Chapter 7 Sloane
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sloane
What the hell was that?
I swallow hard, watching Creed leave, knowing things are just… weird between us. Also, knowing that I let frustration and embarrassment get the better of me, and I acted out.
I get that he has a strict diet, but I don’t think he needed to make my first day at work more complicated than it needed to be.
Shit, he’s my boss.
I need to make it up to him at some point.
But I did try, didn’t I? I made a breakfast hash that, on paper, should’ve been perfect for the group.
Crispy potatoes, caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, and some hearty bell peppers.
Nothing fancy, just good, solid food. But it’s not like I could’ve guessed his exact calorie counts or macros for the day.
He should’ve just told me what he needed, instead of acting like I’d thrown a grenade in his lap.
Anyway, Ezra seems to have no problem pretending that things are fine. He’s been happily devouring the breakfast I made, practically licking his plate clean, which, okay, at least I know he likes the food. The way he chews speaks volumes.
I’m trying to stay focused, trying to pretend I’m not still irritated by Creed’s whole “I’m a pain in the ass about food” thing as I roll my shoulders, scrubbing down the counter a little harder than necessary as I plan what plain protein meals I’m going to cook for Mr. Training, who didn’t tell me when he hired me…
“You good?” Ezra interrupts my spiraling thoughts, and I glance up from where I’m scrubbing the counter.
He’s sitting at the table, poking at his plate with a fork. His brow is furrowed in that way that makes it clear he’s actually paying attention.
I flash him a quick smile, one that I hope hides the tension I feel. “Yeah. Just getting into the rhythm, you know?”
He nods, clearly buying it. “You really know your way around a kitchen. Feels like I’m eating at a five-star place.”
I laugh lightly, trying to brush off the tension. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
Ezra chuckles, pushing his plate aside. “Guess we’re all lucky to have you.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the counter.
Riley.
My cousin.
My sunshine.
“Hey, stranger!” she greets, practically bursting through the phone. “I just got to Istanbul!”
“Oh wow, how is it?” I reply, grabbing my phone and walking toward the hall to give myself a little space. “Did you go straight there from Berlin?”
“Oh no, I popped to London first,” Riley laughs, and I can practically hear her shrugging in the way she does when she’s too busy to care about time zones or flight schedules.
“I just needed a change of scenery. You know how it is. Anyway, London was amazing. I ate my weight in fish and chips and wandered around for hours until my feet were sore. But Istanbul? It’s a whole other level.
The markets, the spices, the architecture… it’s unreal.”
I laugh softly, feeling a little jealous of her endless adventure. “You’re living the dream, Riles. I swear, if I had your schedule, I’d probably never come back.”
“Well, I can say one thing for sure, you would love the street food here!”
I can’t help but grin. Riley’s been traveling for months, jumping from one place to the next like some human passport, always meeting new people and seeing things most of us could only dream about.
Sometimes, I wish I could be more like her. Carefree, spontaneous, living out of a suitcase.
“That’s amazing. But, uh, remember I told you I’m in Coyote Glen now, cooking for a rock band. So, you know, no exotic street food for me.”
Riley laughs. “A rock band? I thought you said ‘artist.’ Wait a second… you’re seriously telling me you’re cooking for a rockstar? That’s gotta be a plot twist. What’s it like?”
I lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair as I try to pull myself together.
“Well, it’s definitely not the street food experience I’ve been craving,” I say, trying to keep the lightness in my tone. “I’m cooking for Wild Reverie. You know, the band. And… well, it’s been interesting. It’s quiet here, and it’s just, uh… different from anything I’ve done before.”
Riley’s voice picks up in excitement, though I can hear the playful teasing coming through loud and clear.
“Wild Reverie… not sure I’ve heard of them…
have I? Anyway, what’s the deal? Are you getting the full rockstar experience, or is it more like ‘I’m in a cabin with a bunch of dudes pretending to be a hermit’ kind of vibe? ”
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “Kind of both, actually. They’re, uh… definitely keeping to themselves, especially Creed.”
“Creed?” Riley goes from teasing to intrigued. “Who’s Creed? Is he the broody one? Please tell me he’s the broody one. I need to know all the details.”
I let out a little laugh, even though I’m not sure why I’m laughing about it. Maybe it’s the way Riley always knows how to make everything feel less overwhelming, or maybe it’s because this whole situation has me wound tighter than I’d care to admit. “Yeah, he’s the broody one. Super intense.”
Riley hums, clearly fascinated by the drama. “Oooh, sounds like a recipe for… some serious tension. Is there a spark? Or is it just awkwardness?”
I pause, leaning my head back against the cool wood. It’s like I’m talking about something real and totally unreal at the same time.
“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like we’re arguing or anything.
It’s just… awkward. He’s the kind of guy who makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong just by being in the same room.
