Chapter 9
Emory
“You made us breakfast again?” Emory yawned, a big, exaggerated one as she stretched her arms out again. She was trying to distract herself from the current vision in the kitchen, and it wasn’t working.
In faded jeans and a deep grey flannel, Byron stood holding two heaped plates of food.
A tea towel was thrown over his shoulder, and his hair was all messed up from sleep.
Emory could get used to this, waking up to a hot as fuck man who cooked her breakfast. But then, she couldn’t, could she?
Not when this arrangement was only temporary.
Not when she was only here because her cottage was about to flood, although maybe it already had.
And definitely not when she still had plans to leave town as soon as she secured a job in the city.
So, okay, she couldn’t get used to it, but she could enjoy it while it lasted.
Byron smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting up as he gave a slight nod.
Emory could have sworn he swayed his hips a little as he moved around the bench to position the plates on the table.
He turned back to the kitchen and stretched over the counter to grab the third plate.
Emory held back her gasp. She shouldn’t be looking.
She certainly shouldn’t be admiring the way his jeans pulled tight against his butt.
Or the way his shoulders threatened to bust his shirt as he reached forward.
But then again, she’d spent all day yesterday doing exactly that, hadn’t she?
After their awkward-as-anything breakfast and their agreement to never speak of the night prior again, they’d spent the day pottering around the house.
It appeared Byron had gone out of his way to make space for Emory and Clayton, and she’d done her best to take up as little of it as possible.
She’d tidied away Clayton’s toys the second he moved on to the next activity.
After his nap, she’d taken him outside, and while he played on the old rickety slide, she read the book she’d borrowed.
It was better than she thought it would be.
The heroine had just met a truly scrumptious prince, and Emory was certain they were going to fall in love in the most delicious way.
And all day, she had stolen glances at Byron every second she could. She’d caught him doing the same, and each time, her heart had started racing faster than the quad bike he jetted off on in the afternoon.
Before she had a chance to turn away, Byron stood from the bench and pivoted on his heel. The movement was so quick, Emory was certain he was trying to catch her staring. And he had. His eyes turned dark, but he kept them on Emory as he placed the small plate of food in front of Clayton.
Emory’s breath was caught in her throat. Her mouth hung open as she exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered on a shaky breath before clearing her throat and trying again. “Thank you, Byron. Clayton, say thank you to Papa for breakfast.”
Instead of waiting for Byron to respond, she sat down at the place he had set for her and gulped at her coffee. The hot liquid burned her throat, matching the heat that flared through her body.
They were going to have to talk about that night.
It would kill her, though. She would die of embarrassment, but they couldn’t continue this dance.
The stolen glances and lust-filled looks were too much.
It was one thing to imagine Byron hovering over her while she came, and another to realise he was imagining the same thing.
But the air had been thick with need ever since, and they had to do something or they would suffocate from it.
They ate mostly in silence, just like they had the day before.
Clayton chewed loudly, blissfully unaware of the tension that sparked through the air.
Halfway through their meal, rain began to patter.
Nothing like the previous storm, at least not yet, but big fat droplets that clanged against the tin roof.
Emory lifted her gaze from her plate to look out over the back paddocks.
Beyond the kitchen window, the sky was dark, and big puddles began to form over the lawn.
It stopped almost as soon as it started, but Emory knew it was just a teaser of what was sure to come.
“Thanks, Papa,” Clayton cheered after they had all finished eating, and Byron cleared the plates away.
Byron ruffled the little boy’s hair as he passed. Clayton climbed off his chair and disappeared into the living room. The sound of wooden blocks tumbling echoed through the house.
Byron stood unmoving in the kitchen, still holding the plates. “The bridge is still clear, if you want to head into town for anything. Might be your last chance,” he said.
Emory’s heart sank again at the reminder that soon, she would be stuck here.
But Byron was right, she should head into town while she had the chance.
A few extra night nappies for Clayton probably wouldn’t hurt.
Nor would a dozen or more bottles of wine.
She was going to need them to get through the next couple of weeks.
“Do you need anything? I’ll head down now so we can be back before Clayton has to nap.”
She took the plates from Byron’s hands, sucking in a breath when her fingers brushed against his. Electricity zapped between them.
Byron cleared his throat. “Nope, we should be good. I bought a few weeks’ worth of stuff before you got here, it’s all in the freezer. Why don’t you leave Clayton with me? Stop at the library for some more books and toys for him.”
“Are you sure? Don’t you have work to do before the water peaks?”
She lined the dirty plates into the dishwasher and turned the tap on to wash the pans stacked on the stovetop. It was the least she could do, given Byron was hosting them for the immediate future and had cooked them breakfast twice now.
“I need to get the cows into the top paddock, but Clayton can come. I’d rather you not be distracted on the drive down.”
She was elbow deep in hot, soapy water, but glared at Byron over her shoulder. “I’ve driven that road plenty of times with Clayton in the back. He’s not going to distract me.”
With an eye roll, she turned back to the sink and got to work on the dishes.
Byron had some sort of magic pan because all the bacon grease was washing off with more ease than she was used to, but she scrubbed away out of habit.
She was so focused on making sure the pan was spotless that she didn’t hear Byron moving until he was right behind her.
His hands dropped to the edge of the sink, caging her in, but he kept a small gap between their bodies.
The breath that whispered along the back of her neck was shaky. “Please, Emory. This is important to me.”
“Why?” She shouldn’t have pushed his buttons, but she snapped at him anyway. Who was he to suddenly tell her she couldn’t drive with Clayton in the back? Against her better judgement, or maybe because of it, she dropped the sparkling pan onto the drying rack and turned around.
They were so close. So goddamn close that Emory’s breast skated across Byron’s front. With every breath she took came a searing heat that spread from the contact. She had to tilt her head up to look at him, holding her breath as she did so. What she saw had her mind reeling.
From this close, she first registered that Byron’s eyes were no ordinary brown.
His irises were laced with gold and surrounded by a deep rim of chocolate.
She could get lost in them. She would have, too, if they weren’t so wet.
His tears overflowed, clumping his eyelashes and spilling down his cheeks.
Emory squeezed her hands up between them to cup his face. It was well-meaning; she’d wanted to wipe away the moisture. Only her hands were still wet from the sink, so instead she only added more. Byron chuckled, batting her hands away and stepping back.
“Thanks for that,” he mumbled. Picking up the hem of his shirt, Byron wiped his face.
Emory did her best not to look at his abs while he did, but it was a futile attempt, really.
Who could resist looking at such a fine specimen?
It reminded her of the hero from her book.
Abs on abs, with a truly edible V of muscles that led below his belt.
She squeezed her eyes shut until she heard the rustle of his shirt as he dropped it back down.
“Wet roads are dangerous, Emory. This family knows that all too well. I don’t like the thought of you driving on them at all, especially not with Clayton in the back.
You forget that I’ve driven with him, too.
I know how he squeals.” Byron had folded his arms across his chest and was talking mostly to his feet.
Every now and then, he glanced up at Emory, and she caught a glimpse of his eyes, welling with tears again.
She reached for the tea towel on the bench, drying her hands.
“What do you mean, you know it all too well?”
Byron’s chest heaved as he sighed. He shook his head, and for a moment, Emory thought she might have prodded too deep.
Clayton started imitating a siren, nee naw-ing from the lounge room as he ran around with two little cars.
But Byron and Emory ignored the sound, trapped in a silence she thought neither of them was going to break.
After a few more heavy breaths, Byron ran a hand over his face and finally started to speak.
“I guess I never told you about Josie, did I? Tucker and Jaxon’s mum.”