Chapter 9
The tea was wrong.
Pale amber, thin—an American imitation of the ritual that anchored her mornings back home. At Lambourne House, Mrs. Dove, their housekeeper, measured leaves with precision. Here, it tasted like dishwater with delusions of tea.
A small thing—but enough to sharpen the ache of being far from home, and everything familiar.
Ivy stared at the steam rising from her cup.
The car seat.
The life Ryder lived when he wasn’t pulling aristocrats off oil rigs.
He had a three-year-old daughter named Ellie—which meant a wife.
Though he hadn’t mentioned one. The thought pressed like a stone in her chest. Of course, a man like Ryder would have someone.
He was rugged. Competent. Solid. Far too easy on the eye.
Any woman would be lucky to be the reason for him to come home safe after every perilous shift.
She blew out a breath and stabbed at her poached egg.
None of it mattered. She had twelve days left in Alaska before England pulled her back into duty—the estate, the tenants, George.
There was no room in her life for wondering about men like Ryder.
And yet. The treacherous part of her mind kept circling back to the way he’d carried her across the rig deck.
The careful attention in his voice when he’d checked her injuries.
The warmth of his jacket that he’d insisted on her wearing.
Will these things always be for other people?
The question rose unbidden, carrying the weight of every choice she’d made since her parents died.
Every evening spent reviewing estate finances instead of accepting dinner invitations.
Conference calls that had taken precedence over the social events where she might have met someone interesting.
All the times she’d chosen duty over the possibility of something more.
When did she get her turn at happiness?
“Morning, Ivy.” George’s voice cut through her brooding as he appeared in the breakfast room doorway, already checking his phone. “Sleep well?”
She straightened, pushing the dangerous thoughts aside. “Good, thank you.”
“How’s your head feeling today?”
“Much better, thanks.” She gestured to the empty chair. “Coffee’s still hot.”
George poured himself a cup, moving with the restless energy that meant his mind was on business. “Rental car to organize this morning. Sinclair wants another meeting. Preliminary numbers.”
“Good.” She kept her voice neutral, though preliminary numbers were exactly what worried her. Sinclair could offer attractive terms upfront, then bury the liability in footnotes and subclauses. “I’d like you to drop me at the Coast Guard hangar first.”
George looked up from his phone. “The hangar? Why?”
“I need to return Ryder’s jacket.”
“Can’t you just leave it at the front desk?” George frowned. “They’ll get it back to him.”
“No.” Okay. A bit fierce.
George blinked.
She gave a dismissive swipe of her hand. “He went out of his way to help us yesterday. The least I can do is return it properly.”
The frown on George’s face softened. “Right. Of course.” He sipped his coffee. “How will you get back to town afterward?”
Ivy lifted one foot, waggling a running shoe at him. “I calculated the distance last night. It’s about six miles. I need the exercise after all that sitting yesterday.”
“You’re going to run back?” George’s eyebrows rose. “Ivy, you had an accid—”
“I’m fine.” She stood. She’d lost her appetite. Just the thought of seeing Ryder again. “I’ve been cooped up in planes and helicopters. I need fresh air and movement.”
Running had always been her refuge—the rhythm, the burn, the selfish freedom of forward motion alone. Maybe if she pushed hard enough, she could outrun the memory of Ryder’s arms around her.
“If you’re sure.” He still looked doubtful.
“I’m sure.”
An hour later, George pulled his rental car into the hangar parking lot and killed the engine. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine.” Ivy climbed out of the passenger seat, Ryder’s jacket folded over her arm. “I’ll be back for the meeting by two. I’ll run you through the figures before we meet up with Sinclair.”
“See you then.” George waved as he pulled away.
The jacket slipped against her arm as her palms went damp. Foolish—what if he wasn’t even here? She scanned the lot, pulse tripping when her gaze snagged on the dark blue Ford truck.
She clutched the jacket tighter, pulse leaping, every step both reckless and necessary.
The whiff of diesel fuel and industrial lubricants hit her nose at the hangar doors. Grit ground under the soles of her running shoes. The rumble of a heater, the scent of oil and rubber—none of it was elegant, but she took a deep breath of the honesty of it all.
A soft clatter made her pause.
To her right, in a cleared space between tool carts, a small figure sat cross-legged on a rug in a deep pile of Lego. A little girl, around three-years old Ivy guessed, in blue dungarees with blonde pigtails sticking out the side of her head.
