Page 12 of Sweet Sinners

Chapter ten

Connor

C ali’s commandeered the kitchen, ignoring my insistence on cooking, her stubbornness unwavering as she flicks me away with an irritated wave. “Out of my way, Connor,” she snaps, her tone sharp but threaded with a familiar, simmering annoyance.

Fine. I’m not about to argue with a woman gripping a chef’s knife.

So here I am, leaning against the marble counter with a glass of ice water, my eyes lingering longer than they should.

She's dressed down, casual, her pajama shorts riding high on her thighs, the tank top modest tonight—annoyingly so, after what she put on display a few nights ago.

Bra straps firmly in place. Lesson learned, apparently.

Not that it stops my mind from wandering.

The thought of her fighting her way through her father's corporate empire eats at me, especially when I imagine the suits in the boardroom, watching her with their polished smiles and calculating eyes.

Waiting for the first sign of weakness. It pisses me off.

They should be lining up behind her, not quietly taking bets on her failure.

But what the hell do I know about Cali, really?

I've only witnessed her at her sharpest, her most guarded.

Our interactions have felt more like sparring matches than conversations.

Yet beneath all that carefully crafted composure is something else, something I can't quite pinpoint.

She's a locked door I'm tempted to kick open, and that alone makes her dangerous.

"Got any brilliant strategies for handling the company?" I ask, slicing through the thick silence hanging between us.

Nothing.

“Cali?” I try again, irritation edging into my voice. Silence.

Annoyed, I push off the counter to refill my glass, and that's when I notice—the tiny Bluetooth earbuds tucked into her ears, shielding her from me and the rest of the world.

Figures.

I step closer, and she startles, spinning around with wide eyes as she yanks an earbud free, shooting me a glare that's equal parts surprise and frustration.

“One day, Connor,” she bites out, exasperation bleeding into every word. “One full day without you invading my space. Is that seriously too much to ask?”

“Pretty sure we crossed paths at three in the morning,” I drawl, unfazed. “Your day was off to a stellar start long before now.”

Her eyes narrow dangerously, her fingers gripping the spatula tighter, like she's debating whether it's sharp enough to stab me with. “What do you want?”

“I asked if you have a plan for the company,” I repeat, keeping my tone deliberately casual, amused by how easily she bristles .

A flush stains her cheeks, creeping slowly down her neck, but she lifts her chin defiantly, eyes blazing. The Cali I've gotten to know in these past few days doesn't surrender easily.

And damn, if that doesn't make me want to push her even harder.

“Of course I do,” she fires back, her voice firm, even as the slight shift in her stance betrays her uncertainty.

“The company’s strong, and I plan to keep it that way.

It's not just profits, it's the people who drive them. We stay competitive by investing in our workforce, giving them tools to succeed without forcing them to bear the cost.”

Her delivery is smooth, confident, but I catch the flicker in her eyes. She’s been rehearsing this, I realize. Preparing for war, ready to fight anyone who doubts she belongs here.

“Not bad,” I admit, setting down my glass and folding my arms, my gaze holding hers. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I do,” she snaps back, a dangerous edge creeping into her tone, daring me to keep pushing.

My smirk deepens. “Good. Now you just have to convince the board.”

Her shoulders tense, fingers tightening around the spatula. For a split second, I think she might throw it at my head. But when she doesn’t, I press further, the needling urge too strong to resist. “Did you even get a chance to tell them about your brilliant strategy?”

Cali’s back stiffens, her frustration bleeding into the air between us.

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead turning back to the stove, gripping the pan handle like a lifeline.

“This first week wasn’t about strategy,” she mutters, voice low but sharp.

“It was about setting the stage, feeling them out. Letting them underestimate me. Not that it’s any of your business.

” Her attention moves swiftly back to the sauce she’s stirring, shutting me out as deliberately as slamming a door in my face .

I inch closer, my voice softening, probing gently. “Who else is around to listen?”

