Also, I ran out of brown frosting, so I had to make the pubes blond.
Consider it an upgrade.
I open the photo and I’m instantly chuckling. Though the sound quickly morphs into a full-blown laugh, my body shaking as I take in the cookie shaped like a dick with a tiny hockey stick decorated on it.
Cameron Davies
Not sure why blond pubes are an upgrade, but the attention to detail is commendable.
Kennedy Caplan
Blondes have more fun. Obviously. ;)
Cameron Davies
I don’t doubt that.
“What are you laughing at?” Logan hovers close, trying to peer at my screen.
“None of your business.” I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket, but I’m still smiling, and everyone notices.
“Oh, he’s fucked,” someone says, and the whole room erupts.
I ignore them, reminding myself that Kennedy and I both know where we stand regarding our “relationship.” There’s no risk of catching feelings or making things complicated for either of us. But as I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door, I realize the stupid grin I’m wearing as I decide how to reply to her text is anything but fake.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
kennedy
I should have trustedmy instincts, but Cameron made a compelling case. His SUV is bigger than my car. Big enough, in fact, to fit the kitchen supplies I’m bringing from my apartmentanda MetroMart haul. He’s lucky the period care package he sent was super sweet. That’s the only reason I let him win this argument.
Now, white-knuckling the passenger seat as he blazes through the parking lot, I’m sincerely regretting my decision. We’ve already had three near-misses, and we’re not even at the store entrance yet.
“Cameron, there’s an elderly man crossing?—”
“I see him,” he says, barely slowing down as a gentleman who looks exactly like Carl fromUpshuffles across our path with his cane. “He’s got plenty of time if he picks up the pace.”
Cameron’s driving philosophy is terrifyingly simple: “I have the bigger vehicle, therefore the right of way, and if they didn’t look both ways, that’s natural selection at work.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” I screech as he takes another turn down an aisle too fast. “I thought we had a good thing going, butyour driving is making me second-guess that. Is this payback for all the cookie dick pics?”
The car jerks to a stop and my head bounces against the headrest.
“What? No. I like your—” He inhales deeply, jaw tight, before glancing over at me. “There are just too many fucking people here. People annoy me.”
I resist smiling. “Shocking revelation. Truly. I don’t know how I missed that.”
“Not helping,” he mutters, easing the car forward at a marginally less homicidal speed.
“You play hockey in front of thousands upon thousands of people multiple times a week,” I remind him. “That’s significantly more people than the number shopping at this specific MetroMart right now.”
“Occupational hazard.” He grips the steering wheel as a man in a Bobcats hoodie does a double take and waves at him through the windshield. “On the ice, I’m surrounded by plexiglass and the attention’s spread between all the players. Here, they can walk right up and talk to me. Ask to take photos and shit.”
“The horror,” I reply dryly. “Human interaction in a public space.”
“Mock me all you want,” he grouses, “but you’re not the one who gets stopped at the grocery store and pulled into a conversation about your save percentage.”
“We all have our crosses to bear,” I tell him.
