The ferry cut through the Puget Sound like a knife through butter.
Sloane stood at the railing, wind whipping her curls across her face, and tried not to throw up. Not from seasickness. From nerves.
She'd changed clothes four times before settling on a burgundy wrap dress that hugged her curves and made her skin look like warm honey. Jade had done her makeup – subtle, but enough to make her eyes pop. And she'd pinned half her hair up, leaving the rest to fall in wild spirals down her back.
You look like a woman in love, Jade had said.
I look like a woman who's about to be caught in a lie.
Same thing, different lighting.
Now Cole stood beside her on the ferry, his shoulder brushing hers, his hands shoved in the pockets of his charcoal trousers. He'd changed into a navy blazer over a white button-down, no tie, top two buttons undone. His jaw was freshly shaved. He smelled like sandalwood.
He hadn't said a word since they boarded.
"You're nervous," Sloane said.
"I don't get nervous."
"Your jaw is doing that thing where it flexes every three seconds. You're nervous."
He looked at her sideways. "My aunt is the only person in the world who knows every version of me. The foster kid. The runaway. The billionaire. The monster." He paused. "She'll take one look at you and know you're not my fiancée."
"Then we'll convince her otherwise."
"How?"
Sloane turned to face him. She reached up and straightened his collar, letting her fingers linger on his neck. His pulse hammered under her touch.
"By acting like we can't keep our hands off each other," she said. "By looking at me like you want to eat me alive. By remembering that this isn't a transaction – it's a performance. And we're both excellent performers."
His eyes darkened. "You're good at this."
"I'm a baker. I've been performing joy for customers since I was sixteen. Trust me. I can sell anything."
"Can you sell love?"
The question hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
Before she could answer, the ferry horn blared. The San Juan Islands materialized through the fog – green and rugged and impossibly beautiful. A white house perched on a cliff, surrounded by cedar trees and rose bushes.
"Her house," Cole said quietly. "She's lived there for forty years. My mother grew up in that house."
"Your mother?"
"Died when I was five. Car accident." He said it flatly, but his hand found Sloane's lower back. "Frankie raised me after that. Until the state decided she was too old and put me in foster care."
Sloane's heart cracked. "How old was she?"
"Sixty-two. They said she couldn't handle a traumatized seven-year-old." His jaw flexed again. "She fought for me for three years. Lost everything trying to get me back. But the system doesn't care about love. It cares about paperwork."
The ferry docked. Cole's hand stayed on her back as they walked down the ramp. A black SUV waited for them – driven by a silent man in a suit who didn't introduce himself.
The drive was ten minutes of winding roads and towering evergreens. Sloane pressed her forehead to the window and tried to memorize every detail. The way the light filtered through the trees. The smell of salt and pine. The way Cole's thumb traced small circles on her lower back, like he didn't even know he was doing it.
He doesn't know, she realized. It's instinct.
The house appeared around a bend.
It was gorgeous – not in the cold, modern way of his penthouse, but in the warm, lived-in way of a place that had held generations. White clapboard, blue shutters, a wraparound porch with a swing that creaked in the wind. Roses climbed the trellises. A stone path led to a wooden door painted the color of sea glass.
"This isn't a billionaire's house," Sloane said.
"No. It's a home." Cole's voice softened. "The only one I've ever known."
The front door opened before they reached the porch.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was small – maybe five feet – with silver-white hair pinned in a loose bun. Her skin was pale and papery, but her eyes... her eyes were the same whiskey color as Cole's. Sharp. Knowing. And filled with a light that said I've seen everything, and I'm still here.
Frankie Thorne leaned on a carved wooden cane. Her other hand gripped the doorframe.
"You're late," she said.
Cole smiled. Actually smiled – a real one, crooked and boyish and so unlike the cold mask he wore that Sloane almost gasped.
"The ferry, Frankie. You know the ferry."
"The ferry knows you should have taken the seaplane." Frankie's gaze shifted to Sloane. It swept over her from head to toe – not judgmental, but assessing. Like a jeweler examining a diamond for flaws.
"So," Frankie said. "You're the baker."
