“It is.” She parks in front of the house. “He’s a good brother, and I appreciate it. I’m just tired of being the sick girl everyone has to take care of.”
“Then the last couple of weeks must have felt like a dream come true.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to face her. “Since you’ve been the one taking care of me. If I haven’t said it before now, thank you.”
“Thanks for believing I’m capable of it.”
The vulnerability in her voice hits me square in the chest. Sloane has spent over a year being prodded by doctors, fussed over by friends, and helicopter-parented by her billionaire brother. Being useful to someone else—even a hot mess like me—clearly feels like an accomplishment.
“You’re fucking capable of anything you set your mind to,” I tell her. “So am I.”
“Even finding joy?”
I groan. “Is it too late to back out of the bucket list?”
“No takebacks.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Besides, you’re already on your way with the new job.”
“Winnie made good on her threat. I’m taking the four a.m. shift tomorrow.” I shove open the car door and step into the cool evening air. “I don’t think getting up at the ass crack of dawn is going to bring me joy.”
But even as I say it, I notice my shoulders aren’t hunched up around my ears the way they’ve been for weeks. Not because I’m about to reinvent myself as a small-town baker—which is still too wild to process—but because in the morning, I’ll have a purpose beyond wallowing in self-pity. A reason to get out of bed that has nothing to do with Jon or my father or the wreckage of my former life. I’ll have flour on my hands and heat from the ovens warming my face, and maybe the first step toward a new start.
“I’m glad you decided to come tonight.” Sloane falls into step beside me as we walk toward the front door. “Although I figured you’d had enough of my brother in Bora Bora.”
“Yeah, well…he had a private chef come to the villa. Best meal I’ve ever eaten.” I keep my voice light. “He probably has staff here, too. You know a lot about books and I know a lot about baking, but neither of us can cook for shit.”
Sloane laughs, the sound bright in the quiet neighborhood. “True. But surprisingly, Jeremy can. Even more surprisingly, he doesn’t keep staff at this house.”
“What about his place inCalifornia?”
“At one point, he had a full team there. But I’m not sure now that he’s been spending more time in Colorado.” She shrugs. “He doesn’t like people in his space.”
I think about the way he watched as I chatted up Damon and Michael at the villa. But speaking of people in his space…
“He knows I’m coming, right?”
“Mmmmm.” Sloane pushes open the front door without bothering to knock, and the guilt that flickers across her face sends my pulse spiking.
“I thought you said he invited me.” Which seemed strange after I’d thrown a spatula at his head and kicked him out of Sloane’s apartment. But I could get whiplash from Jeremy Winslow’s fluctuating behavior. One minute all judgy tech-bro, and the next extending olive branches through his sister like the man I’d glimpsed in Bora Bora might actually exist. Or maybe I’m the one who can’t make up her mind who she’s going to be.
“He invited me. I invited you. Same diff.”
“Oh my God, Sloane.Hugediff.” I pull her to a stop inside the foyer. “I can’t show up to your brother’s house uninvited.”
“You’re not uninvited.Iinvited you.” She pats my arm with infuriating calm. “He always tells me to bring friends.”
“The fuck he tells you that.”
“It’ll be good for him.” Her chuckle could best be described as diabolical. “And for you.”
“This is going to be terrible,” I mutter but square my shoulders and follow her. What else am I going to do, roam the neighborhood like a lost child?
The interior of Jeremy’s house is exactly what I didn’t expect. Rather than a science-lab aesthetic, the vibe is warm and inviting. Exposed wooden beams, light hardwood floors, and walls painted in soft neutrals feel cozy instead of bland. An enormous stone fireplace anchors the living room, and floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of the forest and streambeyond.
“Needs some color,” Sloane says as she watches me survey the open-concept space.
I think it’s absolutely perfect the way it is, and I kind of hate that.
The kitchen is a dream. White marble countertops veined with gray, custom cabinetry in a pale driftwood finish, and a Sub-Zero fridge that could probably hold a month’s worth of groceries. There’s a double range with those status-symbol red knobs. Pendant lamps cast warm pools of light over an island big enough to seat six, its surface currently cluttered with cutting boards and prep bowls.
Once again, everything is exactly as I’d choose. Neutral colors and understated mountain elegance. I expected Jeremy’s house to be sterile or super modern, fitting for the alpha-hole I can’t keep pretending he is. Instead, it’s the kind of space where you’d want to curl up with a book and a glass of wine. Not me, specifically. I don’t want to curl up anywhere near him.
