“Some local guy had been winding extension cords into a giant ball for decades. He worked at the plant and kept combining scraps. It was enormous, completely pointless, and the single most interesting thing within a hundred miles.”
A laugh barks out of me. “I already regret asking, but what did you do with that giant electrical death trap?”
“You mean The World’s Biggest Ball of Extension Cords?” he says, grinning as if he owns the title. “I leaned into the freakshow factor. Set it up outside my family’s restaurant and posted signs. I invited people to add to the mess. They’d bring their own cord, snap a photo for the ‘gram, and stay for the burgers. Suddenly Glenmire, and my parents’ diner, wasn’t just a drive-through town; it was a destination.”
“And people actually… came?”
“Oh, I made people come,” he says, all puffed up, and I can’t help but blush. “But only a few stopped at first. Then more. When the press caught wind, visitors were detouring off the highway to see it. Which meant they were also stopping for pie.”
“So your family’s restaurant?”
“Stayed open.” His shoulders lift like it’s no big deal.
“You built a whole campaign around it?”
“Yup. Got the plant attention again,” he adds. “New manufacturer stepped in. Reopened it.”
“And you’re just dropping this over fries?”
“They’re damn good fries.”
I don’t laugh.
I can’t.
Because I realize we have the same heart, despite spending half a year at each other’s throats.
I reach for my drink because if I don’t, I’ll reach for him.
“You couldn’t have led with the extension cord story?” I hear myself say. “Back in January? Could’ve saved us a lot of aggression.”
“Where’s the fun in that, Stopwatch?”
I used to want to smack that smirk off his face; now I just want to kiss it.
“Dare4Change has a megaphone. If I can do that for a single town with a ball of wire, imagine what I can do at scale for other places that are hurting. That’s why I’m gunning for the promotion.”
The weight of my entire case against him falls away. My ribs find more room for my lungs to expand.We want the same thing, we just… do it differently.
And God help me, seeing the heart behind the hustle is a million times more dangerous than mind-blowing sex.
I can’t stop staring at him. That’s a problem. A real problem.
Because Cole Hartwell in a hotel robe is a series of terrible decisions I’ve already made, bundled up in cotton and tied with a bow. His eyes are warm and lazy, and he’s not scheming or pushing my buttons. He’shimunguarded, loose-limbed, comfortable. Sprawled out inmyroom withme.
But let’s be real, it shouldn’t be me. It should be Sienna. She’s stunning and brilliant, a literal marine biologist who is effortlessly everything I’m not.
So why the hell is he here, staring at me like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else?
Because you were holding the EpiPen.
He almost died today. His body shut down in front of everyone, and I happened to be the girl behind the needle.I yanked him back from the great beyond. Which means this(whatever this is)isn’t real. It’s adrenaline, or post-traumatic growth, or his brain’s twisted way of saying, “Hey, thanks for not letting me die, here’syour reward in orgasms.”
It’s gratitude, pure and simple. I need to stop confusing it for anything more. Right?(… right?)
I continue picking it apart because that’s what I do when things don’t fit. The proof is always there if you dig deep enough.
First, I am too high-strung, too intense for the men I’ve dated.
