11. Gavin
GAVIN
I wake to the smell of waffles.
Real ones. Not the frozen kind you pop in a toaster, but fresh batter on cast iron, crisping into golden edges and soft middles. There’s cinnamon in the air too, and something citrusy—orange zest, maybe? Someone’s gone gourmet.
It’s not Jack. He doesn’t believe in breakfast that doesn’t come in a shaker bottle. Can’t be Harrison. The man treats food like fuel—efficient, unceremonious.
Parker.
I lie in bed a few seconds longer than I should, staring at the ceiling. There’s a knot low in my chest that’s been there since yesterday—since I agreed to bring her here, into this place that was never meant to hold anything fragile.
The lodge is for retreat. For strategy. For solving problems in a place where noise can’t follow. Bringing her was reckless.
But watching her last night, flushed from tequila, laughing at Jack’s muttered sarcasm, resting her hand lightly on Harrison’s knee without even realizing she’d done it, having her here feels less like a risk and more like something that was always supposed to happen.
I sit up and scrub a hand down my face. My jaw’s tight. My head’s full. Busy. Incessant. Group dynamics are easy. They’re friction and impulse and heat. No expectations. No time to think too much.
But when it’s just her and me…that’s the part that scares me. I’ve been avoiding it like the plague. Not because of her. Because of me.
I’ve never been good at real intimacy. Not the kind that lingers past morning. Not the kind that makes you stare at someone across a room and imagine what she’d look like sleeping in your bed, in your space, in your life. I want it. But I don’t know how to be that way.
I don’t know how to want someone like this. Not without fucking it up. And that’s exactly why I’ve stayed on the edge of this thing, orbiting around her like I’m made of discipline and self-control.
That self-control is wearing thin.
I throw on gray sweatpants and a white tank top and head downstairs, barefoot and still a little asleep. Or maybe I’m so bogged down by my thoughts that it just makes me tired.
She’s in the kitchen. Back to me, hair pulled up in a messy twist, standing at the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that probably doesn’t belong to her—mine, maybe, or Jack’s.
The sleeves are rolled up to her elbows.
Her legs are bare, and I can see the faint pink marks on the backs of her thighs from where she must’ve been sitting cross-legged.
There’s a plate of waffles on the counter and a bowl of berries beside them. Syrup’s warm in a saucepan. She’s humming to herself, off-key, but somehow it fits. She turns just as I step in. “Oh—hey,” she says, brushing a flyaway hair behind her ear. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. “Smelled cinnamon.”
She gives me a sheepish smile. “Waffle bribery. Seemed safer than coffee.”
“I’m not dangerous before coffee.”
“No, that’s Jack. But I figured you all need it. God knows I do.” She laughs.
It’s the kind of laugh that hits in the chest. Not loud. Not forced. Just soft and self-deprecating and full of the warmth that’s been missing from my mornings for longer than I care to admit.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter. “You make these often?” I ask, nodding toward the waffles.
She shrugs. “When I have time. The kids love them. Lyra thinks waffles are magic. Levi only eats them if I cut them into triangles.”
“Triangular superiority, I’m with him on that.”
“Apparently, it changes the flavor.”
“Obviously.”
She smiles again, and I feel something shift in me.
Like I’ve been carrying tension I didn’t know was there, and it’s just…
loosened. We eat in silence for a minute.
She drizzles syrup over her plate in precise lines.
I douse mine like I haven’t eaten in days.
She watches with mock horror. “You’re going to crash in like, twenty minutes. ”
“Worth it.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “I thought you were a protein bar and black coffee kind of guy.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Multitudes and maple syrup. Bold.”
“I live on the edge.”
She smirks, and there’s something twisted about a woman as soft as her smirking at me. “The edge? I’m pretty sure your boxers are dry-cleaned.”
“Think a lot about my boxers, do you?”
She snorts and blushes, and I watch her shoulders relax. “Sometimes.”
Well, that’s a good sign. “And as far as evidence of my edgy lifestyle, how many men do you know with a cock ring? Or have we become so commonplace that you don’t notice?”
Her cheeks flame. “Oh, I noticed. A lot. Nearly choked, actually. Okay, point proven. You are the edgiest CEO ever. Happy?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
She’s radiant in the morning light. No makeup. No heels. Just comfort and presence and a glimmer of that sharp brain behind her eyes. And that’s the thing that keeps wrecking me.
