Our Bay Will Come (Cedar Bay #2)

1. Prue

CHAPTER ONE

PRUE

I wake up wrapped in arms that feel too much like safety, which is the first warning sign.

Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, casting golden bars across a bedroom I barely registered last night when Fox pressed me against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck.

The memory sends an involuntary shiver through me, which is problematic because his large body is currently curled around mine like a human fortress.

"Morning," he whispers into my hair, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates against my back. Damn it. I hoped he was still asleep.

"Hi," I reply softly, mentally calculating the fastest exit strategy. My dress is somewhere on the floor—possibly the living room, if memory serves—and my underwear... well, that's a separate treasure hunt altogether.

Fox's arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest. The man is solid muscle, radiating heat like a furnace. It would be lovely if I were planning to stay, but I'm not. I don't do mornings after. I don't do second dates. And I definitely don't do whatever this is becoming.

"Sleep okay?" he asks, his breath tickling my ear.

"Fine." I keep my voice casual, struggling to hide my anxiety. "But I should get going."

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip. "It's Saturday. No rush."

Something in his tone—a quiet certainty, an assumption that I'd want to linger—makes my chest tighten. I've seen that look before on other men's faces. The one that says they think they've figured me out, that one night means something more.

"I have plans." The lie slides out easily. "Brunch with Cilla."

His hand pauses, and I feel his body shift slightly behind me. "Really? That's funny. Rowan mentioned he and Cilla had plans today."

Fuck. I forgot Cilla's dating Mr. Hottie now.

"Different sister," I say quickly, then realize my mistake. "I mean friend. She's a friend who's like a sister."

Fox chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. "You're a terrible liar, Prue Griffin."

I roll over to face him, planning to deliver a withering retort, but it's a tactical error.

His face is sleep-soft, his dark hair rumpled, and his eyes warm with something that looks dangerously like affection.

Worse, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth makes my stomach do a completely unauthorized flip.

"I don't owe you an explanation," I say, aiming for cool detachment but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

"Never said you did." His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face with such casual tenderness I almost flinch. "But coffee isn't an explanation. It's just coffee."

"I don't do coffee."

"Breakfast then? I make decent pancakes."

I narrow my eyes. "Is this how you usually operate? Trap women with promises of breakfast foods?"

His laugh is genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're the first woman I've offered pancakes to in years, so I wouldn't call it an operation."

That information sits uncomfortably between us. I don't want to be special. Special leads to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment. I've choreographed this dance too many times not to know the steps.

"Look, Fox," I begin, propping myself up on one elbow, the sheet falling dangerously low across my chest. His eyes drop momentarily before returning to mine with admirable restraint. "Last night was... great. Really great. But I'm not looking for?—"

"A relationship," he finishes. "I gathered that from the three times you mentioned it last night. Before you kissed me, I might add."

My cheeks heat. "I like to be clear about these things."

"Crystal clear," he agrees, but something in his expression says he's not deterred. "How about this—no relationship, no expectations. Just pancakes. And maybe a shower first."

His hand slides down my bare back, leaving a trail of heat.

"A shower sounds suspiciously like an activity that would delay my departure," I point out, though I'm already calculating how much time I could spare before I need to leave.

"Practical water conservation," he counters. "Think of the environment."

Despite myself, I laugh. "That's your angle? Save the planet, take a shower with me?"

"Is it working?" His thumb traces my lower lip, and my resolve wavers dangerously.

I should say no. I should grab my clothes and go. Instead, I hear myself say, "The pancakes better be worth it."

His smile is slow and devastating. "Oh, they will be."

He doesn't wait for me to change my mind. With one fluid motion, he pulls me against him, his mouth finding mine with an urgency that makes my toes curl. I tell myself it's just physical—this crackling electricity between us—but there's something else beneath it that I'm studiously ignoring.

"Shower first," I mumble against his lips, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "Then pancakes. Then I am leaving."

"Whatever you say," Fox agrees, but a knowing look in his eyes suggests he sees right through me.

The bathroom is surprisingly nice for a bachelor pad—clean white tile, a glass-walled shower big enough for two, and not a single dirty towel in sight. Either he cleaned for company, or Fox Carmichael is genuinely the unicorn of single men.

He turns on the water, steam quickly filling the small space, and I find myself watching the play of muscles across his back.

The man is built like he was carved from stone, with a collection of scars that tell stories I'm suddenly curious about.

I shouldn't be interested. Curiosity leads to conversations, and conversations lead to connections.

"Stop overthinking," he says without turning around.

"I'm not—how did you know I was thinking anything?"

He glances over his shoulder, eyes traveling down my naked body with an appreciation that makes me feel both powerful and vulnerable. "You get this little crease between your eyebrows when analyzing things to death."

"We've known each other less than twenty-four hours. You can't possibly?—"

"You do the same thing when you're reading a menu. Like you're preparing for a final exam instead of ordering dinner." He holds out his hand. "Coming?"

I hesitate, then take his hand and step into the shower. The water is perfect—hot enough to ease the pleasant ache in muscles I'd forgotten I had.

Fox stands behind me, his hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, then down my back in a soothing and arousing caress. "You're tense," he murmurs.

"I'm not great at this part," I admit.

"Which part?"

"The morning after. The domesticity of it."

His hands pause, then continue their path across my skin. "Is that what this is?"

I turn to face him, water streaming between us. "What would you call it?"

"I'd call it taking a shower with a beautiful woman I can't stop thinking about." His honesty is disarming. "No labels required."

"You barely know me."

"I'd like to change that." He reaches for the shampoo, squeezing some into his palm. "Turn around."

I do, suspicion warring with curiosity. "What are you?—"

His fingers thread through my hair, massaging my scalp with a gentle pressure that draws an involuntary sigh from me. It feels ridiculously good.

