(Coming immediately after Chapter 7 – they've just spent the night together. Now it's the next morning, and they call Frankie.)
Sloane woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the weight of Cole's arm draped across her waist.
She turned her head. He was already awake, watching her.
"How long have you been staring?" she murmured.
"Two hours."
"Creep."
"Romantic." He kissed her shoulder. "There's a difference."
She smiled and stretched, her body pleasantly sore. The sheets were tangled around them. His penthouse was quiet – no bakery bells, no Jade, no flour dust. Just him.
"We should call Frankie," Sloane said. "Tell her the board meeting went well."
"And tell her we're done pretending?"
Sloane rolled over to face him. "Are we?"
Cole tucked a curl behind her ear. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I want to tell everyone that you're mine. Not because of a contract. Because I love you."
"You're going to lose your company."
"Then I'll lose it."
"Cole—"
He kissed her quiet. "I've spent my whole life building things that don't love me back. Buildings. Banks. Portfolios. They don't wake up at 4 AM to bake me bread. They don't hold my hand when my aunt is dying. They don't look at my scars and call me beautiful." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're the only thing I've ever built that feels like home."
Sloane's eyes filled. "That's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."
"It's the most honest thing I've ever said."
She kissed him – soft, slow, tasting the morning on his lips. Then she pulled back. "Call Frankie. Put her on speaker."
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Frankie answered on the second ring.
"It's 7 AM, Cole. If you're calling to tell me you're in bed with Sloane, I already know. I have psychic powers."
Sloane laughed. "Hi, Frankie."
"Hi, baby. Did my nephew treat you right?"
Cole groaned. "Frankie—"
"I'm dying. I'm allowed to ask. Did he?"
Sloane looked at Cole. His face was red. "Yes," she said. "He did."
"Good. Then you're keeping him?"
Sloane took Cole's hand. "I'm keeping him."
Frankie was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was thick. "The contract?"
"Tear it up," Cole said. "I don't care about the inheritance anymore. I care about her."
"Finally." Frankie's voice cracked. "I've been waiting thirty-six years for you to say that."
"Frankie—"
"Don't you 'Frankie' me. You're going to marry that girl. Not because I'm dying. Because she's the best thing that's ever happened to you. And you're going to do it soon. I want to see a wedding before I go."
Cole looked at Sloane. His eyes asked a question.
Sloane nodded.
"We'll talk about it," Cole said. "But Frankie?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. And I'm sorry I wasted so much time being afraid."
"Just don't waste any more. Now go make that girl breakfast. And this time, don't burn the pancakes."
She hung up.
Cole set the phone down and turned to Sloane. "She wants a wedding."
"She's dying. We should give her one."
"You mean that?"
Sloane sat up, pulling the sheet with her. "I mean it. Not a big wedding – just us, Frankie, Jade, Marcus. In the bakery. With Nana's recipe for the cake."
Cole sat up too. His bare chest was gold in the morning light. "You want to get married in a bakery?"
"I want to get married where I'm happiest. That's the bakery. With you."
He kissed her – deep, promising. Then he threw off the sheets and stood up. "Wait here."
"Where are you going?"
"To get something."
He walked out of the bedroom. Sloane heard him moving around the kitchen. Then he came back holding a small bowl of flour.
"What are you doing?"
He sat on the edge of the bed and dipped his finger in the flour. Then he took her left hand – the one that kneaded dough, that held his face, that had traced his scars – and drew a ring on her finger.
White flour against brown skin.
"I don't have a diamond yet," he said. "But I have this. Sloane Bennett – will you marry me? For real? No contract, no expiration date, no fine print. Just flour and skin and forever."
Sloane looked at the flour ring. Then at him.
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, yes, yes."
He kissed her – flour transferring from his fingers to her cheek, her neck, her chest. They made love again, slow and sweet, with the morning light painting them gold.
Afterward, Sloane held up her hand. The flour ring was smudged but still visible.
"This is temporary," she said.
"Like the contract?"
"No. Like the flour. The ring you'll give me later will be permanent. But this?" She touched her flour-dusted finger. "This is the promise before the promise. I'm going to keep it forever."
Cole kissed the flour ring. "So am I."