It’s not just her body—though God knows that’s a problem too. It’s everything else. The way she thinks. The way she’s already made herself indispensable and still doesn’t believe she belongs. I have to fix that. I have to stop being a chicken shit when it comes to this.
“There’s something I need to say, Parker.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve been holding back since the moment you walked into VT because I thought it would be safer. For you. For me. For the company. But the truth is, I’m fucking miserable pretending you’re just my assistant.”
Her eyes fly open.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” I add quickly. “But I’m also done lying to myself.”
She’s breathing faster now, her knuckles white against the edge of the counter. “You’re not trying to scare me, but I’m terrified.”
“Me too.” It almost feels good to admit that.
“I can’t afford to screw this up.”
“I won’t let you.”
She swallows hard. “You can’t promise that.”
“I already have.” I reach for her hand, brushing my fingers over hers. “You’ll be protected,” I promise. “From my mother. From the board. From any fallout. I swear it.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, she whispers, “Okay.”
It’s a fragile thing, this moment. I’m not sure it’ll hold. I don’t know what I expected after she said “okay.” A kiss, maybe. Some kind of soft cinematic cue that tells me I did the right thing.
Instead, Parker looks down at our joined hands like they’re foreign to her. Like they’re a mistake she’s not sure how to let go of—or how to keep holding on to.
I don’t push. I just sit there, letting her breathe.
Outside, the sky’s shifted. Morning light filters through the kitchen windows, brightening everything until the whole room feels too earnest. The smell of waffles lingers in the air, sweet and warm and a little too comforting for the tension clinging to us.
“I should check on the agenda,” she says quietly, her hand starting to pull away.
I don’t let it go. “I meant what I said.”
She glances up, startled.
“I know you’re scared. I know this isn’t the life you planned. But I need you to understand something.”
Her brow furrows.
“You’re not temporary, Parker. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. Not my mother. Not the board. Not Phil. You’re not someone I’m going to forget the second this gets complicated.”
“You don’t know that,” she whispers.
“I do.”
“Your reputation says otherwise. Yours and Jack’s and Harrison’s.”
That lands like a slap. I straighten slowly. “This isn’t like all the other times.”
“I know about Vanessa. Phil told me. She was polished. Perfect. A good match for your image. And you broke up with her anyway. I’m not any of those things?—”
“And you think that’s what I want?”
She swallows. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” I say, more harshly than I mean to. Then, softer, “It was what I thought I had to want. Not what I wanted.”
She looks away again.
I move closer, one hand on the counter beside her hip. Not crowding her, just there.
“I want you. I want your waffles and coffee and efficiency in the office and adventurous spirit in bed. I want your voice in the morning and your laugh when you forget to guard it.”
She blinks, fast.
“And I want you to feel safe enough to want me back.”
The silence stretches between us. I can see her fighting it. Can see the thoughts flickering behind her eyes. I wait. Then she leans forward—just enough to rest her forehead against my chest. I wrap my arms around her. Hold her like I mean it. Because I do.
I don’t know what this is yet. It’s a lot easier to chase the high of the image, the polished version of connection that plays well in a headline.
But with Parker, it’s not about polish. It’s about presence.
About the way she sees through all of it and still chooses to stand here, scared but not running.
She pulls back slowly, just enough to look up at me. “I don’t regret you,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I regret not being ready for what this might mean.”
“You have time to catch up.”
Her eyes widen.
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “No pressure. No timeline. Just…let me be here.”
She nods.
That’s all I need. I kiss her—slow, deliberate. Not hungry. Not frenzied. Just…honest. She sighs into it, syrup on her lips, her arms winding around my waist, her body pressing closer. The kiss deepens, lazy and lingering, like we’re both afraid to let it end.
“I should probably get dressed,” she murmurs after a minute.
I might actually get to clear my head if she does that. “Take your time.”
After she’s gone back upstairs and I’ve finally pulled myself together, I sit at the kitchen island with another cup of coffee.
The waffles are cold now. The sun’s higher. But I feel…steady. There are still a thousand things that could go wrong. Vivian could find out. Phil could implode. The board could sniff blood and start probing for weaknesses.
They can all go fuck themselves.