Sloane lifted her chin. "I'm Sloane. It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Thorne."
"Frankie. And don't lie to me. It's not nice to meet me yet. You're terrified."
Sloane blinked. Then laughed – a surprised, genuine laugh. "Okay. You're right. I'm terrified."
Frankie's eyes crinkled. "Good. Honest. I like her already, Cole. She's better than the last one."
Cole's smile vanished. "There was no last one."
"Exactly my point." Frankie stepped aside. "Come in. Dinner's almost ready. I made pot roast. And before you ask – yes, I made it myself. No, I didn't burn it. And yes, I'm dying, so you're both going to eat every bite and tell me it's delicious."
She hobbled inside without waiting for a response.
Sloane turned to Cole. "The last one?"
"Ignore her."
"Cole."
He sighed. "Two years ago, she tried to set me up with a socialite. Victoria. Blonde, thin, empty. Frankie hated her. Said she had 'dead eyes.'"
"What did you think?"
"I thought Victoria wanted my money and my name and nothing else." He looked at Sloane. "You're different."
"Different how?"
"You looked at my aunt like she was a person, not a wallet. You laughed at her joke. You didn't flinch when she said she was dying." He paused. "Most people flinch."
Sloane thought about Nana. About the hospice room. About the way people had stopped visiting when the cancer spread, because they didn't know what to say.
"Death doesn't scare me," she said. "Losing people before you're ready – that scares me."
Cole held her gaze for a long moment. Then he offered his arm. "Shall we?"
She looped her hand through his elbow. His bicep was solid under her palm. "We shall."
---
The inside of the house was warmer than the outside. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Bookshelves lined every wall, stuffed with worn paperbacks and framed photographs. Sloane spotted a young Cole – maybe ten years old, skinny, with a bruise on his cheek – standing next to Frankie in front of a Christmas tree.
"Kitchen's through there," Frankie called from somewhere down the hall. "Wine's on the counter. Cole, you're carving the roast. Sloane, you're pouring."
Cole squeezed her hand once before letting go and disappearing into the kitchen.
Sloane found the wine – a pinot noir that probably cost more than her weekly grocery budget – and poured three glasses. Her hands only shook a little.
Frankie appeared in the doorway, leaning on her cane. She watched Sloane pour.
"You have steady hands for someone who's lying."
Sloane nearly dropped the bottle. "I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." Frankie hobbled closer. "I've known Cole since he was five years old. I changed his diapers. I taught him to read. I held him when he cried for him mother." She stopped in front of Sloane. "That boy does not fall in love in six weeks. He doesn't even fall in like. So the fact that you're here, wearing a dress that cost more than your bakery's monthly profit, pretending to be his fiancée?"
Frankie took a sip of wine. "I'm not stupid, dear. I'm dying, not blind."
Sloane's throat went dry. "Then why did you invite me?"
"Because Cole brought you. Because he's never brought anyone to this house. Not Victoria. Not any of the other women I've tried to push at him." Frankie's sharp eyes softened. "You're the first one he's chosen. Even if he doesn't know why."
"He chose me because I need money and he needs a fiancée. It's a contract."
"Is it?" Frankie tilted her head. "Because when you walked up the path, he put his hand on your back. Not because he was supposed to. Because he wanted to. I know my nephew. He doesn't touch people he doesn't care about."
Sloane opened her mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Frankie patted her cheek. "You're a good liar, Sloane. But you're a terrible actress. You're already falling for him. And he's already falling for you. The contract doesn't matter."
"It does matter. He'll end it in six months. He said so."
"He says a lot of things. Cole has been saying he doesn't need love since he was seven years old." Frankie's eyes glistened. "He's never been more wrong about anything in his life."
Cole walked in holding a carving knife. He stopped when he saw his aunt's hand on Sloane's cheek.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing," Frankie said smoothly. "I was just telling Sloane about the time you wet the bed at age nine and blamed it on the dog."
"I didn't have a dog."
"Exactly." Frankie winked at Sloane. "Dinner's ready. Let's eat."
---
Dinner was pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans that had definitely come from a can. It was the most delicious thing Sloane had ever tasted.