“Hi.” The girl held up a cluster of blue and red bricks topped with a small propeller. “Helichopper!”
Ivy’s heart contracted. The girl was beautiful and radiated the unselfconscious confidence that belonged to children who knew they were loved.
“That’s wonderful.” Ivy dropped to her knees beside her. “Does it fly?”
The little girl—Ellie, it had to be Ellie—considered this, her lower lip protruding. “The spinnaliser broke.”
“May I?”
Ellie nodded and handed her the construction.
Ivy repositioned two of the connecting pieces, creating clearance for the rotor to spin freely. “Try spinning it now.”
Ellie took it back and spun the propeller with one tiny finger.
Her face lit up. “Spinnaliser works! It works!”
She leaped up, dancing around Ivy, pigtails flying, engine noises bouncing off the hangar walls. A laugh escaped Ivy before she could stop it, surprising her with how out of practice it felt.
“Ellie.” The voice was low, masculine.
It rolled through the space and straight into Ivy’s chest. She froze, pulse kicking.
Ellie spun toward the sound. “Daddy!”
She shot across the floor and latched onto a pair of familiar legs. Ryder stood there, ten feet away, wiping his hands on a rag. Gray T-shirt, smudges of grease across his stomach, work pants worn soft at the knees. No polish, no pretense—just Ryder. Capable and unshakably himself.
He bent to ruffle Ellie’s hair, then lifted her, settling her effortlessly against his chest. Muscled forearms flexed as she clung to him, his big hand spanning her back, grounding her squirming energy. The casual strength of it—of him—snagged Ivy’s breath in her throat.
She switched her gaze to her sneakers before she did something appalling like sigh out loud.
Holy hell. Get a grip, Ivy. He’s holding a child, not auditioning for your fantasies.
By the time she dared lift her head, she’d pasted on what she hoped was a composed smile, though heat still trickled at the base of her spine. “Ryder. Hi.”
“Ivy.” He nodded toward his daughter, who rested her cheek on his shoulder—his broad, maddeningly solid shoulder. “You two have already met?”
“We have.” She pushed herself up from the concrete, brushing dust from her knees, scrambling to corral her runaway hormones. “She’s a talented engineer.”
“Fix helichopper, Daddy.”
“Is that right, bug?” His eyes warmed as he ruffled her hair again before setting her back down. She bounded off.
“How’s your head?”
“My head? Um, good thanks.” She held out the jacket. “I came to return this.”
Ryder’s gaze flicked to the leather in her hands, then back to her face. “You didn’t have to make a special trip.” He crouched to scoop up stray bits of Lego. “I swear. These things multiply when I’m not looking. One day they’ll own the hangar.”
“Yes. I did—” She froze as he looked up at her, his intelligent eyes catching hers. Heat licked across her cheeks. “I mean, you went above and beyond yesterday. The least I can do is—well—return the favor properly.”
Brilliant. Now I sound like a deranged jacket courier.
He rose, closing the space between them. Soap and motor oil threaded the air—a mix that shouldn’t smell good, but somehow did. When he reached for the jacket, his callused fingers brushed hers, and heat blazed up her arm. “Thank you, Ivy.”
Her feet itched to retreat, to turn and march back toward safe, simple responsibility—a life that didn’t have room for Coast Guard medics and their adorable Lego-flying daughters. But her fingers still tingled where his had brushed them, rooting her in place. “Um…is Ellie here often?”
“Daycare is closed today—staff training—and I can only ask my sister-in-law so many times.” Ryder glanced toward his daughter. “Ellie likes it here. Lots of space to build things.”
No wife? Her chest loosened before she caught herself. Ridiculous. Entirely inappropriate. She shouldn’t care.
“She seems very happy.” Ivy smiled at Ellie.
“She’s an expert at finding joy in small things.” His gaze tracked Ellie with quiet intensity, as if joy were something he could see but not quite touch.
Ellie chose that moment to crash-land her helicopter directly into Ivy’s legs, giggling as she looked up. “Help build airyport?”
Ivy glanced toward Ryder, who shrugged. “Your call. Fair warning though—Ellie’s airyports tend to be architectural marvels.”
Ellie bounced on her toes. “Airyport!”
For once, no one needed Ivy to solve a crisis or balance an account. They just wanted her to play, and Ryder was watching like he was curious what she’d choose.
The smart thing would be to leave.
She smiled. “I’ve got some time. I’d love to build an airyport.”