he continues. “Figure it’ll be easier in person than over text.”
My dumb excitement deflates like a popped balloon.
Oh.
Of course that’s what he meant. We wouldn’t really hang out. Just… work on logistics. No matter how real the kiss felt,thisis all for show.
I stare at my phone for a moment, mortification sweeping over me. It’s ridiculous, the way my heart picked up speed at the thought of spending time with him. “You know we don’t have to go over all the questions, right? They were more of a starting point to get the ball rolling. It’s not like an interview process.”
He doesn’t respond right away. When he’s does, the ogre tone is back. “So you don’t want to know which true crime case I want to solve?”
