Chapter 7 Ike
IKE
Sloane’s kitchen is small, but it has everything I need.
I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them with more focus than the task requires. It's either that or walk back into that bedroom and wake Sloane up in ways that would most definitely delay breakfast by at least a couple of hours.
Patience has never been my problem. Control is what I'm known for. But this morning, with her scent still on my skin and the memory of last night playing on repeat, control feels like a foreign concept.
I woke up before dawn—despite it being my day off…
I guess old habits die hard—and just laid there watching her sleep.
She looked like a princess, blonde hair on the pillow like spilled honey, her face soft and unguarded and peaceful.
One of her hands was curled against my chest, right over my heart, like she'd claimed it in her sleep.
No question of that.
I stayed in bed longer than usual, memorizing the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks and the gentle rhythm of her breathing.
I'm still not sure what I did to deserve her.
The pancake batter comes together easily—it's a simple recipe, nothing fancy, but I make a mental note to ask Aiden for something more impressive…for next time. Surely he's got a pancake recipe that would knock Sloane's socks off.
I pour the first circle of batter onto the hot pan and watch it bubble. The sizzle fills the quiet kitchen, and I let my mind drift back to last night.
I think about the way she trembled when I touched her, the sounds she made…god, those sounds ruined me. How she looked up at me with those green eyes, full of trust and want.
Please, Daddy.
My hand tightens on the spatula.
When I've been called that before…once or twice, years ago, by women who were curious or playful, but didn't really understand what it meant. It always felt hollow. Performative.
When Sloane says it, it's…soul-changing.
She gets it. She gets me. The need to protect, provide, and guide. To me, authority and tenderness aren't opposites, but two sides of the same coin. She doesn't just tolerate that part of me—she craves it.
And I crave her…every stubborn, smart-mouthed, sunshine-bright inch of her.
I flip the pancake, satisfied with the golden-brown color, and reach for my phone to check the time.
There's a text from Wade.
Hey man, Riley's still at the sleepover. You wanna hit the lake? Fish are supposed to be biting.
I stare at the screen, my good mood flickering.
Wade and I have been fishing together since we were sixteen. It's our thing. When his wife left, we fished. When my dad died, we fished. When life gets heavy, we grab our rods and sit in comfortable silence on the water until it feels manageable again.
But today, that would mean leaving Sloane. And it means talking to him about her.
Can't today. Got plans.
The response comes almost immediately.
Plans? What plans? You never have plans.
He's not wrong. My life outside the station has been pathetically predictable for years. Work, home, station dinners, the occasional fishing trip or beer with Wade. Rinse and repeat.
Working on the truck. Engine's been giving me trouble.
Need help?
Nah, it’s cool.
All right. Another time then.
I set the phone down and immediately feel sick.
I just lied to my best friend.
The man I've known for thirty years. The man whose daughter calls me Uncle. The man who would probably be happy for me if I just told him the truth.
So why didn't I?
The pancake starts to smoke. I curse under my breath and flip it, but it's too late, one side is charred black. I scrape it into the trash and pour a new one, but my head isn't in it anymore.
I'm not ashamed of Sloane. The very idea is laughable. She's incredible—smart, funny, beautiful, brave. Any man would be lucky to have her look twice at him.
But she's also young. And I'm old-ish. And this is Deepwood Mountain, where everybody knows everybody.
What are people going to say when they find out their fire captain is dating a woman young enough to be his daughter?
Cradle robber.
Dirty old man.
What's wrong with him that he can't find someone his own age?
I've heard it all before, whispered about other people. I know how this town talks.
And I've spent all this time being above reproach—keeping my head down, my private life private, my reputation spotless. I stayed away from dating, afraid women would talk about my preferences.
It was just easier this way. Safer.
Lonelier than hell, but safe.
"Something's burning."
I jerk back to the present. Sloane is standing in the kitchen doorway, and the sight of her scrambles every coherent thought out of my head.
She's wearing my boxers, rolled at the waist so they don't fall off her hips, and my undershirt from yesterday. Her hair is a wild mane around her shoulders, her face still soft from sleep, and she looks so goddamn delicious I forget how to speak.
"Ike?" She's looking at me with concern now, heading toward the coffee pot. "You okay?"
