the kitchen. That’s what she’d said for so many years.
“Would it be better if we came to you?”
“Well, with this new contract, life’s going to be pretty busy.” Sloane pulled a dustrag from a drawer and began scrubbing the dishes and props on the rolling wire pantry in her kitchen.
“As long as you’re taking care of yourself, Sloanie. Spending time with your friends. Going to church. You’ve made friends, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Probably not in the sense her mother meant, but she had friends.
By the time she hung up with her mother, two rows of pots and dishes gleamed, and every limb in her body was itching to medicate with a few miles of downtown Dallas pavement. To help her process this new work arrangement as something that was manageable—and now to take the edge off of the reminder of why her mother had called.
It was his birthday.
She bit her lip against the pressure of tears building between her temples and crouched to the immaculate tile floor. Bracing herself, yet again, for the crush of painful memories.
But in a way, Sloane saw a silver lining in the conversation. Another one of her mother’s semiregular attempts to reach out was over.
There was now one less time she had to remind her parents that the daughter they knew was gone. Things would never be the way they used to be.
IT WAS RAINING so hard that Sloane only caught glimpses of the buildings outside the car in between broad swipes of the windshield wipers. But according to her phone’s GPS, the brick storefront barely visible from the rear window was the right location for J. Marian Restaurants’ latest franchise venture, Simone.
She grabbed her compact umbrella. “Thanks,” she told the driver, opened the door—and immediately stepped into a gargantuan puddle that soaked her black pants to midshin.
If this was seventy-five and sunny like the local news had forecasted, then Sloane was the queen of England.
Rainwater sloshed in her black flats as she scurried under the awning and through the heavy wooden door.
This couldn’t be right. The inside of this café was nothing like J. Marian Restaurants’ other prototypes—usually sunny and cheerful with modern decor, bright flowers and lots of clean lines. The best way to describe this place was a cozy, inviting cavern with a modern industrial edge to it. The walls were painted a dark gray framed by exposed galvanized piping. Reclaimed wooden tables were paired with mismatched chairs. A fireplace with crumbling brick occupied one of the corners, surrounded by squashy leather couches. Definitely European. And emptier than a ghost town, except for a contractor hammering at the leg of an overturned table in the back.
Sloane cleared her throat when the hammering paused and stretched to her tiptoes, watching for signs of life in the window of the door behind the counter. There was an impressive stainless steel espresso machine, a few large glass display cases and huge chalkboard panels spread across the serving counters waiting to be written on then hung behind the cash register.
So the restaurant mogul was up on the current trends. Good. It would make her job easier.
“Sloane Bradley?” The contractor walked in her direction, pulling off work gloves to reveal tan, muscled forearms.
“Yes, I’m here to meet with someone from J. Marian Restaurants.”
They were supposed to be talking strategy about the restaurant’s soft opening scheduled for Saturday. But at this rate, it would never be ready by then with only one worker on the job.
Though he certainly looked capable enough.
“You’re from VisibilityNet, right?”
She commanded control of her wayward focus and nodded. This wasn’t how the next few months were going to go. On the clock, Sloane.
“Is anybody back there?” She pointed to the door behind the counter then clamped her hands around the strap of her bag to make their shaking less obvious.
The man paused for a beat and pushed his protective glasses up to reveal appraising, gold-flecked brown eyes.
Sloane took a step back as her brain clicked into cognition.
No. It couldn’t be.
“You’re early.”
It was. Dana had told her the Cooper family would send one of their PR suits, not their spoiled frat boy of a son. It was the face she’d seen on the magazines in the grocery checkout a few years ago, curled into a perpetual smirk. Accessorized by handcuffs, models and half-empty bottles. Only now, his pale, lanky angles had softened into serious lines.
Professional. Right. She must remain professional.
“I’m right on time, Mr. Cooper.” Sloane zeroed in on the layer of dirt that speckled his hands. “May I call you Graham?”
Don’t shake my hand. Please, don’t shake my hand.
“I go by Cooper, actually. My father is Graham.” He moved behind the counter to scrub his hands in the porcelain sink then disappeared through the door into what she assumed was the kitchen.
Sloane spun around—surely this was some kind of joke—and dropped into a chair at the table closest to the door. Better to make a quick getaway if she needed to.
Cooper reappeared right as she uncapped her trusty bottle of hand sanitizer and squeezed the gel into her palm. In his hands was a tray filled with stoneware dishes and a pair of mismatched mugs. Her stomach rumbled its appreciation for the smells coming from the tray.
Acting of its own accord, Sloane’s gaze flickered over him with the new knowledge of who he was, just long enough to absorb the muscles filling his stained white T-shirt, the two or three days’ worth of stubble lining his jaw and his brown hair mussed by the clear work glasses perched on the top of his head. Just long enough to register that he was even better looking in person as he wiped sauce from one of the plates with the edge of a cloth napkin.
But it was long enough for him to notice.
Heat spread across Sloane’s cheeks as her stomach dipped in response to him. What? Did she think this was some kind of reality show or something? And why was her body choosing now of all times to behave this way? It had to be some kind of fight-or-flight misfire.
Cooper set the tray of food in front of her. “I thought I’d give you a preview of what we’re going to serve at the soft opening in case you want to write about it in your little blog.”
Sloane raised an eyebrow. Little blog? Apparently his good looks weren’t all the gossip headlines were right about. But maybe his arrogance would serve her well. Anger and annoyance always had a way of making her less of an awkward disaster. They helped her maintain control.
She ignored his comment and reached for the crock of soup, focusing on the smell of hearty broth and some kind of caramelized white cheese.
Cooper
