Page 40 of Sweet Sinners
The tension eases from his face, and the smirk softens, becoming almost gentle. “Anytime,” he says. “Come here enough, and you might get strong enough to scare that board of yours into submission.”
I snort softly, grateful for the lighter shift in the air. “Pretty sure my CEO scowl already terrifies them. Any stronger, and I might end up ruling through fear.”
Connor huffs a laugh, tired but genuine. He flicks off the octagon, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dinner’s ready, by the way. Hope you're hungry.”
Chapter twenty
Cali
Saturdayarrives,sunshineslippingthrough my curtains like an old friend coaxing me awake. For the first time in what feels like months, my chest loosens, the relentless grip of responsibility easing just enough to let me breathe again. Today, I leave behind boardroom battles and whispered accusations, today, I’m just Cali.
I slip into my favorite sundress, the kind that skims my skin and makes me feel light, and let my hair tumble freely over my shoulders. The air is warm but crisp, the kind of perfect summer day that reminds me why I love this city. The streets hum with life, tourists snapping photos, locals lost in conversation, the occasional musician playing for change on the corner. The scent of fresh coffee and baked goods drifts from open café doors, mingling with the salt in the air from the harbor just a few blocks away.
I move slowly, no destination in mind, guided only by instinct and curiosity. And then I see it, a small artisan shop tucked beneath a brick archway, a stained-glass piece in the window splashing brilliant, jewel-colored light onto the sidewalk. My footsteps slow, something tightening in my chest as I linger, tracing the intricate design with my gaze. Connor’s face flickers in my mind, his expression focused and intense, fingers carefully planning out the pattern he wants to recreate in the greenhouse.
He's slipped into my thoughts too often lately. Cooking dinner in the quiet warmth of the kitchen, filling the house with flavors and care I never expected. I shake my head slightly, as if I can dislodge the thought. It’s absurd. We’ve always been something close to strangers—polite indifference at best—but now he’s everywhere, threaded through my days in ways I didn’t invite yet can’t quite reject.
Turning away from the shop, I keep walking until I stumble upon a quaint sweets store, its glass windows stacked high with chocolates and colorful candies. Inside, the air is thick with rich cocoa, burnt sugar, and buttery caramel. For a moment, I’m eight years old again, my mother pressing chocolate coins into my palms, her laughter warm against my ear as she promises, "Just between us, okay?"
My heart pangs, but I don’t resist the temptation. Soon I’m filling a paper bag with an indulgent mix of chocolate-dipped strawberries, velvety truffles, and a generous wedge of fudge. On impulse, I toss in a handful of sour candies, craving the sharp bite to offset the sweetness. Before I leave, I buy an ice cream cone, licking away drops of caramel that slip over the sides as I step back into the sunlight.
I wander until I find an empty bench tucked beneath the shade of an old oak, its leaves whispering gently in the breeze. Sinking down onto the warm wood, I tilt my face skyward, savoring the slow meltof ice cream on my tongue, the sun pressing softly against my closed eyelids.
No phones ringing. No anxious whispers of scandal or suspicion. For a moment, I can forget the ceaseless demands of being CEO, of being my father’s daughter. Right now, I’m justme, breathing freely, tasting sweetness and sunshine, and letting myself simply exist.
"Cali?"
The familiar voice snaps me from my haze, jolting me upright as I shield my eyes against the bright afternoon sun. Dean stands just a few feet away, his posture relaxed and casual, jeans that fit perfectly and a T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders. It’s almost unsettling how different he looks without his crisp dress shirts and that practiced corporate cool. We've only seen each other outside of the office for lunch at the restaurant in the same building, so this feels like a different world.
He grins, tilting his head. "So, you're real after all. I thought you only existed under fluorescent lighting."
My lips twitch into a reluctant smile. "Careful, Dean. You almost sound disappointed."
He chuckles, eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. His gaze dips to my ice cream cone, then lifts slowly back to mine. "Didn't peg you for a salted caramel kind of girl."
I arch an eyebrow. "And what exactly did you peg me for?"
His smile broadens, playful and unguarded. "Black coffee. Straight up. No sugar, no cream, just fuel."
I laugh softly, shaking my head as I lick a stray drop off my thumb. "Close enough. What are you doing here?"
He shrugs, gesturing vaguely down the street. "I live about ten minutes from here. I didn’t realize you came into the city often."
"I don’t," I admit, glancing at the bench beside me. "But sometimes the walls start closing in, and I just need some air."
Dean tilts his chin slightly, watching me carefully. "Mind if I invade your moment of peace?"
I hesitate, feigning suspicion. "Only if you promise, no work talk. Not one mention of mergers, meetings, or spreadsheets."
He lifts both hands in surrender, eyes dancing. "I solemnly swear."
Dean settles onto the bench beside me, stretching his long legs out comfortably, and for once, our conversation isn’t overshadowed by corporate tension or boardroom politics. We discuss nothing and everything, the little Thai place hidden in a basement two blocks over, his heated complaints about Boston’s traffic, the shockingly passionate debate on whether bagels qualify as proper brunch.
It's effortless, comfortable. Easy. Something I've missed more than I realized.
Then, casually—almost too casually—he tilts his head toward me, eyes curious. "So, how’s it been, living alone in that big, haunted house?"
My stomach twists, and I nearly choke on a mouthful of ice cream.
