I lift a brow at the concern in his tone. “Don’t worry, big guy, business is still booming. Your investment is intact.”
“I don’t give a shit about the money,” he growls, his jaw twitching. “I’m asking why people can’t get your cookies when they clearly want them.”
He looks genuinely offended on behalf of my hypothetical customers, and that makes me feel giddy in a way I shouldn’t.
“I’ll still do some, but I’d rather do them as part of larger dessert tables, not as stand-alone orders,” I explain. “It frees up my schedule to focus on cakes, which I love making. Cookies I just… like making.”
I pluck a bag of powdered sugar off the shelf and add it to our mountain of supplies. “Cookies are fun, and people go crazy for the custom designs. But cakes? That’s where I get to be creative.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. “Cookies are good business, but cakes are what you want to be known for.”
“Exactly.”
In the refrigerated section, I load the big cartons of eggs while Cameron wordlessly rearranges the items to make them fit. For someone who makes his living stopping pucks, he’s got a delicate touch when needed.
Aisle after aisle, we wander, Cameron asking a surprising number of questions as I collect ingredients.How far in advance do you bake for orders? Do you ever eyeball it, oris baking too precise for that? What happens if you mix wet and dry ingredients in the wrong order? What’s the difference between baking powder and baking soda? Do you always use the same brands or does that not matter?
The questions are genuine and observational in a way I’m not used to—like he’s interested in not only what I do, buthowI do it. It’s sweet the way he gets quiet after I respond, processing my answers, then asking a follow-up question or moving to another topic. It feels… domestic. Nice. Easy in a way that makes me forget he’s not actually my boyfriend.
“You’re good at this,” I tell him as we unload the items at checkout.
“Manual labor?”
“At…” I gesture vaguely between us, the cart, the whole situation. “This. Being normal. Even though you hate people and parking lots and probably fun in general.”
“I don’t hate fun,” he says defensively.
I scoff. “Name one fun thing you’ve done this month that wasn’t hockey.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. “I went to dinner with Sophie and Jake.”
“Hate to break it to you,” I say, patting his arm, “but consuming calories is a basic human necessity, so that doesn’t count.”
“This,” he finally says, so quietly I almost miss it. “This is fun.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest, and for once I don’t have a quick comeback. “That’s very sweet of you to say. Thank you.”
He nods once, jaw tight like the admission cost him dearly, then goes back to unloading the cart.
An hour later, I’m loath to admit that I’m glad Cameron drove. Not only would my car have been bursting at the seams if we’d packed it with all these supplies, but as he pulls up to Crumb & Co.’s new pastry kitchen, I’m jumpy and anxious. There’s no way I’d be safe behind the wheel.
“This is it?” He ducks and leans my way, scrutinizing the building.
My breath catches in my chest as I take in the exterior of Crumb & Co.’s kitchen. The building sits on a secondary commercial street, wedged between a vintage clothing boutique and a chiropractor’s office. It’s not a retail shop, but I’m definitely getting a decal with my logo for the front window.
“This is it.”
“It’s…”
When he doesn’t continue right away, I brace myself.
“A gray building.”
I blow out a breath. “Were you expecting a gingerbread house?” Shifting, I settle back into the car’s heated seat. I’m trying not to sound offended. I didn’t think he’d cry tears of joy or whip out confetti and champagne, but “it’s gray” is about the least enthusiastic response he could have given.
“No, I just—” He holds my gaze and shrugs sheepishly. “I don’t know. I expected something more. You’re bright and colorful and energy personified. The building’s just… gray and fading.”
“Stop, you’re going to make me blush,” I tease, although I’m not entirely joking.