Not because of the food.
Because of the way Cole looked at his aunt. The way his voice softened when he asked about her pain meds. The way he cut her meat into small pieces without being asked. The way he laughed – actually laughed – when Frankie told a story about Cole's foster brother stealing a goat.
"A goat?" Sloane said, laughing. "Why a goat?"
"Because Marcus was an idiot," Cole said. "And because the farmer owed his foster dad money. It was a whole thing."
"Marcus. Your CFO?"
"The same." Cole shook his head. "He's the only friend I have from those years. We were in three foster homes together. He kept me sane."
"And you kept him alive," Frankie added. "Don't be modest, Cole. You took a beating for that boy more than once."
Cole's jaw tightened. "We don't talk about that."
"Why not? It's the truth." Frankie turned to Sloane. "When Cole was twelve, his foster father caught Marcus stealing food. The man was going to break Marcus's hand with a hammer. Cole stepped in. Took the hit instead. Broke three of his own fingers."
Sloane looked at Cole. His hands were on the table – strong, capable, covered in a few thin scars she hadn't noticed before.
"Is that why you have a scar on your knuckle?" she asked quietly.
Cole stared at her. "How did you know about the scar?"
"I noticed. This morning. When we were kneading."
The table went silent.
Frankie looked between them, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You kneaded dough together?"
"He wanted to learn," Sloane said.
"He wanted to be near you," Frankie corrected. "There's a difference."
Cole set down his fork. "Frankie—"
"I'm dying, Cole. I'm allowed to say whatever I want." She reached across the table and took Sloane's hand. "Take care of him. He'll fight you. He'll push you away. He'll tell you he doesn't need anyone. But he's lying. He's been lying his whole life."
Sloane's eyes burned. "I don't know if I can."
"You already are." Frankie squeezed her hand. "That's the thing about love, baby. It doesn't ask permission. It just shows up."
Later, after dinner, after Frankie had gone to bed with a kiss on Cole's cheek and a whispered "Don't let this one go" in Sloane's ear, Cole walked Sloane out to the porch.
The stars were enormous here – no city lights to drown them out. The sound of waves crashing against the cliff below filled the silence.
"She knows," Sloane said.
"I know."
"She doesn't care."
"I know that too."
Cole leaned against the porch railing, his profile sharp against the night sky. "She said something to you. In the kitchen. Before dinner. What was it?"
Sloane hesitated. Then: "She said I'm already falling for you. And you're already falling for me."
Cole didn't deny it.
He just looked at her – really looked at her – and said, "What if she's right?"
The question hung in the cold air.
Sloane stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat.
"Then we're in trouble," she whispered.
"I've been in trouble since the moment I walked into your bakery."
He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her neck. His thumb traced her jaw.
"Sloane."
"Cole."
"I'm going to kiss you now. Not because of the contract. Not because my aunt is watching from the window." He glanced toward the house. Sloane followed his gaze. The curtains in Frankie's room were definitely moving.
She laughed. "She's spying on us."
"Let's give her a show."
He kissed her.
It wasn't like the first time – that accidental brush of lips in the bakery. This was deliberate. Slow. His mouth slanted over hers, warm and sure, and Sloane melted into him like butter on a hot pan.
His hands found her waist. Her hands fisted in his shirt. He tasted like wine and pot roast and something else – something that felt like forever.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Sloane's lips were swollen and her heart was pounding and her body was screaming for more.
Cole rested his forehead against hers.
"That," he said roughly, "was not fake."
"No," she agreed. "It wasn't."
"So what do we do now?"
Sloane looked up at the stars. Then at the house where a dying woman watched from behind a curtain, hoping for a miracle. Then at the man who'd been taught his whole life that love was a weakness.
"We keep pretending," she said. "Until pretending becomes the truth."
Cole kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper.
When he pulled back, his eyes were bright – brighter than she'd ever seen them.
"Six months," he said.
"Six months," she agreed.
But even as she said it, Sloane knew the truth.
Six months wouldn't be enough.
A lifetime wouldn't be enough.
She was already his. And he was already hers.
The contract was just paper.
This – whatever this was – was real.