Sloane woke to the smell of burning butter.
Not the warm, golden scent of croissants in the oven. The acrid, angry smell of something gone wrong in a hot pan. She sat up in her tiny apartment bed, disoriented, her hair a wild mess, her lips still swollen from Cole's kisses the night before.
The clock on her nightstand said 6:14 AM.
She'd driven them back from the gala in his car – him in the passenger seat, quiet, his hand on her thigh the whole way. He'd walked her to the bakery door. Kissed her forehead. Said "Goodnight, Sloane" in a voice that sounded like goodbye.
She'd assumed he went home to his penthouse.
But the smoke detector was beeping somewhere downstairs.
She threw on her robe – thin cotton, faded, with a coffee stain on the sleeve – and ran down the stairs, barefoot, heart pounding.
The bakery kitchen was a disaster.
Flour covered every surface. A bowl of something lumpy sat on the counter next to a cracked egg that had dripped onto the floor. The oven was open, smoke billowing out, and standing in front of it was Cole Thorne.
He was wearing her pink ruffled apron.
And nothing else.
No shirt. No shoes. Just black dress pants from last night, unbuttoned at the waist, and that ridiculous apron tied around his bare chest. His tattoos were fully visible now – a compass on his forearm, a mountain range climbing toward his shoulder, a date in Roman numerals near his elbow. And his back...
Sloane's breath caught.
His back was covered in scars. Thin white lines, some long and jagged, others small and circular. They looked old – years old – but they told a story she already understood.
Foster homes. Belts. Cigarettes. Fists.
Cole turned at the sound of her footsteps. His eyes were red-rimmed. His jaw was tight. There was flour in his hair and something that looked like defeat on his face.
"I was trying to make you breakfast," he said.
Sloane looked at the smoking pan on the stove. Blackened lumps that might have been pancakes. "You were trying to burn down my bakery."
"I was trying to do something for you." He yanked the pan off the stove and threw it in the sink. Water hissed. Steam rose. "You do everything for me. You bake for me. You defend me to Victoria. You let me kiss you in hallways and tell you my worst memories. And I can't even make you a fucking pancake."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Sloane walked toward him slowly, stepping around the flour and the egg and the broken whisk he'd somehow managed to snap in half.
"Cole."
"I'm useless." He wouldn't look at her. "I can run a billion-dollar company. I can negotiate contracts that make grown men cry. I can build buildings and buy banks and make money appear out of thin air. But I can't do this. I can't do this."
He gestured at the kitchen – the mess, the smoke, the failure.
Sloane stopped in front of him. She reached up and touched his face, turning his chin so he had to look at her.
"You tried," she said softly.
"Trying isn't enough."
"Trying is everything." She brushed flour off his cheek. "My Nana used to say that love isn't about getting it right. It's about showing up. And you showed up, Cole. At 6 AM. In my kitchen. With flour in your hair."
He closed his eyes. His throat moved.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "The contract was supposed to be simple. Fake. But last night, when you were dancing with me, when you told Victoria that you'd seen me without my armor..." He opened his eyes. "I realized I don't want to pretend anymore. I want you. And I don't know how to have you without destroying everything I've built."
Sloane took his hand and led him away from the destroyed kitchen, into the small seating area by the front window. The pink neon sign flickered above them. The morning light was gray and soft.
"Sit," she said.
He sat.
She knelt in front of him – on her knees, her robe pooling around her, her hands on his thighs.
"Last night, you told me you wanted time," she said. "I gave it to you. But I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"I'm not going anywhere. The contract doesn't matter. The money doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is you – the real you, not the billionaire, not the CEO, not the man with the armor." She squeezed his hands. "The man who tried to make me pancakes. The man who took a beating for his friend. The man who's scared to love because he's never been loved right."
Cole's eyes glistened. "Sloane—"
"It's your turn," she said. "You owe me a real thing. For this week."
He was quiet for a long moment. The bakery was silent except for the distant drip of water in the sink and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Then he reached behind himself and untied the apron. He let it fall to the floor.
"I told you about the foster homes," he said slowly. "But I didn't tell you the worst one."
Sloane's heart clenched. She stayed on her knees, her hands on his.
"The worst one was when I was thirteen. A couple in eastern Washington. They seemed nice at first. Church every Sunday. Home-cooked meals. They even bought me a bike." His voice flattened. "But the husband had a temper. And I was... difficult. I talked back. I questioned things. I reminded him of his son who'd died."
He turned around slowly.
His back faced her. The scars were worse up close – raised and silver, some long like whip marks, others round like burns.
"He used a belt at first. Then a wire hanger. Then, when I tried to run away, he locked me in the basement for three days." Cole's voice was barely a whisper. "No food. No water. Just darkness and rats and the sound of my own screaming."
