Sloane’s gaze was glued to him as he made crepes to order for the kids, muscles rippling between his wrists and elbows as he ladled batter from a metal bowl onto the crepe pans she’d brought along. She was aware of the sound of his voice as he narrated his actions to the kids and filled their crepes based on their preferences—macerated berries, fresh whipped cream, chocolate-hazelnut sauce or a savory pesto chicken option.
Just below the folded cuff of Cooper’s shirt, Sloane saw the trace of faded ink, the tail end of the tattoo she’d noticed before. It looked like letters but she couldn’t make out what they said. How had she not asked him about it before?
“Miss Sloane?”
A tug on her elbow yanked her from her contemplation.
“I spilled.” Juan David. Chocolate and berries smeared down the front of his shirt.
“No problem.” Her voice came out breathy and low—proof of where her mind had been. “Let’s get you to the sink.” She stole a glance at Cooper and met an amused flash of white teeth that might as well have been a cattle prod sizzling every nerve ending in her body.
Get it together, Sloane. But what if she didn’t want to?
“Hey, Miss Sloane?” Juan David swiped at his perpetual runny nose with the back of his rounded wrist as she blotted his shirt with a wet kitchen towel. “Is Mr. Cooper your boyfriend or something?”
The towel fell from her hand. Was she so obvious that an eight-year-old kid had seen it? Did that mean Davon knew he was her boyfriend, too?
Boyfriend. It was mind-boggling. A few weeks ago, she had been convinced she was destined to stay single forever. That she didn’t have the capacity to feel this way for someone. That she wasn’t worthy.
But Cooper—he’d helped her see differently.
She picked up the towel from the floor, unable to control the curve of her lips. “Just wash your hands, Juan David.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A sly grin appeared.
The moment they rejoined the group, the subject of Cooper and Sloane was no more interesting than dough scraps once Juan David saw the second crepe that was waiting for him.
Cooper multitasked the cooking with helping Davon cut his food. There was a familiarity between them. A trust. A mutual respect between the Big and Little Brother. Nothing even remotely resembling the tension between Cooper and his blood family.
“Can Mr. Cooper come back?” Miles’s cheeks dimpled in a smile that was half ornery, half angelic.
“Please?” Chloe folded her hands in a theatrical begging gesture. “That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Sloane quirked her lips at Cooper. Told you. “Of course he can come back. Anytime he wants.” She started to tell the kids about Simone, and an idea fleeted through her mind for the food truck. Promo cards. Anyone who enjoyed a swipe of frosting at the food truck could taste the entire cake at the restaurant.
“Everyone’s going to love them,” she told Cooper as they walked to his car with the last of the supplies. He took her canvas bag of leftovers from her and put it in the back of the Defender. “I told you. We can’t go wrong with—”
The word crepes never left her lips, smothered as it was by Cooper’s kiss. Warmth plunged from the nape of Sloane’s neck to her toes as he pushed against her and tipped her into his solid arms. She surrendered to the urge that had been building for hours, tucking her hands into his open jacket for a closer exploration of his back and chest.
And, oh, did it ever feel right.
Cooper brought Sloane to her normal vertical position, and she watched the thirst dim in his eyes.
“I’ve been dying to do that all day.” He sounded as if he’d just sprinted a good distance.
When they were settled in the Defender, Sloane leaned across the seat and pulled Cooper’s left arm to her. “I’ve been dying to do this all day.” She burrowed her hands between the sleeve of his jacket and his warm, solid forearm, pushing the cloth up until it was in plain sight, the words Sans Dieu Rien permanently etched into his skin in a clean script font. She traced it with her thumb. “Dieu means God, right?”
Cooper nodded then brushed his lips against her palm before he released it. “It means Nothing Without God.” He grinned as he turned the key. “Keeps me humble.”
On the drive to her apartment, Cooper’s words replayed in Sloane’s mind. Keeps me humble. He was trying to be funny, she knew. But the more she learned about his past, the more she admired who he was. How much he’d grown.
They took their sweet time saying goodbye parked outside her building. With as much as they had on their plates to keep them busy, who knew when their next opportunity might be? Seize the day and everything, right?
As they finally ended their embrace, she wondered if it were possible to get addicted to this, the best kind of substance-free intoxication.
Watching him walk to his car from where she stood at her bedroom window, her forehead pressed to the cool glass, she got her answer.
* * *
THE TRUCK WAS DONE. Sloane hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in days; her eyes were dry from staring at her computer screen and her website content calendar was a week behind. She was still traumatized by her experience getting her food handler’s permit at the health department.
But the truck was ready and she was on her way to see Cooper, so nothing could be wrong in her world. He’d insisted on working the first service himself, eager for the chance to forget about everything for a few hours and just cook.
Sloane was grateful he’d have this opportunity to relax, mostly because it meant she could spend time with him. They hadn’t seen each other in a week. They’d sustained their connection with nightly marathon phone calls, during which it was perfectly normal—and maybe even expected—that one or both of them would fall asleep. They were that exhausted.
