Sloane didn't sleep.
She lay in her tiny apartment above the bakery, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a rabbit with one ear, and replayed his words over and over.
If I say goodbye to you when this is over... I'm not sure I'll survive it.
What did that even mean? He was Cole Thorne. He'd survived foster care. He'd survived building an empire from nothing. He'd survived boardroom coups and market crashes and probably a dozen women who'd tried to crack his chest open and find a heart.
But he wouldn't survive saying goodbye to her?
He's lying, she told herself. Rich men lie. It's what they do best.
But her phone was already in her hand, and she'd already texted him at 11:47 PM – against every sane instinct – with the address of the bakery and one line: 5 AM. Don't be late.
He'd replied in four seconds: I'm never late.
Now it was 4:55 AM. Sloane stood behind the counter in her favorite apron – the one with the embroidered sunflowers that Nana had made her ten years ago – and tried to pretend her heart wasn't racing.
The bell jingled.
Cole Thorne walked in exactly at 5:00 AM.
He wasn't wearing a suit.
Sloane almost dropped the mixing bowl.
Black jeans. A gray henley that stretched across his shoulders like it had been painted on. Boots – not dress shoes, actual boots, the kind men wore to build things. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd just showered. And his jaw...
His jaw had that early-morning shadow that made her fingers itch to touch it.
Stop it, she screamed at herself. He's a client. This is a transaction.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're early," she lied.
His mouth almost curved. Almost. "You said five. It's five."
"I said don't be late. Showing up exactly on time is a power move."
"I don't make power moves." He walked toward the counter, and she caught his smell – cedar, coffee, something clean like rain. "I make promises. And I keep them."
Sloane swallowed. "We'll see."
She walked around the counter and handed him an apron. It was pink. It had ruffles. It was the only spare she had.
Cole looked at the apron. Looked at her. Looked back at the apron.
"You're joking."
"I'm not." She crossed her arms. "You said you'd get your hands dirty. That means wearing what my staff wears. Jade has one just like it."
"Jade hates me."
"Jade hates everyone before 9 AM. Put it on."
For a long moment, she thought he might walk out. His jaw flexed. His fingers tightened around the pink fabric. Then, slowly, he pulled the apron over his head and tied it behind his back.
The sight of Cole Thorne – billionaire, CEO, the man who'd been on the cover of Fortune – wearing a ruffled pink apron over a gray henley was so absurd that Sloane laughed. A real laugh. The kind that came from her belly and surprised her.
Something shifted in his eyes. The ice cracked. Just a little.
"That's the first time I've heard you laugh," he said quietly.
"That's the first time you've given me a reason to."
She led him to the prep table. Flour dusted the surface like fresh snow. A mound of dough rested under a cloth – the morning's first batch of croissants, already proofed once.
"Roll up your sleeves," she said.
He did. And Sloane's mouth went dry.
His forearms were corded with muscle, dark hair dusting tan skin, and his left arm had ink – a sleeve of tattoos that disappeared under his henley. She could make out the edge of a compass. A mountain range. A date she couldn't read.
"You stare a lot," he said.
"You have a lot to stare at."
He tilted his head. "Is that your way of saying you find me attractive?"
"It's my way of saying you have tattoos. I'm curious. Don't flatter yourself."
"Too late."
She slapped a piece of dough in front of him. "Knead."
He looked at the dough like it had insulted his mother. "How?"
"You've never kneaded dough?"
"I've never boiled water. I had a chef."
Sloane sighed dramatically. "Come here. Behind me."
She positioned herself behind him – which was a mistake, because he was so tall that she had to reach around his sides to place her hands over his. Her chest pressed against his back. Her chin nearly touched his shoulder blade.
He went rigid.
"Relax," she murmured. "It's just dough."
"You're not just dough."
Her heart skipped. She ignored it.
"Put your palms here," she said, guiding his hands. "Push forward. Then fold. Then turn. It's a rhythm. Like dancing."
"I don't dance."
"Everyone dances. They just don't always know it."
They worked in silence for a few minutes. His hands were warm under hers. The dough softened. The kitchen filled with the smell of yeast and butter and something else – something that felt dangerously like intimacy.
"You're good at this," she said.
"I have good instruction."
She pulled her hands away. Immediately, he stopped moving.
"Keep going," she said. "You don't need me."
He kept going. But his voice was lower when he spoke. "You said one real thing a week. Does that start now?"
Sloane leaned against the counter and watched him work. His technique was clumsy but improving. There was something beautiful about watching a man who controlled billions struggle with a lump of dough.