Sloane pressed her hand to her mouth. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"When they found me – a teacher reported the bruises – I weighed eighty-seven pounds. I hadn't spoken in two days. They put me in a psych ward for a month." He turned back around to face her. "That's why I don't feel things, Sloane. Because I spent thirteen years learning that feelings are dangerous. That wanting something is the first step toward losing it."
Sloane crawled forward on her knees and wrapped her arms around him. She pressed her face to his chest and held him as tight as she could.
He didn't hug her back at first. His arms stayed at his sides, his body rigid.
Then, slowly, his hands came up. His fingers threaded through her hair. His arms closed around her shoulders. And he buried his face in her neck and shook.
Not crying. Not quite. But close.
"I don't know how to be loved," he said into her skin.
"Then let me teach you."
"I don't know how to ask for help."
"Then don't ask. Just take it."
"I don't know how to stay."
Sloane pulled back and looked at him. His eyes were wet. His cheeks were flushed. He looked younger than thirty-six – looked like the thirteen-year-old boy who'd been locked in a basement, waiting for someone to save him.
"You don't have to know how to stay," she said. "You just have to stay. One day at a time. One hour at a time. One pancake at a time."
He almost smiled. "I burned the pancakes."
"Then we'll make more. Together."
She stood up and held out her hand. He took it.
---
They cleaned the kitchen together.
Sloane showed him how to whisk eggs without splattering. How to flip pancakes at exactly the right moment – "Wait for the bubbles, Cole, the bubbles tell you when" – and how to tell when butter was melted versus burned.
"It's a smell thing," she said. "You'll learn."
"I've never learned a smell thing."
"There's a first time for everything."
They ate standing at the counter, pancakes slightly charred on the edges but edible, with too much syrup and coffee that was a little too strong. Cole wore his shirt now – he'd pulled it on after she'd traced one of the scars on his shoulder and he'd shivered – but he'd left it unbuttoned.
Sloane tried not to stare at his chest.
She failed.
"You're staring again," he said.
"You have a nice chest."
"I have a scarred chest."
"You have a survived chest. There's a difference."
He set down his fork. "Why are you so good at this?"
"At what?"
"At making me feel like I'm not broken."
Sloane set down her fork too. She walked around the counter and stood in front of him. She reached up and placed her hand over his heart. It beat fast and strong under her palm.
"You are broken," she said gently. "So am I. My Nana died. My parents left. I've been running this bakery alone for fourteen months, and some days I can barely get out of bed." She looked into his eyes. "Being broken doesn't mean you're unlovable. It means you're human."
Cole covered her hand with his. "What if I hurt you?"
"You will. I'll hurt you too. That's what people do. We hurt each other, and then we apologize, and then we try again." She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. "That's love, Cole. Not perfection. Persistence."
He turned his head and caught her lips.
It was a soft kiss. Tender. His hand cradled the back of her head. Her fingers curled into the open collar of his shirt.
When they pulled apart, his eyes were different. Lighter. Like something heavy had been lifted.
"I have a meeting at ten," he said. "But I'll come back after. We can practice kneading."
"You want to practice kneading?"
"I want to be near you." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Is that okay?"
Sloane smiled – a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes. "That's more than okay."
---
He left at 8:30 AM, buttoning his shirt as he walked out the door, the pink apron folded under his arm.
"I'm keeping this," he'd said.
"It's ruffled."
"I don't care."
Sloane watched him get into the black SUV, watched it disappear down the street, and then leaned against the doorframe and exhaled.
Jade appeared from the back office, her pink hair sticking up in twelve directions, her eyes wide.
"I heard everything," Jade said.
"How much?"
"All of it. The pancakes. The basement. The scars." Jade's voice was soft – softer than Sloane had ever heard it. "Sloane, that man is held together with duct tape and willpower."
"I know."
"And you're in love with him."
Sloane didn't deny it.
"I'm in trouble," she whispered.
"You're in love," Jade corrected. "Same thing, different name."
Sloane looked at the flour-dusted counter where they'd eaten together. At the extra coffee cup he'd left behind. At the pink apron that was no longer hanging on its hook.
"Jade?"
"Yeah?"
"What if he leaves?"
Jade walked over and put her arm around Sloane's shoulders. "Then we'll bake. We'll cry. We'll eat too much chocolate. And then we'll open the bakery the next day and do it all over again." She squeezed. "But Sloane? I don't think he's going to leave. I think he's going to stay. And that's the scariest part."
Sloane leaned her head on Jade's shoulder.
The pink neon sign flickered.
The morning light grew brighter.
And somewhere across the city, Cole Thorne was probably walking into a boardroom, cold and commanding, with a pink apron folded in his briefcase.
He's staying, Sloane thought.
And so am I.