It takesme thirty-five minutes to unload the car, and in that time, Kennedy accomplishes a lot. At least, I think she does. Based on the clusterfuck otherwise known as her notebook and calendar, her organizational style is completely type A, but in a way that makes sense to no one but her. So while I don’t know why handwritten recipe cards are stuck to the wall with painter’s tape in a weird octagonal shape or why her measuring spoons aren’t arranged by size, I’m certain there’s a method to her madness.
“All done?” she asks, glancing up from where she’s dating and labeling flour.
“Yep.” I carefully place her new mixer on a stainless-steel table. “My car’s going to smell like vanilla and chocolate chips for the foreseeable future.”
Her eyes dance. “You’re welcome.”
Brushing my fingers against the red paint of her mixer, I note, “I thought Sir Mix-a-Lot was dead.”
“That’s her replacement,” she reveals. “Richard Mixon.”
I prop a hip against the counter, chuckling. “I like it.”
“Your history obsession may have inspired me.”
Knowing she had me in mind when naming her prized possession? Shit. It sends a thrill through me. One I hate as much as I crave.
“This would have taken me hours to do alone,” she says, her voice soft. The apples of her cheeks are flushed as she looks up at me through wet lashes. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
I smirk. “What else is a fake relationship for?”
“Scaring away shifty exes and overbearing friends?”
“Touché.” I take a step forward. “How else can I help? My hands are good for more than just stopping pucks, sweetheart, so put me to work.”
“You want to stay?” she asks, nose scrunched in surprise. “I need to organize everything, but it’s going to be boring.”
“You’re talking to the guy who hates fun, remember?” I snag a box cutter from the counter and shuffle to the closest stack. “I’m meeting Sloane for dinner later, but I can stay until then.”
I wait for the tension that should follow the mention of my friendship with Sloane. Another woman. I wait for the shift in energy, the tight smile, the pointed silence. Muscles coiled, I brace for impact, like I’m about to take a hit on the ice.
“Oh, where are you guys going?” she asks, her expression still bright.
“Sushi Dokku.” I shrug, going for calm and casual even as I wait for her to make a comment that makes things weird.
Kennedy claps, grinning. “Oh my God, I’ve been dying to go there. You’ll have to let me know what you think of it. I don’t want to spend twenty bucks on a roll if it’s not otherworldly, you know?”
She smiles, completely at ease, before shifting her attention to the dozens of bags of chocolate chips heaped in a pile in front of her.
“If I give you very bizarre but descriptive instructions on how to organize and store these, think you can handle it?”
“You want me to organize your chocolate?”
She scoffs. “Duh. I’m not an animal, Cameron.”
She stands and wanders to another box, humming the tune I’m not familiar with.
Still, I wait for the other shoe to drop.
When she just keeps humming, moving on, I exhale, letting the anxiety swamping me go. Kennedy heard Sloane’s name, registered her as my friend, and moved on like she has no issue with my plans. She didn’t turn it into a problem, making comments in a careful tone that’s anything but casual and treating Sloane like a threat to be assessed and categorized.
Maybe Kennedy’s easy trust is because we’re not in an actual relationship.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because she trusts me. It’s such a small thing to most people, but to me, someone who had to learn to regulate the reactions and emotions of a partner, it means a lot.
“So,” she says, pulling out what looks like a label maker. “Dark chocolate, semi-sweet, and milk chocolate all get their own containers. Brands stay together. And the chips need to be in airtight storage because pantry moths are the devil.”
“Pantry moths,” I repeat.