"It starts now."
Cole didn't look up. "I was in seven foster homes between ages seven and fifteen."
Sloane's chest tightened. "That's... that's a lot."
"The seventh one was okay. The first six..." He folded the dough harder than necessary. "The first six, I learned that adults lie. They say they want to help you. What they really want is the check. Or the tax credit. Or someone to do the chores they don't want to do."
Sloane felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them back.
"Did anyone ever..." She couldn't finish.
"Hit me? Yes. Lock me in a closet? Twice. Forget to feed me? More times than I can count." He finally looked up. His eyes were dry, but his voice was ragged. "That's why I don't feel things. Because I learned not to. Feelings didn't keep me warm. Feelings didn't fill my stomach. Money did. Work did."
Sloane wanted to hug him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and press her face into his chest and tell him that he deserved better, that the world had failed him, that she was sorry.
But she didn't. Because that wasn't the contract.
Instead, she walked to the oven and pulled out a fresh pain au chocolat. She set it on a plate and slid it across the counter to him.
"Eat," she said.
"I don't eat carbs."
"Today you do."
He stared at the pastry like it might bite him. Then he picked it up and took a bite.
His eyes closed.
"Oh," he said.
"Yeah?"
"That's... that's not bread. That's something else."
"That's Nana's recipe. Butter, chocolate, patience, and love." She paused. "The love part is the most important. You can't fake it. The dough knows."
Cole finished the entire pain au chocolat in four bites. His fingers were buttery. There was a flake of pastry on his lower lip. Sloane wanted to kiss it off.
Stop. Transaction. Contract. Six months.
"I have a question," he said.
"Okay."
"Why did you say yes? Not for the money – you said that. But why?"
Sloane looked around the bakery. The flickering neon sign. The wobbly tables. The oven that was older than she was. The framed photo of Nana on the wall – a Black woman with silver curls and a smile that could light up a dark room.
"Because my Nana believed that everyone deserves a second chance," she said. "Even people who don't think they need one. Maybe especially them."
Cole was quiet for a long time.
Then he said: "What if I don't want a second chance? What if I just want to get through this without hurting you?"
"You're already worried about hurting me."
"That's not—"
"That is feeling something, Cole." She stepped closer to him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his whiskey-colored eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. "You're afraid. Not of your aunt dying. Of me."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
He looked down at her. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm afraid that if I let myself want you – really want you – I won't be able to stop. And then you'll leave. And I'll be seven years old again, standing on a porch with a garbage bag full of my things, watching another set of taillights disappear."
Sloane's heart shattered.
She reached up and touched his face. Just one hand. Just her palm against his jaw. His stubble scratched her skin. His breath caught.
"Cole," she said softly. "I'm not leaving."
"You signed a contract. That's not the same."
"It's the same to me."
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. It was barely a kiss – just his lips brushing her skin. But it sent a shockwave down her spine that landed somewhere between her thighs.
"We shouldn't," he murmured against her hand.
"I know."
"This is supposed to be fake."
"I know."
"Then why does it feel like the only real thing I've ever had?"
She didn't answer. Because she didn't have one.
Instead, she pulled her hand away and stepped back. The space between them felt like a canyon.
"Your aunt," Sloane said, her voice steadier than she felt. "When do I meet her?"
Cole exhaled slowly. "Tonight. Family dinner. Her house in the islands. We'll take the ferry."
"What do I wear?"
"Something that makes you feel powerful." He untied the pink apron and set it on the counter. "Because my aunt sees through everything. If you're nervous, she'll know. If you're lying, she'll know. And if you're falling for me..." He paused at the door. "She'll know that too."
He left.
The bell jingled.
Sloane stood in the middle of the bakery, her palm still warm where his lips had touched, her heart still racing, her body still humming.
Jade walked in at 6:15 AM, took one look at her, and groaned.
"You already slept with him, didn't you?"
"What? No!"
"Then why do you look like someone just gave you an orgasm with their eyes?"
Sloane grabbed a towel and threw it at her. "I do not."
"You do. And your apron is crooked. And there's a single tear track on your left cheek." Jade crossed her arms. "Spill. Now."
Sloane told her everything. The kneading. The seven foster homes. The kiss on her palm. The way he'd looked at her like she was the first good thing he'd ever tasted.
When she finished, Jade was silent for a full ten seconds.
Then: "Oh, you're so screwed."
"I know."
"That man is going to wreck you."
"I know."
"And you're going to let him."
Sloane looked at the door where he'd been standing. She could still smell him – cedar and coffee and rain.
"I know," she whispered.