The sight of Cooper leaning against his SUV when her driver pulled into the parking lot made up for the absence. She’d spend a few more days apart from him if it meant he’d look at her that way again.
As she opened the car door a gust of frosty wind that stung her cheeks swept inside. But this weather was normal for Texas football, after all. It would actually work in their favor.
“Hi, beautiful.”
A dizzying sensation swept over Sloane at the sound of his voice, low and smooth. Forget a jacket. All the warmth she needed was right there.
“Hi.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, blushing as his gaze seemed to drink her in.
If Aaron were here, he’d tell her she was acting crazy. She was an almost thirty-year-old woman acting exactly like the girls they’d made fun of in high school.
But he’d probably be smiling through his ridicule. Happy for her.
“Come here.” Cooper pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss into her hairline. And she allowed herself to get reacquainted with her little nook at his side, memorizing the way this place-she-was-supposed-to-be felt. The groove of muscles in the middle of his chest where her head fit just right, the way his arms gripped her like he wanted to protect every inch of her, the familiar cadence of his heartbeat.
“Maybe we should just forget this whole food truck idea and spend our time doing more productive things.”
Sloane chuckled. “As tempting as that is—”
“Wow.” Cooper let out a low whistle as the ruby-red truck turned into the parking lot.
“Impressive, huh?” She slipped her hand in his. “And all ours—all yours.”
He gave her an extra squeeze. “Thank you for doing this, Sloane.”
“We have two hours to prep,” she said. “I gave us plenty of time.”
A man, short and balding with an easy smile, stepped down from the driver’s seat of the truck.
“Trent.” Cooper released Sloane to greet the man with a handshake-hug hybrid
.
“You’re Trent?” She could finally put a face with the cook Cooper had handpicked from his restaurant’s staff to oversee the truck’s operations. The voice of the person who’d slaved over the details on the phone with her. “I’m Sloane.”
She pulled a thick manila folder from her bag and gave Cooper a tour of the truck. The inside was a cook’s playground of gleaming stainless steel. The burners had been replaced, and the truck had passed its inspection with flying colors.
“What?” Sloane asked Cooper, who was grinning. “So I like a clean work space before I begin a big project.”
She briefed the two men on how the evening would unfold—at least if everything went according to plan. Cooper and Trent bore matching glazed expressions of stunned disbelief as she went over her ingredient lists and showed them where the preportioned food containers were waiting.
“Wow, Sloane.” Cooper crouched, rifling through the clear storage tubs in the refrigerators. “This is a lot of food.”
“We’re going to need it.” She squeezed his hand instinctively, then dropped it. Trent was standing right there. “I promise.” She drew in a deep breath. “Okay. So this is how it’s going to go...”
“Authoritative.” Cooper winked. “I like it.”
Sloane rolled her eyes. “We’ll open at nine, but traffic shouldn’t be too bad until ten when we send out another status update and the football game ends. They’ll be chilly and hungry and want something that will stick to their bones.”
She demonstrated how the burners worked and the ideal temperature, ladle size and filling proportions she’d researched and tested then recorded in her notebooks.
“Well, it looks like you’ve really thought this thing through.” Trent cleared his throat. His forehead had been creased with stunned disbelief the entire time she’d talked.
Sloane flashed a glance at Cooper, and the approval in his eyes reassured her.
Most of the time, her oddities were inconvenient. But for once, they made her extra useful. Just the way she was.
* * *
“I NEED MORE whipped cream, STAT.”
Cooper reached under his station for the chilled tub of fresh whipped cream then heaved it onto the counter next to Sloane. Droplets of ice water from the container sopped through his pants as he turned to the griddle. One false move and he’d have to redo six crepes. Nobody had time for that.
Lines had formed before they’d even opened their doors. Forget the extra social media coverage. Sloane’s pregame social media tactics had been enough. And as disgruntled football fans poured out of the stadium just before Southern Methodist University’s loss was made official, the steady stream of traffic to the food truck became like rush hour on a Dallas freeway. With multiple lanes of construction.
But thanks to Sloane’s hard work, they were staying afloat. He flipped the outer edge of the crepes and readied their respective fillings. She’d been like a conductor, directing their symphony of synchronized movements as they rehearsed their workflow and various duties.
Cooper stole a glance at her, hair curling around her face in the humidity of the cramped kitchen, gray T-shirt clinging to her trim waist as she bent to arrange a sprig of mint on a finished plate.
And then he felt it, the sear of a blade slicing through his pointer finger, somewhere in the vicinity of the top knuckle. He swore in French and scrambled for the kitchen towel he’d just used to clean his knife before the blood could spill, applying pressure like he’d done so many times before.
“This is perfect.” Cutting himself like a total rookie. At the worst possible time.