"My aunt owned a salon," he explains. "I used to help out after school when I wasn't needed at my parents' bakery."

"Of course you did," I mutter. "Let me guess—you also rescue puppies and read to the elderly in your spare time?"

He laughs, the sound echoing in the steamy space. "Not quite. I'm actually kind of an asshole, according to most people who know me."

"Rowan didn't seem to think so."

"Rowan's known me since we were kids. He's immune to my bullshit."

I close my eyes as he rinses the shampoo from my hair, his touch so careful it makes my chest ache. "And what bullshit is that, exactly?"

"The part where I act like I don't care about anything." His voice drops lower. "It's easier that way sometimes."

The confession hangs between us, oddly intimate. I don't know what to do with it—with this glimpse beneath the surface that I didn't ask for but can't quite ignore.

"Rinse," he says, and I tilt my head back into the spray.

When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip again. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing." He shakes his head slightly. "Just... I wasn't expecting you."

"In your shower?"

"In my life."

And there it is—the moment I should run from. The declaration sounds too much like the beginning of something I've sworn off. Instead, I reach for Fox, pressing my body against his under the warm cascade of water.

"Stop talking," I whisper. "Let us enjoy the moment."

His hands find my waist, steadying me as our bodies align. "Yes, ma'am," he murmurs against my lips, and then there's no more talking for a while.

By the time we make it to the kitchen, my hair is towel-dried, and I'm wearing his flannel shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up several times. Fox keeps glancing at me as he moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from cabinets with practiced ease.

"What?" I ask, perching on a barstool at his kitchen island.

"Nothing." He cracks eggs into a bowl. "Just thinking that shirt looks better on you than it ever on me."

I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through my chest. "You're a charmer."

"No." He whisks the batter with more force than necessary. "Just being honest."

The kitchen falls quiet except for the sizzle of the griddle heating up. I watch Fox's movements—efficient, purposeful. He's not showing off, just moving with the confidence of someone who knows what they're doing.

"So," he says, pouring the first pancake onto the hot surface, "tell me about your business in Seattle."

I blink, surprised. "How did you know I have a business?"

"Cilla mentioned it. Interior design, right?" He flips the pancake with a perfect flick of the wrist. "Said you're pretty good at it."

"She's biased." I toy with a napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. "But yes, I have my firm. Small, but growing."

"What kind of projects do you work on?"

I find myself telling him about my latest clients—a tech couple renovating a historic Craftsman, a boutique hotel downtown, and a restaurant in Ballard. Words flow easier than expected, especially when he asks thoughtful questions between flipping pancakes.

"I never would have pegged you for being interested in interior design," I admit.

He slides a plate of golden pancakes, butter, and maple syrup in front of me. "I work in construction. Design and construction go hand in hand."

"Fair point." I cut into the stack, taking a bite. The pancakes are perfectly fluffy, with a hint of vanilla. "Okay, these are good."

"Try not to sound so surprised." He leans against the counter, his plate in hand.

"A man of hidden talents."

"You have no idea." His voice drops an octave, and my body responds embarrassingly fast.

I clear my throat. "So, construction. You work with Rowan?"

"Yeah, Cedar Bay Construction. The three of us—me, Rowan, and Cole—started it after we got out of the Army."

"And you like it here? In this tiny town where everyone knows your business?"

He shrugs. "It has its moments. The fishing's good."

"Riveting endorsement."

His mouth quirks. "Not everyone needs the buzz of a big city to be happy, Prue."

"I'd go stir-crazy. Seattle's barely big enough some days." I take another bite, avoiding his eyes. "I miss Cilla, though. It's weird not having her nearby. We've never lived this far apart."

"You two are close?"

"She's my best friend, not just my sister." I smile, thinking of her. "I was so proud when she got the teaching position at St. Agnes, but I hate that she's out in the middle of nowhere."

"Ouch." Fox presses a hand to his chest. "Tell me how you really feel about my hometown."

I wince. "Sorry. I just meant?—"

"I know what you meant." He sets his plate down. "Cedar Bay isn't Seattle, but it's not exactly the backwoods. We have indoor plumbing and everything."

"Now, who's being defensive?" I challenge.

He concedes with a tilt of his head. "Touché."

"Cilla seems happy here," I admit. "I just don't understand the appeal."

You may need a better tour guide than your sister. Those dogs of hers aren't exactly showcasing the nightlife."

I laugh. "Are you volunteering?"

"Could be." He moves closer until he's standing between my knees. "Give me a weekend. I'll change your mind about Cedar Bay."

His proximity is distracting. "I doubt that."

"Is that a challenge, Griffin?" His hands rest lightly on my thighs, warm through the fabric of his shirt.

"It's an impossibility." I set my fork down. "I'm a city girl. Always have been, always will be."

"Never say never." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "People change."

"Not me." I shake my head. "I like knowing my neighbors don't know when I come home or who I'm with."

"Privacy has its perks," he agrees. "But so does community."

"Says the man who claims everyone thinks he's an asshole."

"I said most people. Not everyone." His thumb traces circles on my bare thigh. "The ones who matter know better."

Something in his eyes makes me want to look away—a certainty, a patience that suggests he's playing a longer game than I am.

"I should go," I say, but make no move to leave.

"Probably," he agrees, leaning closer. "But you haven't finished your pancakes."

"They're delicious." My voice drops to a whisper as his lips hover near mine. "Compliments to the chef."

"I can think of better ways to show appreciation," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on mine again, tasting of maple syrup and possibilities I'm not ready to name.

This is dangerous territory—standing on the edge of something that feels like more than a one-night stand. But as Fox's hands slide up my thighs, pushing the flannel higher, I decide that danger might be worth exploring.

Just this once.