Tristan Vaughn hadn't planned to be home.
He rarely was—his days split between boardroom pressure and underworld shadows, a never-ending cycle of decisions, threats, and facades. But that morning, after yet another grating call with his father and a string of unsolvable business headaches, Tristan simply crashed on the leather couch of his penthouse. No shirt, just a worn white tee that clung to him as he dozed off, the hem lifted just enough to expose the curve of ink stretching across his lower back—an echo of a life most people never dared to guess.
He woke groggy, the afternoon sun warm on his skin through the high windows. He blinked. Something smelled good—really good.
Confusion flickered in his expression as he sat up slowly, ruffling a hand through his dark hair. And then he remembered.
Raine.
His private agreement. The cook.
He cursed under his breath and scrambled to his feet, instinctively pulling a hoodie from the couch and slipping it over his head. He debated leaving through the back door. But when he heard soft humming and the gentle clatter of pans from the kitchen, something made him pause.
She didn't know who he was. Not yet.
Tristan moved slowly, staying half-hidden behind the wide doorway leading to the open kitchen. His home was large enough to avoid people. But here she was—in his space—unaware. The headset in her ears drowned out any sound he might have made.
She was standing by the stove, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease, her ponytail swaying lightly with each movement. The scent of garlic and butter mixed with herbs filled the room like a warm embrace.
And then he saw her laugh at something on her phone screen. Just a tiny laugh, natural and unguarded. The sound tugged at something in his chest he didn't even realize had been stiff and hollow.
Tristan had been with all types of women—models, heiresses, danger-seekers—but none had made him stop and watch. None made his thoughts go still like this.
She's just a cook. Just a deal. Just temporary.
But watching her now, lost in her small world of cooking and humming, he realized how chaotic and exhausting his life had become—how far he'd gotten from anything like this.
Something… simple.
Raine turned, holding a steaming bowl, and her eyes widened the moment she spotted him in the doorway.
She screamed.
It wasn't a small scream, either—it was a full, panicked, throat-tightening shriek that made Tristan flinch.
"Who—who are you!?" she gasped, stepping back so fast she nearly dropped the bowl.
Tristan froze, the lie coming faster than thought.
"Jeff," he said, his voice calm despite his pulse racing. "I'm the…gardener."
There was a pause—long enough for Raine to blink and scan him from head to toe. Hoodie. Faded joggers. No gardening tools in sight. Definitely not the help.
"…You don't look like a gardener," she muttered, frowning.
Tristan shrugged, slipping his hands into his hoodie pockets and doing his best to look unbothered. "I'm off today. Just came by to check on a few things."
Raine narrowed her eyes. "Then why were you hiding?"
He smirked, letting just a sliver of charm into his voice. "Wasn't hiding. You looked focused. Didn't want to interrupt the… culinary magic."
Her cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink. "I wasn't—well—it's just food."
"Smells better than food," he said, glancing at the dishes on the counter.
They stood there for a beat too long—her with a half-suspicious, half-curious look; him watching her like he was trying to memorize something he didn't quite understand.
Finally, Raine looked away and cleared her throat. "Right. Okay, well. Jeff. I'm just about done. Don't touch anything."
She grabbed her bag and brushed past him quickly, doing her best to ignore the strange warmth crawling up her neck.
As the front door clicked behind her, Tristan exhaled.
That was close.But for the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure he minded.