How to bake a scandal

Avery Sutton POV:

My eyes were dying from staring at this stupid screen. That dumb cursor kept blinking at me like it was laughing at my life. Chit-Chat Weekly gave me another trash assignment: *Top 10 Cat Memes That Made Grandmas Cry Over TikTok*. Four years of college and $82k in debt for **this**? I was supposed to be exposing scams, not making people think Grumpy Cat needed therapy.

"Avery!" My boss's voice crackled through the speaker like a dying smoke alarm. "Get over here or I'll make you write love letters for *TikTok pets*!"

I didn't move. Yesterday, I'd discovered one of those "cute" cat memes was linked to a pyramid scheme. Now my DMs? Flooded with angry emojis from a lawyer whose profile pic was his golden retriever in a tie. My cat, Judge Judy, batted my phone off the desk with a look that screamed *Girl, you're doomed*.

But hey-if that lawyer actually sued me, at least Judge Judy's 12 Instagram followers might crowdfund my bail.

Miranda Hartley slammed a folder on my desk. Her heels clicked like gunshots-same rhythm as the day she'd fired Todd from accounting for "excessive soup slurping."

"Ethan Chase," she said. "Dig dirt on him."

Coffee sloshed in my *World's Okayest Blogger* mug. "The tech guy? The one you..." *Dated*. The office Slack still had a GIF of her deleting his texts mid-meeting.

I flipped open the folder. Ethan's LinkedIn photo smirked up at me. For a billionaire, he still looked like the type to Venmo request you for half a fries. My student loan statement glared from my browser tab-$82,300. Mom's latest text blinked: *Rent okay?*

Miranda's acrylic nail tapped the cease-and-desist letter paperclipped inside. "He'll talk to you." Her eyes flicked to my thrift-store sneakers. "You're... relatable."

I bit back the urge to flip her off. Last month's draft-*Do Billionaires Use Toilet Paper?*-stared from my screen. Three news desk rejections. Three.

"Fine," I said. "But if this backfires, I'm blaming you."

Jordan hip-checked my desk, her energy drink sloshing onto my keyboard. "Remember when you got sued for calling that influencer's Pomeranian 'a sentient lint ball'? This'll be easier."

"That dog **was** a lint ball," I muttered. "And this isn't a TikTok roast. It's Ethan freaking Chase."

She tossed me a lint-covered blazer from her car floor. "Wear this. It says 'I'm definitely not here to leak your nudes.'"

Chase Innovations' lobby smelled like burnt popcorn and regret. The elevator doors groaned like they'd murder me first chance they got. My phone buzzed-Jordan: *WEAR THE LIPSTICK. IT SAYS "I DEFINITELY DON'T WORK HERE."*

The receptionist's stare burned holes in my thrifted blazer. My shoe squeaked.

The elevator dinged.

---

Three hours and one panick pee-later, Ethan's office was all sharp angles and leather that probably cost more than my life savings, but it smelled weirdly like my grandma's kitchen-burnt vanilla and impatience.

He didn't look up from his laptop. "I don't do interviews."

I fake-smiled. "Good thing this isn't one. It's a... lifestyle piece. What billionaires do when they're not being robots."

His jaw twitched. "Robots?"

"Yeah. Like, hobbies. Normal people stuff."

"Normal." He spun his pen. "You write about toilet paper habits. Why would I care?"

The cease-and-desist in my bag felt like a brick. "Because Forbes thinks you're a cyborg. I'll prove you're human. Win-win."

He snorted. "Or you'll twist it into clickbait."

"Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"...True. But I'll sign whatever NDA you want."

Claire waved a document from the corner. "Page four: No photos of his banana bread."

The kitchen smelled like guilt and charred crust. Ethan scowled at the oven mitts. "This is dumb."

"Says the guy whose bread could end wars," I said, leaning against the counter.

He stiffened. "My mom... she used to bake. Every Sunday." The timer beeped. He yanked the loaf out too fast, the crust cracking like dry earth. "Damn it."

I pointed to the fissures. "Looks like my credit score. Perfect."

He almost smiled. Almost.

The half-burnt banana bread sat on my counter. I snapped a photo, captioning it: *When life gives you billionaires, make loaf-tery tickets.*

Jordan replied first: *IS THAT HIS BREAD?? I'M SCREAMING.*

Ethan's DM popped up an hour later: *You're burning it wrong.*

I grinned, crumbs dusting my keyboard.

This might not pay my rent.

But damn, it tasted good.

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.

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."