One Funeral (No Weddings #2)(7)

I laughed and sat back, my cheeks heating. I refolded the black napkin on my lap into a long triangle and thought about his question. “I haven’t. Have you?”

He shook his head. “No. But I wonder if seeing a professional might help you. They might get you to realize you aren’t as screwed up as you think and help you deal with some of your demons.”

The idea sounded intriguing. And terrifying. “You think I need therapy, but you don’t?”

Shoulders shaking with silent laughter, he leaned forward. “If I walked in there, they’d probably kidnap my sexy ass and make me a poster child for relationship therapy worldwide.”

When I laughed, he leaned back and looked toward the ceiling behind me. Then he stretched out his arm and arced his widespread hand from left to right through the air. “Can’t you see it, Hannah? My mug up in lights in Times Square. ‘Playboy Cade Michaelson and his rotating list of women to survive the one who destroyed his heart.’”

My laughter fell away. Not because he broke the date code by mentioning the list he’d kept on a yellow sticky note of women who’d jumped in and out of his bed before pursuing me, but because of what he’d said between the lines. “Are you sure your heart is mended enough to be here? Are we both kidding ourselves?”

He swallowed, a serious expression hardening his features. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Hannah. You breached every one of my defenses by being naturally you. Am I still f*cked up? Only as f*cked up as you are.”

I snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

“Hey, we’re like kindergarten buddies. We’re not allowed to cross the street unless we’re holding hands. Only ours isn’t a busy intersection. It’s more like an emotional obstacle course. No one said worthwhile was easy. But if we want to make this work bad enough, it will.”

I sighed, gazing at this gorgeous man with the wounded heart. “If you think therapy would help me get past all this anxiety about us, I’ll try it.”

Only I was fairly certain I wasn’t the only one who needed professional fixing. My destruction might have happened at the altar, but his happened while on bended knee.

I gave him a sidelong glance. “Forget the knee-bouncing pill. For our level of f*cked-up, we’re gonna need to clean out a pharmacy.”

An intense look in his eyes, he gave me a gentle smile. “And if we need to slow things down while we’re figuring things out, I’m good with that. But I have a feeling we’re already better than we think we are.”

I stared at him, unable to form a response. Were we? Were all my fears unjustified, getting in the way of my seizing true happiness? The more I thought about it, the more tangled the mess in my head became. I frowned.

Cade snapped his fingers. “Enough. No more talking or thinking about serious stuff tonight.”

I nodded, thankful he’d pulled me out of the spiral. “Okay.”

He smiled, then leaned forward across the table, staring at me, waiting.

I leaned forward too, meeting him halfway so our faces were mere inches apart.

He clasped hands with mine. “Now tell me more about us being naked together in your cupcake meadow.”





Our semi-disaster of a date ended with a sweet kiss. We didn’t talk any further about my issues that night. But over the phone late Sunday night, we discussed therapy more seriously and the need to take things as slow as necessary to be able to move forward. After which, I voiced my worry about just how slow that would be. A dead crawl?

On Tuesday, Cade sat in the front lounge of Sweet Dreams, wedged into the corner of the couch, his laptop perched on his lap. A lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead, but he seemed oblivious to it.

Oblivious to me.

I’d brought him a Pellegrino, sat it on the table next to his sample plate of cupcakes, and took a seat across from him. All with zero reaction.

Then out of the blue, as if we’d been carrying on a conversation all along, he tossed a reply out into thin air. “So we decide to non-date.” On a brief glance up, mischief glittered in his eyes, but the rest of his expression was dead serious.

“Non-date?”

“Sure. We’re together, but not dating.”

I narrowed my eyes, suspicious of where he was going with his suggestion, but he no longer looked at me. With nonchalance, he clicked away on his keyboard, as if the entire topic was a “non-thing.”

I leaned back, playing along. “Sure. Let’s non-date. I’m good with that.” His suggestion had to stem from our discussion about taking things slow, so I gave him a little leeway—even if I did so with attitude.

His fingers froze. Tilting his head, he glanced at me. “Let me be more specific. We will spend time together, but they won’t be considered dates. Take the pressure off.” Then he returned to whatever masterpiece he was drafting, as if the subject was closed.

Taken aback by his commanding tone, I arched a brow. “What are you suggesting? More time than our existing dinners three nights a week and work functions?”

The three nights a week had been an arrangement we’d made where I cooked dinner at his place for Cade, Mase, and Ben. Then for an hour or more afterward, Cade advised me in a business capacity with regard to Sweet Dreams. His quick mind and creativity, along with his ongoing master’s-level education, made him an excellent business consultant. He was invaluable to me and my start-up cupcake shop.