She shrugs, pretending indifference, pouring the pasta into the strainer, the clatter of dishes filling the silence, drowning out the tension. But her lack of response speaks volumes, louder than words ever could.

I study her quietly, like a puzzle with shifting pieces.

Cali could be dining in luxury, letting staff serve her on fine china, yet here she is—barefoot, hair messy, cooking dinner herself like it’s the only way she can stay grounded.

It’s disarming, irritatingly human, and I hate the way it twists inside me, pulling at something buried deep.

She’s a living reminder of a world I’ve been locked out of for years.

Prison walls and orange jumpsuits had stripped away my connection to normalcy, leaving behind only sterile headlines and digital updates that were never enough.

Watching her now, effortlessly slipping into this mundane routine, makes me ache in ways I refuse to acknowledge.

“Maybe you could try making friends online,” she suddenly murmurs, voice gentle but precise, an arrow shot straight to the heart.

Her words hit me like a sucker punch. My jaw clenches, her casual suggestion grazing a nerve I didn’t realize was exposed.

The thought of faking some shiny, sanitized persona just to belong in a virtual circle of strangers makes my stomach churn.

My name is a scar, etched permanently across every digital landscape, unforgettable and unforgivable.

There's no erasing it, no running from it.

“You’d think someone with your talent for strategy would know better,” I drawl, forcing dry amusement into my voice to hide the bitter aftertaste.

Her eyes dart briefly to mine, acknowledging me just enough to dismiss me all over again .

I attempt to lighten the mood, leaning back against the counter casually. “Maybe you should warn the board. If they don’t start taking you seriously, you’ll unleash me on them. They already think I’m dangerous—wait until they see me in a boardroom.”

My joke falls flat, even to my ears. But I watch her reaction closely anyway. She surprises me, hesitating rather than snapping back. Her brow creases slightly, like my words are a puzzle she's reluctantly considering solving.

Finally, she shrugs, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“I'll figure out how to sway them,” she says coolly, but there's steel behind her voice now.

“If they won't listen to reason, then maybe I'll give them something else. Let them think they’re my saviors. Let them play their little knight-in-shining-armor fantasy. And when they least expect it…” A sharp, ruthless smile curves her lips. “I’ll flip the script.”

There's a fierceness in her I haven't seen before, this calculated determination, sharp enough to draw blood. She’s not the girl I remember anymore; she's transformed into someone who knows exactly what she's capable of.

“You really have it all figured out, huh?” I murmur, my voice softer than intended, drawn to her intensity despite myself.

Her gaze snaps back to mine, bold and challenging. “What other choice do I have?”

I don't answer, because she's right. We both know it.

“After dinner,” she continues, tossing her hair back with forced nonchalance, “I want to be alone.”

The dismissal stings, sharp as ever, but I can't resist baiting her. “Maybe wear a bell next time. You keep running into me.”

She scoffs, eyes flicking pointedly down at the ankle monitor wrapped around my leg, her silent reminder of the leash I'm still wearing. It's subtle, effective. My fists tighten briefly, but I shove down the impulse to snap back.

“Let me help,” I offer suddenly, catching us both off guard. “I'll give you space later, but for now, put me to work.”

She hesitates, gripping the counter edge as if debating my sincerity. Then, reluctantly, she slides a knife toward me, its blade glinting under the kitchen lights. “Start with the onion,” she says quietly. “I hate chopping those.”

My fingers close around the handle, the knife heavier than I expect—solid, grounding. When I glance up again, our eyes meet, tension crackling silently between us.

There’s something wary in her gaze, a challenge lurking beneath the surface. It's about more than just onions; it’s about trust. The question hangs in the air: Will she ever truly trust me?

Probably not.

But there’s an ember inside me, a spark of stubborn defiance refusing to burn out. Determination or recklessness, maybe both. I’m not ready to back down. Not yet.

I want her to hand me a knife without wondering if I'll use it to carve out her heart.

And fuck if I know why the need to be her savior has settled deep into my bones, but right now, it's the only thing holding me steady.