7. His Kitchen, My Rules #2
His throat works as he stares at me. The tendons in his forearms pull tight where they’re crossed over his chest, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something real.
Something that would explain why a man with his resources and evidence would choose to sit in the wreckage of someone else’s crash.
Instead, he straightens off the doorframe, even more tense than before.
“Devin is Mae’s only other living family member.
And yes, I’m aware the books are fucked, but I can’t just—” He resets, pulling air into his lungs, making him appear taller.
This is what he does when the safe thing and the honest thing are two different sentences. “It’s complicated, Junie.”
“It’s not complicated.” I slam my uneaten sandwich to the table.
“It’s theft. And you’re protecting the person who did it—why?
Because Nana Mae would be heartbroken? Because you’d rather bleed quietly than make someone else uncomfortable?
Well, news flash, Cole. This isn’t just about Nana Mae anymore.
You have 130 residents relying on you too. ”
“You don’t think I know that?” Each word from his lips draws him a foot closer until he’s hovering over me, his face mere inches from my own. “How I proceed is my decision, Viper. Not yours. Not unless you have actual proof.”
The words land like a slammed door. The heat rises in my chest. The familiar burn that comes right before I do something I can’t take back. Instead, I roll my chair away from him and rise to my feet, putting much-needed space between us.
“This is what you do, isn’t it?” My voice is quieter than I want it to be.
I’m treading into dangerous territory here, but I can’t stop the wreckage either.
“Someone fucks you over, and you just—what? Take the hit? File it away? Because fixing things yourself is easier than confronting them? Than having the hard conversations?”
His attention locks on me, and there’s a stillness in his eyes that’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating. A dangerous, loaded calm that tells me I’ve wandered too close to something he’ll never admit. I’d take a step back if I wasn’t already pressed to the wall.
In this moment, Cole Whittaker is a predator, and the heaviness of the moment controls his movements until he’s a breath away from me.
“Are we still talking about Devin?” he says slowly, his gaze jumping from my eyes to my lips to the pulse point in my neck and back again.
“Or are we talking about something else?”
The air between us thickens. Every unspoken thing we’ve been circling for years fills the room until there’s no oxygen left.
You left without a word.
Why the hell do you still talk to Natalie?
Why did you leave?
I don’t say any of it. It’s not why I’m here. My emotional damage isn’t his responsibility, even if he did light the match to my pain. And admitting any of it would be admitting that he matters to me, but I’ve built my post-Cole identity on the premise that he doesn’t.
“I’m talking about the books,” I say flatly, my pulse skyrocketing with the lie. His gaze drops to my neck. Before he can call me on it, I continue. “I’m your employee, and I’m telling you, as is my fiscal and moral responsibility, that I believe there’s a serious problem—a felony, actually.”
He holds my gaze for three more seconds. Long enough that I catch one more flash of insecurity or sadness in the flicker of his eye before he shutters them, a wall sliding into place that I recognize because I’m made of the same self-preserving shit he is, then he nods once.
“Noted. Send me what you’ve found, and I’ll look into it while you keep digging for proof.” He turns and walks out. He doesn’t slam a door or raise his voice. Just leaves, quiet and contained, the way he always does when the conversation gets too close to the fault line.
I stare at the empty doorway. Air is still trapped in my lungs, and my hands are shaking.
Not from anger, but from the terrifying, gut-level certainty that I wasn’t talking about Devin.
He just confirmed my biggest fear without saying anything at all—if I don’t choose me, no one will.
Closing my laptop, I leave the uneaten sandwich on the conference table even though I’m starving, walk across the driveway, climb the stairs to my apartment, and lock the door behind me.
Cole will find all the records I’ve unearthed so far in multiple forms I created for ease of understanding and processing in his email whenever he returns. It’s not enough to convict, but it’s enough to start an inquiry while I unearth the rest.
The apartment is quiet. It always is. That used to be the point in Boston—quiet meant safe, meant no one could see my mess, and I could fall apart without an audience.
Now the quiet just sounds like all the things we never said.
Grabbing my phone, I settle onto the couch and draft a text message to Cole.
Junie: I’m sorry I pushed. I’m sure you have your reasons, but I can’t help you if you don’t share them with me.
I delete it. That’s a message a friend would send, and he made it painfully clear that I’m just an employee now.
Then I open the browser on my phone and type “The Unfiltered Hour Grace Elliott.”
Three minutes in, I close the app. Not because of Fen’s advice, but because Grace is talking about the night she told me about her and Paul. She’s describing a conversation that never happened. Doesn’t she realize there was a bar full of people who witnessed my humiliation?
I drop my phone to the cushion beside me. Instead of the rage I like to cling to, I feel something worse.
Exhaustion.
I’ve carried anger with me since my mom died and my dad took off. Anger has always felt safe. But now it’s feeling like a prison I can’t escape. It’s a heavy thing to carry.
I’m tired of the TikTok comments and Grace’s performances intended to kick me while I’m down.
I’m tired of the 750,000 people who all have an opinion on how I should have handled the betrayal.
I’m tired of watching Cole protect everyone but himself, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t see it because seeing it means I still care.
Because I do still care, and that’s the whole stupid problem with this plan.
Are we talking about Devin, or are we talking about something else?
We’re always talking about something else. I’m just not brave enough to say it out loud and risk having him break me again.
I turn off my phone, waiting for the little apple to fade and the screen to go black before I curl up on my bed and stare at the ceiling as the light shifts from the afternoon glow to something softer, cooler.
With my lights off, I have a perfect view straight into Cole’s private office. His broad shoulders are hunched over his drafting table while he works on something I’ll probably never see.
I’m mad at him for not confronting his issues, yet I’m up here alone, doing the same thing—retreating, regrouping, rebuilding the wall he was starting to chip away at.
It’s all I can do now—protect my heart—because life has proven time and time again that those we give our hearts to are the ones who will hurt us the most.