“What?” Sloane paused on her way to the serving window, hands full of finished dishes. “Oh my goodness. Hold on.” She thrust the bowls through the window and hurried to him.
“It’s not bad,” he told her as she guided him by the wrists to the sink. He could feel through the towel that it was at least still intact, which was more than he could say for his worst knife incident in the early days of culinary school.
Sloane held his hand over the sink and bent, rummaging through the cabinets below before she produced a first aid kit. “Cooper.” She paled as she saw blots of bright red blooming on the towel.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll take care of this. You go back to the window.”
She bit her lip, but nodded.
Criticisms in his father’s voice played through his mind as he bandaged his wound and cleaned up the damage. Having only two on the job had made a frenzy of their well-orchestrated concerto. And that was much more painful than his finger.
“Okay, I’m good,” he announced. But his movements were slow and clumsy, and he could barely control the chicken with the packed wound in the absolute worst place. “Scratch that. Sloane, I’m going to need you to switch me spots.”
She slid to his side. “Oui, chef.”
Cooper took orders, put the finishing touches on the dishes as best as he could and ran the register, a tablet with a credit card attachment and a checkout app. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sloane pick up seamlessly where he’d left off.
“You’re doing a great job, beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Trent deadpanned.
Sloane snorted. And kept chopping. She was the perfect partner in this venture. And she’d come into his life at the right time.
They ran out of food a few minutes before they were scheduled to close. All three cooks deflated as soon as the chalkboard menus were brought inside and the window was closed and locked.
“We survived,” Sloane said. “Or at least Trent and I did. How bad is it?” She crossed to Cooper, taking his bandaged hand in hers.
“How ’bout we get this place cleaned up so we can get out of here?” Cooper lowered his voice, thick and quiet for only her ears. “Then you can make sure I’m okay.”
Sloane grinned. “I like that idea.”
Peace washed over Cooper as he ran the numbers on the tablet’s credit card app. No matter what happened with his restaurant, it was worth it all if it had brought Sloane into his life.
A knock sounded on the window.
“We’re closed,” Cooper said without looking up.
“Open up, Coop.” The familiar voice wrung out a sigh from him.
He felt Sloane tense behind him. “Is that...?”
“My father. I’ll go talk to him.” He squeezed her hand with his good one as he scooted past her out the back door.
“You’re a little late, Dad. You missed service.”
His father’s head angled past him to Sloane, who was watching from the doorway. “An invitation would have been nice.”
“This was a trial run to see how more...organic methods would work for us.”
But his father didn’t seem interested in hearing about organic methods. He seemed focused on Sloane. “Hi, Sloane. Looks like you’ve been working hard.” There was a forced, sickening brightness to his tone.
“Yup.”
“I don’t suppose they have food trucks like this in little old Witherton, Indiana, do they?”
“You’re right. They don’t.”
Cooper closed the gap between him and Sloane. The exchange between those two made him queasy. “Well, better luck next time, Dad.” They needed to put an end to this conversation now. “See ya.”
Fortunately his father seemed willing to go easily. “Next time,” was his flat reply.
Sloane’s breaths quickened as she stepped down from the truck. “How does he know where I lived?” Her skin seemed blanched in the fluorescent interior lighting, her face expressionless.
“I don’t know.” He tried to downplay it. “I’m sure he’s just trying to rattle you.” But Cooper could see it was working.
They’d told each other everything, right? Or did his father really have somet
hing on her? “I mean, is there something else he could know?”
Her eyes rounded with fear.
“Don’t answer that. Seriously, I shouldn’t have even asked.” He framed her face in his hands and kissed the top of her head, inhaling a layered scent of her strawberry shampoo and the crepe batter. “It doesn’t matter. You were brilliant tonight.”
Silence. Her expression remained unmoving, vacant.
“Sloane.” He took her shoulders. “Please just pretend I never said anything. I trust you completely.”
She nodded and seemed to snap out of it. “Now let me take a look at that hand.”
His finger was swollen, throbbing, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Blood had soaked through the gauze, but when he unpeeled the bandage, the wound no longer bled and had sealed nicely.
“No trip to urgent care for us tonight,” he pronounced.
Sloane let go of his hand and smiled. But the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes.
“Hey. Look at me.”
She met his eyes.
“He does this kind of strong-arming stuff all the time, and it’s nothing. He can’t touch you.”
As Sloane leaned into him, Cooper had a sudden memory of the conversation with Owen about their father’s interest in Sloane. Cooper tightened his grip around her. If he held her close enough, maybe he could make it all go away.
The accident was tragic, it was terrible, it was a mistake. But it was just that—an accident. Cooper’s attempts to change the past with hundreds of bottles had all failed, so what could his father possibly do to change it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SLOANE’S WARM COCOON of sleep was broken by the jazzy ringtone on her phone.
Cooper. What if something had happened to him? Or what if it was one of her parents?
The hair rose on her arms as she picked up her phone and pressed the answer button. But it was too late. The call had already gone to voice mail.
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