But then there’s this weird… I don’t know, energy there?
I can’t figure him out. And then there’s Ezra, he’s sweet… ”
I trail off as I hear the faint sound of an electric guitar. It’s not loud enough to be intrusive, but it’s there—the deep thrumming of the bass followed by some smooth, distorted chords. The music pulls me, as a magnet, guiding me down the hallway.
I glance at the door to my room, debating whether I should head inside and get some rest. But curiosity has other plans. I take a few steps toward the sound, still holding my phone to my ear.
“Sorry, did you just say Ezra?” Riley brings me back, her teasing tone unmistakable. “Wait, tell me more. Is he cute? He sounds like the one who’s more… approachable?”
“Uh, yeah, kind of,” I reply absently, following the music closer. “He’s, um, definitely more easygoing than Creed, that’s for sure. Actually, I don’t even know how to describe it. He’s quiet but in a way that makes you feel like he’s got a lot going on inside. He’s always… thinking.”
I stroll toward the door where the music is coming from, still too intrigued to ignore it.
The familiar strum of an old guitar cuts through the quiet, and I can’t help but feel a tug in my chest. It’s a classic rock anthem. One I haven’t heard in ages. The kind of song that gets under your skin, a piece of nostalgia, almost a memory you can’t quite place but know is important.
As I stand in front of the door, I realize it’s cracked open just enough for me to peer inside. I can’t help it; I slide closer, moving almost on instinct now, the consistent pulse of the music guiding me.
I’m sure Riley is still talking, but I can’t pick up a single word now.
The song picks up speed, the sharp riff of the guitar getting louder, and I find myself holding my breath as I peek through the sliver of the door.
It’s Hotel California. I can hear the distinct opening notes in my head, and for a split second, I’m back in my old apartment, listening to this with Riley while we cracked open beers on a lazy evening.
The music is warm, comfortable, like an old friend.
Inside the dimly lit room, I can see the silhouette of someone moving.
There’s a faint haze of steam in the air; someone’s just gotten out of the shower. The scent of cedarwood and something musky lingers. I’m intruding on a private moment, but I can’t help but stare.
I lean closer, eyes locked on the figure, curiosity pulling me in despite myself.
“I swear, though, you have no idea what it’s like here,” I continue, trying to sound casual, as though I’m not completely distracted by what’s happening behind the door. “It’s, like, this weird… mix of isolation and…”
The door creaks open slightly wider.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. And then it happens.
A figure emerges from the steam, water dripping down his chest. He’s… naked.
He doesn’t even seem to notice the door has cracked wider. His hand is running through his damp hair, his broad chest still glistening from the shower.
His expression is focused as he moves toward the towel rack, and for a second, my brain doesn’t register who this is until I see the familiar platinum hair and the defined muscles.
Is that…?
Oh my…
It’s Roman West.
The Roman West.
As he turns to look at me, something freezes inside of me, and my entire body shuts down. My heart skips a beat, and then the world drops out beneath me.
I don’t even register what’s happening until a sharp yelp escapes me.
My phone slips from my hand, hitting the floor with a deafening crack as it skids away from me. It feels like time stops.
I stand there, completely frozen, breath caught in my throat, staring at him. His wet skin, the droplets of water still running down his chest, his eyes locked on me with that all too familiar coolness.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Neither of us does.
It’s as though we’re both suspended in this thick, suffocating silence, but then the reality of it hits me, and I’m scrambling for my phone, trying to collect the shattered pieces of my dignity.
My hands are shaking, my pulse thudding in my neck.
“Shit…” I whisper under my breath, still trying to process everything.
Roman, still standing there, completely unfazed, lazily wipes his face with a towel, like it’s no big deal that the woman who just walked in on him is now trying to unsee what she’s seen.
His eyes flicker down to my phone as it slides farther from me, but there’s no urgency in his gaze.
He raises an eyebrow, almost amused, as if he’s used to reactions like mine. “Well… guess this is one way to meet, huh?”
I’m still staring at him. My mind is a whirlwind of confusion and panic, but my body refuses to obey. I can’t look away.
It’s only when he shifts slightly, as if he’s about to leave, that my brain finally kicks in, and I snap back to reality. My mouth is dry, the words scrambling to form, but I can’t seem to make them come out the right way.
“Uh… uhm, sorry!” I stammer, the words tripping over each other like a mess of tangled cords. “I didn’t mean, oh my, I…”
I can feel the heat rushing to my face. This is so not how I envisioned this whole situation. Not how I wanted to see him again.
Roman shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“No need to apologize,” he says, like he’s been through far worse. And maybe he has. Perhaps this is nothing for him. But for me? I’m pretty sure I’m about to combust.
I can’t decide if I want to laugh at how absurd this is or crawl into the nearest hole and die.