Chapter 2 Cracks in the crust

Avery Sutton POV:

I trailed Ethan and Claire through the sterile hallways of Chase Innovations, the fluorescent lights buzzing like judgmental wasps. My chest tightened with every step.

Banana bread. The *super private* Ethan Chase baked. It felt absurd. The guy ran a tech empire, had biceps that could crack walnuts, and stress-baked like my aunt after her third divorce.

Claire pushed open a door to a kitchen straight out of a luxury Airbnb-marble counters, a fridge the size of my studio apartment. Ethan stormed in like he owned the place. (He did.)

"No clue why I'm doing this," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves. A jagged scar sliced across his left forearm, pale and raised. Soccer injury? Bar fight? *Noted.*

I leaned on the counter, feigning nonchalance. "Maybe you want people to see you're good at something besides crushing startups."

"Or," he said, slamming a bowl down, "Claire tricked me into this."

Claire shrugged, her nails tapping a rhythm on the doorframe. "He hasn't baked since his mom's funeral. Play nice." She vanished before I could react.

Ethan froze, a banana mid-peel. His knuckles whitened-old scars rippling like fault lines.

*Oh.*

I grabbed a fork, mashing bananas with too much force. "So... you bake when life sucks?"

"I bake when I'm *stuck*." He cracked an egg one-handed, yolk slithering into the bowl.

The kitchen hummed with the oven's low growl. It smelled like overripe fruit and Ethan's stupidly expensive cologne-cedar and regret.

"What's the trick?" I asked, swiping a chocolate chip.

"Timing." He poured vanilla extract, the bottle trembling slightly. "And not overmixing."

"Like your mergers?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Something like that."

Claire's words hung between us. *Funeral. Mom. Play nice.* I stabbed the batter, guilt curdling in my stomach.

Ethan snatched the bowl away. "You're massacring it."

"Sorry," I mumbled, not sorry at all.

He nudged me aside, his scarred forearm brushing mine. "Watch."

His hands moved with military precision-measuring flour, folding batter, avoiding eye contact. The scar on his wrist flexed with each stir.

"Where'd you get that?" I blurted.

The spoon clattered. "Soccer injury. Seventeen stitches."

"Cool."

"It's not."

The oven beeped. He shoved the pan in, jaw clenched.

His phone buzzed-a calendar alert. *Board Meeting.*

Claire materialized in the doorway, her stilettos slicing through the tension. "I'll handle it." She didn't wait for approval, her glare pinning me. *"Behave."*

The door clicked shut.

We stood alone, the kitchen humming with heat. Ethan's scarred forearm flexed as he gripped the counter. The recipe drawer gaped slightly, Claire's exit leaving it unguarded.

I edged closer. "So... board meetings without you?"

"They'll survive." His voice rasped, eyes locked on the oven light.

The drawer handle chilled my palm. *One peek.*

"Don't." He didn't turn around.

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're doing."

I yanked it open. *Mom's Banana Bread*-the card's edges frayed, a coffee ring staining *I love you.*

Ethan's shadow fell over me. "*Close it.*"

"Who was she?"

His breath hitched. The scar on his wrist pulsed. "Someone who... believed in stupid things. Like second chances."

The timer blared. He reached past me, slamming the drawer. Our hands brushed-flour and calluses and something that felt like a live wire.

The loaf emerged cracked, imperfect. He sawed off a slice, crumbs avalanching onto my *I Heart Hot Moms* tank top.

"Well?"

I took a bite. Molten chocolate and guilt burned my tongue. "Honest."

His thumb swiped flour from my cheek. "So are you."

Outside, rain sheeted against the windows. Somewhere, Claire was eviscerating the board. Here, the world narrowed to burnt edges and Ethan's quiet confession:

"She'd have liked you."

"Why?"

"You don't know when to quit."

The drawer stayed shut. The story stayed unwritten.

For now.