A stray giggle slips through my lips. “I’m around most of the afternoon if you want to swing by.”
“Okay. Cool.”
“Fair warning, though. There are a lot of dicks here, so don’t be alarmed.”
“I’ll be right over.”
With that, he disconnects the call.
Okay, then.
Rolling my eyes at his abruptness, I stand, pressing my hips forward to stretch my back.Fuck,being a woman sucks sometimes.
While I wait for Cameron, I pop the two trays of cookies into the oven and gather my piping bags, tips, and edible markers, and prepare the various colors of royal icing. I’m carefully mixing shades (pale peach, warm tan, and deep brown), trying to get the skin tones just right, when there’s a knock at the door.
The man in question isn’t big on enthusiastic greetings. I’m not sure he’s big on anything enthusiastic at all. So when I pull the door open and he starts nearly shouting, I practically jump out of my skin.
“Why are you surrounded by dicks?” he barks. “Our relationship may not be real, but it’s a little messed up for you to be fucking around on me already.”
I press my lips together to keep myself from laughing at the verklempt look on his face. His hair is tousled from the winterwinds, sticking up in a way that makes him look younger than his thirty-two years. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, his eyes wild with an energy that’s all directed at me.
Oh no.
A trickle of unease courses through me.
He thinks I meant actual dicks.
Like other human male penises.
And with his ex…and what she did…
“Cookies,” I blurt out, waving so frantically toward my kitchen it’s a miracle I don’t sprain my wrist. “Dick cookies.”
Jaw snapped shut but tense, the realization hits him in stages: confusion first, then comprehension, then a wave of mortification that turns his face an even deeper shade of red.
“You made…” His eyes dart from me to the kitchen and back again.
“Dick cookies,” I confirm matter-of-factly, as if the task is the most normal thing in the world. “The maid of honor wants them anatomically accurate. It’s actually harder, no pun intended, than you’d think to get the, uh, proportions right.” My own cheeks heat a little now. “I didn’t want to order a dick cookie cutter, so I repurposed the rocket ship I’ve used for a few kids’ birthday parties.”
“You’re baking dick cookies,” he says, voice strained.
I rock back on my heels, still holding the door open even though the cold is making me sincerely regret not putting on a bra. “Yes. Now do you want to come in? Before my heating bill gets any higher?”
He doesn’t move for a minute. Like he hasn’t quite processed this interaction yet. Eventually, though, he shuffles forward. “Yeah.”
I step aside and he brushes past me, shoulders rigid and hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. I wish I could pretend I don’t see the hurt he thinks he’s hiding behind a carefulblank expression, but I’ve never been one to ignore any kind of issue. And the pain won’t just disappear because we’re playing pretend.
I turn to face him fully, crossing my arms over my chest. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but let me say my piece, and then we can move on and never talk about it again.”
His shoulders tense further, lifting halfway to his ears. “You don’t have to?—”
“Cameron.” I look at him, waiting until he meets my eye. “I’m not going to do that to you. What she did. Even in this fake thing we’re doing, I’m not going to—” I wave vaguely, looking for words that won’t make this worse. “I won’t do that, and I won’t make youfeellike that. Okay?”
The silence stretches between us while he processes, that careful mask slipping just enough that I catch a glimpse of softness under his sharp features.
“Okay,” he says finally.
“Okay. And since we’re being honest and open, I’d like to state for the record that Ididlook at real penises for inspiration, but it was via porn. The maid of honor really wanted a variety, and try as I may,” I say, arching a brow, “I’ve only seen a certain number of dicks, and none of them were tattooed.”
