11. Forced Proximity, Front Seat
Forced Proximity, Front Seat
SLOANE
The ignition makes a sound like a dying toaster.
It’s a dry, pathetic click-shudder that tells me my Honda Civic has officially resigned from its post as a reliable vehicle for single mothers.
I turn the key again, my teeth gritted so hard I’m surprised I don’t hear them cracking, but the dashboard lights just flicker once before plunging into a judgmental, ink-black silence.
"No. No, no, no," I mutter, thumping the steering wheel with the heel of my hand. The clock on my phone is a ticking indictment—eight minutes until Milo’s school release, and the school has a late-pickup policy that involves a lot of passive-aggressive staring from the front-office staff.
I check the battery terminals, which are exactly as metal and confusing as they were five minutes ago.
The air in the parking garage is thick with the scent of old oil and damp concrete, a heavy silence pressing in on me.
I’m about to call an Uber, knowing it’ll take twenty minutes to navigate the afternoon gridlock, when a shadow cuts across the hood of my car.
"Mechanical failure or just a personal protest against the commute?"
I don't even have to look up to know it's Cooper. His voice has that specific, honey-warm cadence that makes me want to either lean into him or throw a wrench at his head. He’s leaning against a sleek, suspiciously clean SUV, his keys dangling from a finger like a taunt.
"It’s a dead battery," I say, sliding out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door. The sound echoes too loudly, a punctuation mark on my frustration. "And I don't have time for the sunshine-and-rainbows diagnosis, Cooper. I have to get to Milo."
He doesn't flinch at the frost in my tone. Instead, he pushes off his car, closing the distance between us until I can smell the faint, crisp scent of his cologne—something like cedar and expensive laundry soap. It’s an invasive, pleasant smell that has no business being in a grease-stained garage.
"My car is right there. It has an engine that actually works and a passenger seat with your name on it," he says, gesturing with his chin.
"Unless you'd rather wait for an Uber driver named Gary who’s currently twelve minutes away and definitely doesn't know the shortcut through the warehouse district. "
I look at my phone. Then I look at him. His eyes are that clear, steady blue that makes it very hard to maintain a posture of total war. He isn't smug; he’s just... available. Which, in my world, is usually the first sign of a hidden agenda.
"If you mention 'synergy' once during this drive, I’m tucking and rolling into traffic," I say, snatching my bag from the passenger seat.
He grins, and for a second, the garage feels about ten degrees warmer. "Deal. No corporate buzzwords. Just two people in a metal box, hurtling toward a primary school. It’s practically a bonding exercise."
I climb into his car, which is terrifyingly organized. There’s a small succulent in the cup holder and a sense of space that makes my own car feel like a trash compactor. As he pulls out of the garage, the leather seat is firm against my back, a luxury I’m trying very hard not to enjoy.
The silence between us isn't the jagged, sharp-edged thing it usually is in the studio. It’s softer, muffled by the hum of the climate control.
I watch his hands on the steering wheel—broad-palmed and steady.
He drives with a sort of relaxed competence that makes me wonder if he ever actually panics, or if he just breathes through everything until the world realigns to suit him.
"You're staring again, Sloane," he says, his voice low. He doesn't look away from the road, but there’s a tilt to his mouth that suggests he knows exactly what I’m doing.
"I’m assessing the safety of my transport," I reply, shifting my gaze to the window. The city is a blur of grey glass and brake lights. "I don't trust people who keep their cars this clean. It suggests a lack of inner chaos."
"Oh, there's plenty of chaos," he says, taking a sharp right onto a side street that bypasses the main intersection. "I just keep mine in a very specific drawer. It’s much more efficient that way."
He slows down as we approach a construction zone, and for a moment, we’re trapped in a pocket of stillness.
His arm is resting on the center console, inches from mine.
I can feel the heat radiating from him, a physical presence that makes the air feel thin.
I find myself noticing the way his sleeve is rolled up, revealing the corded muscle of his forearm, and I have to look away before I start cataloging the texture of his skin.
It’s just proximity, I tell myself. Two bodies in a confined space. Biology, not destiny. But the logic feels flimsy, like a paper shield against a forest fire.
"You were good today," he says suddenly, the humor gone from his voice. "In the meeting. When you stood up to Graham. I know how much that cost you."
