Chapter 3 Batter, bytes and burled secrets

Avery Sutton POV:

Claire strode back into the kitchen, her stilettos clacking like a metronome. "Board's handled. They're still terrified of you," she said to Ethan, tossing a folder onto the counter. "Also, they want the Q4 report by Friday. *Again*."

Ethan didn't look up from the batter. "Tell them to read the last email I sent."

"I did. They're asking for 'simpler words.'" Claire rolled her eyes, then glanced at my flour-dusted shirt. "Having fun?"

"She's a menace," Ethan muttered.

"Says the guy with a PhD in avoiding people," I shot back.

Ethan rolled up his sleeves, the scar on his forearm catching the light. "It's the company kitchen."

Claire snorted. "No one else uses it. They're scared of him."

I turned to him. "So everyone here avoids your kitchen?"

He shot Claire a look. "Stop helping."

She shrugged. "Just saying."

I tucked that detail away. *Something to dig into later.*

Ethan pulled out ingredients like he'd done this forever-bananas, flour, sugar. Even Greek yogurt.

I leaned on the counter. "You take this seriously."

He didn't look up. "You wouldn't leave me alone."

"Asked nicely," I said. "Why banana bread, though? Family thing?"

He mashed the bananas hard. "My grandma made it when I was a kid. That's all."

Too simple. "And you built a whole kitchen just for it?"

He ignored me, cracking eggs like they'd offended him. *Note: Deflects by working harder.*

Fine.

I walked over and dipped a finger in the sugar. "Ever try new flavors?"

"Don't," he said flatly.

I licked the sugar, holding his stare.

His jaw tightened. "You're annoying."

"Curious," I said.

Claire sat on a stool, trying not to laugh. "Tell her about the peanut butter thing."

Ethan sighed. "Tried adding peanut butter once. Didn't work."

"How bad was it?"

"Couldn't eat it."

Claire grinned. "It was a rock. We joked about using it for construction."

I smiled. "Banana bread mastermind, huh?"

Ethan dumped flour into the bowl. "Are you helping or not?"

"Both." I picked up a whisk.

"What's the secret, then?"

"Patience," he said. "And keeping you away from the oven."

"Harsh."

He handed me the whisk. "Mix."

I stirred while he measured vanilla. The kitchen smelled like bananas and sugar. For a second, it felt... normal.

Too normal.

I cleared my throat. "When you're not working... what do you do?"

Ethan glanced at me. "Isn't that your job to find out?"

"Asking as a person, not a reporter."

He almost smiled. "We're not friends."

"Could be."

He dumped the batter into the pan and slammed it into the oven, then turned to me, arms crossed. "Fine. What's *your* thing? Stalking CEOs is a hobby now?"

I choked on a laugh. "Seriously?"

"You've been grilling me all day. My turn."

I scratched the back of my neck, staring at the floor. "Uh... I binge trash TV and eat cereal for dinner. Sad, right?"

He blinked. "Cereal."

"The fancy kind." I fake-sprinkled marshmallows into the air. "The kind that rots your teeth."

He smirked, leaning against the counter. "So lifestyle & leisure pays you to... review sugar bombs?"

I stiffened. "They pay me to write."

"About *gossip*." He tilted his head. "Not stories."

The oven beeped. He yanked out the loaf-golden, smelling like my grandma's kitchen.

I caved first. "Truce?"

He sawed off a messy slice and shoved it at me. "Prove it."

I took a bite. Crumbs rained on my shirt. *Damn. Okay.* "Not bad... for a guy who types code all day."

A smirk flickered. "High praise from a cereal addict."

I threw a napkin at him. "You're the worst."

"Try to keep up," he said, wiping flour onto his jeans.

Claire reappeared in the doorway, her phone buzzing like an angry hornet. "Ethan. They're asking about the Tokyo merger. Again."

He didn't look up from the loaf. "Tell them I'm busy."

"Busy *baking*?"

"Busy delegating." He tossed her the folder she'd brought in earlier. "You handle it."

Claire muttered something about "unpaid overtime" but left, her heels echoing down the hall.

The kitchen fell silent again. Ethan's scarred hands lingered on the counter, flour dusting his watch-a sleek, stupidly expensive thing at odds with his grandma's chipped mixing bowl.

I nudged the drawer open an inch. The recipe card peeked out, coffee-stained and fragile.

"Don't," he said quietly.

I froze. "Why not?"

He turned, flour streaking his stubble. "Because some things aren't for headlines."

The drawer clicked shut. The loaf cooled between us, cracks spiderwebbing its crust.

Outside, rain blurred the city into watercolors. Here, the world was sugar and scars and a truth I couldn't write-*yet*.

"Another round?" I nodded at the bananas.

He tossed me an apron. "Try not to burn it."