Chapter 25
Ryder drifted awake to the muted clink of glass.
For a moment, he lay under the comforter, disoriented. Mornings were one of two things—dead silence when Ellie was at Sarah’s or his mom’s, or alternatively, Ellie bouncing on his head demanding neggs for breakfast ASAP.
Memory hit like a hammer. Ivy. The storm. Firelight. Her body arching under his mouth.
He stretched fingers to the opposite side of the bed, finding only cool sheets, and the faintest trace of her scent. His gut clenched hard.
She left.
The thought struck him square in the chest, bringing with it that familiar ache. One night, that’s all it had been. And yet, one night and he was acting like—
A faint sizzle from the kitchen. The scrape of a spatula. A low hum, half a tune.
She’s still here.
Ryder pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, trying to steady his heartbeat.
Christ, get a grip, Ryder.
Since when did someone staying the night turn him inside out?
She’s not just someone, a traitorous voice whispered.
Delicious aromas reached him. Coffee, bacon, maple syrup. Butter on hot metal.
Those smells didn’t belong in his kitchen. Not anymore. He cooked for Ellie, but his mornings were black coffee and protein bars on the way to work.
This was mornings shared. Family life. The very thing he hadn’t let himself want since Miranda.
Because that shit hurt when it ended.
He shoved back the covers, reluctant to leave the lingering warmth.
His feet hit cold hardwood, the chill a sharp contrast to the comfort of his bed.
His clothes from last night were somewhere near the fireplace, but he grabbed sweatpants from the chair and tugged them on.
The sounds from the kitchen drew him forward like a magnet.
At the doorway, he stopped, one hand braced on the frame.
Ivy stood barefoot at his stove, wearing nothing but his blue T-shirt. It hung loose, skimming her curves, hem brushing mid-thigh, slender legs golden in the early light. Her hair was messy, waves spilling over her shoulders.
She was cooking eggs in his cast iron, steam rising from the coffeepot, and she’d found the good bacon in his freezer—the thick-cut stuff he usually saved for special occasions.
She looked like she belonged. In his kitchen, in his shirt, in his life.
His body reacted instantly—hard and wanting—but what burned underneath was the surge of hope.
Hope.
It felt like a trap. A warm, perfect, fucking trap.
Because once you started wanting mornings like this again? You remembered what it felt like to lose them.
This was what he’d sworn off. The quiet claim of someone moving through his world as if it was already theirs. Miranda had left. Ivy could too. But, fuck, he couldn’t look away.
As if she sensed him, Ivy glanced over her shoulder. Her cheeks flushed when she saw him—shirtless, sleep-rough, staring at her like a starving man. But under the flush of her skin and the curve of her smile, he caught it—a flicker of something raw.
Like maybe she was afraid too.
“Morning.” Her voice was still husky from sleep. From last night.
“Morning.” He pushed off the frame, stepping closer. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She turned back to the skillet, but her fingers tightened around the spatula. “I hope you don’t mind. I raided your kitchen. I was hungry—and I figured you might be too.”
He should tell her she didn’t have to do this. That cooking breakfast didn’t erase the storm outside, or the thousand miles that would drag her back to England—that he needed boundaries.
Instead, he kept moving toward her, pulled by something deeper than hunger.
“Smells good.” He leaned against the counter, close enough to catch the warm, clean scent of her. “You look even better—in my shirt.”
Color climbed her throat. “It was the first thing I found.” There were still faint marks on her neck from his mouth, and her nipples peaked against the thin cotton.
Fuck.
“I’m not complaining.”
She smiled, and something in his chest unknotted. Being here in the kitchen with her. It was easy. Comfortable. As if they’d done this a hundred mornings before instead of waking up together for the first time.
“Coffee?” she asked, nodding at the pot.
“Yeah. Just black, thanks.”
She reached for a mug—his favorite, the one Ellie had painted with lopsided stars—and poured it full. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed. A fleeting touch, but it lit through him like last night all over again—charged but quieter. More intense.
He took a sip and groaned. “Strong enough to strip paint, exactly how I like it.” He smiled at her over the rim of his mug. “How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.” She nudged the eggs in the skillet, spatula scraping, and cocked her head at him. “You don’t exactly scream caramel latte.”
Christ, this—her moving around his kitchen, wearing his clothes, feeding him—it felt so right.
And scared the shit out of him.
Ryder shoved the thought aside, refusing to let his head ruin what his heart craved. He set the mug down and reached for her, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “Ivy.”
Her eyes flicked to his, hunger sparking there that matched his own. He bent and pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, right over the hard beat of her pulse.
She made a needy sound as she turned, her free hand curling against his bare chest. The spatula clattered against the pan, forgotten.
“Ryder.” His name was barely air.
He could take her right here, right now. Lift her onto the counter and lose himself while the bacon burned. His body sure as hell wanted to. But this moment was about more than hunger. Too precious to rush.
He kissed her throat again, slower, lingering, and she pressed into him, giving him more.
“Breakfast first,” she breathed. “I need to get my blood sugar back up. It’s depleted, you know.”
His mouth curved against her skin. “I’ll take my chances.”
She laughed. “You’ll be catching me when I drop.” Then she lifted her head and framed his face with her hands. Pressed a slow, heated kiss to his lips.
God, she felt so good in his arms.
Her stomach growled loudly, and she buried her face against his chest.
Ryder chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Guess you win this round. Let’s eat.”
She turned back to the skillet, sliding eggs and bacon onto two plates.
The sweep of her waist, the slope of her bare legs, the way his shirt clung to her—Christ, it was too much.
Sex was safe. It ended. But this? This sank deep in your bones and made a man start thinking about forever.
The thought should’ve sent him running. Instead, all he wanted was to pull her closer. To keep her here. In his kitchen. In his shirt. In his life. Which was insane, because she lived in England. This was temporary. Just a handful of days stolen from reality.
He breathed out a slow breath, sipped his coffee.
He’d deal with reality later. Not the flight back to England. Not the goodbye coming for them both.
Right now, there was just her—barefoot in his kitchen, cooking him breakfast like she hadn’t just broken something wide open inside him.
This moment. This woman.
The one who’d already taken more of him than he’d ever meant to give.