"Fine." I rescue the second burned pancake and toss it. "Just distracted."
She pours herself a mug of coffee and takes a long sip. She studies me, those green eyes missing nothing. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just—" I gesture at the pan. "Apparently I'm crap at making pancakes."
"Mmhmm." She leans against the counter. "Not convinced. Try again."
"I told you, it's nothing—"
"Ike."
The way she says my name—patient and steady and utterly certain that I'm full of shit—makes my resistance crumble.
I sigh and turn off the burner. The pancakes are a lost cause anyway.
"Wade texted," I say. "Asked if I wanted to go fishing today."
"That sounds nice."
"I told him I couldn't because I had plans." I can't look at her. "He asked what plans, and I said I was working on my truck."
She nods. "So you lied."
"Yeah."
"Why?" It's not accusatory. It’s like she really wants to understand.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration and guilt tangling in my chest. "I don't know. I panicked."
"What were you panicking about?"
The question hangs there as she waits, sipping her coffee, giving me space to find the words.
"What people will think," I finally admit. "About us."
Her expression doesn't change. "Okay."
"I'm forty-six years old, Sloane. You're twenty-three. This town..." I shake my head. "People talk. They're going to…gossip."
She presses her lips together. "I know."
"And I'm the fire captain. I'm supposed to be respectable, responsible…boring."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "You're all of those things. But you're also a hell of a lot more."
Something unravels inside at that. But the anxiety is still there, coiled tight.
"I just—" I break off, not sure how to explain the weight of so many years of careful reputation management, the fear of judgment, the bone-deep habit of keeping everyone at arm's length.
Sloane sets down her coffee and moves closer. She looks up at me with steady, honest eyes.
"If it would make you more comfortable," she says softly, "we don't have to tell anyone right away."
I swallow hesitantly.
"We can keep this private for a while," she continues. "Take our time. Let you get used to the idea before the whole town knows."
She shrugs, and I can see it costs her something—this offer, this willingness to hide. "I don't want to cause you extra stress, Ike. I'd rather have you secretly than not have you at all."
I stare at her.
This woman…this incredible, generous, brave woman who sent me anonymous valentines because she saw the real me and wanted to take a chance on love…
who gave me her trust, her submission, and her body last night.
And woke up in my arms this morning…is now offering to disappear into the shadows to protect me.
She deserves so much better than that.
I need to be better than that.
"No."
She blinks. "No?"
"I'm not going to hide anymore." The words come out rough, but determined. "I've spent too long hiding, Sloane. Keeping people at a distance, convincing myself I didn't need anyone, that it was easier to be alone than to risk letting someone in."
I cup her face in my hands and stare into her pretty eyes.
"I'm done with that. I'm not hiding you. I'm not hiding us." I stroke my thumb across her cheek. "I refuse to be ashamed of the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Her eyes go bright, and she smiles—this radiant, trembling smile that hits me right in the center of my chest.
I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. "After breakfast…and maybe after some fun in the shower…I want to take you somewhere."
She chuckles. "Where?"
"Wade's house. I want you to meet my best friend. Properly."
Her smile widens. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her. "And Riley's going to lose her mind."
Sloane laughs. "She's going to be so smug. She's been giving me looks all week."
“That kid picks up on everything.”
“That she does.” She tilts her head back to look at me, her eyes dancing with mischief. "So...you mentioned something about fun in the shower?"
Heat flares through me. "I did."
"That sounds like a plan I can get behind."
"Sweetheart…" I lean down until my lips brush her ear. “Daddy’ll be the one getting behind you.”
The little shiver that runs through her has my cock rock hard in seconds.
Breakfast can wait.
An hour later—thoroughly clean and even more thoroughly satisfied—I pull my truck into Wade's driveway.
And feel my nerves kick back up.
It’s stupid really. I've known Wade since we were teenagers. I've seen him through his marriage, his divorce, the chaos of raising a daughter alone. And he’s seen me through every bad day, brutally long shifts, and moments of doubt.
He's not going to care that I'm dating a much younger woman.
Right?
Sloane's hand finds mine, her fingers threading through my own. "It's going to be fine."
"I know." But I don't sound entirely convinced.
"They're going to be happy for you."