The compliment catches me off guard, hitting a soft spot I hadn't realized was exposed. I trace a non-existent line on my jeans, my throat feeling tight. "I wasn't being brave, Cooper. I was being protective. There’s a difference."
"Not from where I’m sitting," he murmurs. He reaches over, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second before he taps his knuckles gently against my shoulder. It’s a tiny, almost-nothing touch, but it sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the car's engine.
My phone buzzes in my lap, a sharp, intrusive vibration that breaks the spell. I pull it out, expecting a frantic text from Tasha or a notification from the school. Instead, it’s a message from an unknown number. Just five words that make the blood drain from my face.
The next drop is Friday.
I stare at the screen, the letters blurring. It’s not just a troll or a random hater. It’s a timestamp. A countdown. My hands start to tremble, the coldness of the garage finally catching up to me in the middle of this heated car.
"Sloane?" Cooper’s voice is sharp now, full of concern. He pulls the car over to the curb, disregarding the 'No Standing' sign. "What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I turn the screen toward him, my voice a dry rasp. "They're coming for me again. Friday. Whatever they have, whatever they've twisted... they're going to use it then."
Cooper reads the text, his jaw tightening until a muscle pulses in his cheek.
He doesn't say it’ll be okay. He doesn't offer a platitude. He just looks at the phone, then at me, and I see the Golden Retriever mask fall away completely. There’s something hard and predatory in his eyes now—a reflection of the man who faced down Derek in the breakroom.
"They shouldn't have this number," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "This is your private line, right? Not the one listed on the network directory?"
I nod, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. The only people who have this number are my family, Tasha, and the high-level executives at NovaWave. It’s an internal leak. It’s coming from inside the house.
"It's the IT department," I whisper, the pieces clicking together with a sickening finality. "Or PR. They have access to the encrypted logs. They’re not just watching the show, Cooper. They’re watching me."
Cooper doesn't respond immediately. He just reaches out and covers my hand with his. His palm is warm, solid, and for the first time in three years, I don't pull away. I let the weight of his touch anchor me, the heat of him seeping into my skin.
"Then we stop playing by their rules," he says, his grip tightening. "If they want to turn this into a war, fine. But they’re going to find out that I’m a lot better at this than they are."
I look at him, really look at him, and for a second, the fear recedes. I see the ambition there, sure, but I also see a fierce, terrifying loyalty that I haven't earned but desperately need. He’s not a corporate plant. He’s a shield.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "You could just walk away. You could have your own show, your own brand. You don't need my baggage."
He leans in, his face so close I can see the golden flecks in his hazel eyes. The space between us is charged, a live wire waiting for a connection. "Maybe I like your baggage, Sloane. Or maybe I just like the person carrying it."
He doesn't kiss me. He doesn't even move. But the promise of it hangs in the air, thick and sweet like a summer storm. He pulls back just as a school bell rings in the distance, the sound of Milo’s world calling us back to reality.
"We have to go," I say, my breath hitching. "Milo will be waiting."
"I know," Cooper says, putting the car in gear. "But we're not done with this. Not even close."
As we pull toward the school gates, I see Milo standing by the fence, his bright yellow backpack a beacon against the grey brick. He sees the car and starts to wave, a huge, gap-toothed grin splitting his face. He isn't waving at me. He’s waving at the guy in the driver’s seat.
My heart does a strange, uncomfortable flip. It’s not fear, and it’s not just gratitude. It’s the realization that the walls I built to keep the world out have a Cooper-sized hole in them, and I’m no longer sure I want to patch it up.
He parks the car and turns to me, his expression unreadable. "Stay here. I'll go grab him. You just... breathe for a second."
I watch him walk toward the gate, his shoulders broad and confident.
He moves through the crowd of parents like he belongs there, a natural force of nature that everyone gravitates toward.
I see him crouch down to Milo’s level, and the way my son’s face lights up makes my chest ache with a sudden, sharp longing.
I look down at my phone. The text is still there, a digital poison.
But for the first time, I don't feel like I’m fighting it alone.
I put the phone in my bag and look back at the gate, watching the two most important people in my life walk toward me.
I don't have a plan. I don't have a car.
But I have a partner who doesn't mind the chaos, and for now, that has to be enough.