Chapter 20
twenty
The morning sun woke me early, filtering through the high, pine-paneled windows in pale golden geometric slabs. The air inside the bedroom had grown cold overnight, the kind of crisp chill that settled into the floorboards and made you curl deeper into your blankets.
Naturally, Rhys couldn’t let me have that.
He burst into my room about five minutes after I woke up, saying something about breakfast and how I wasn’t allowed to sleep in.
Despite every one of my protests about it being cold and trying to pull my pillow over my head, I somehow ended up beside him in the massive oak kitchen ten minutes later, still in my pajamas.
I had pulled on Rhys’s grey hoodie again over my tank top, the hem reaching halfway down my thighs, while Rhys had thrown on a worn black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders.
The main floor of the cottage was completely quiet, bathed in the soft light of dawn. Out through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, the lake was completely still, mist rising off the dark water like steam.
Rhys pulled a large stainless-steel mixing bowl out from the lower cabinets and slammed it onto the granite island with a loud clack while I stifled a yawn.
“It’s an official Montgomery tradition,” Rhys explained, retrieving a bag of flour, yeast, cinnamon, and dark brown sugar from the pantry. He tossed a heavy apron at my chest. “Every single Saturday morning at the cottage, we bake cinnamon buns from scratch. It’s nonnegotiable.”
I held the apron against my chest, watching him set out the measuring cups. “You know how to bake yeast dough from scratch?”
Rhys scoffed, dusting his hands with flour until his palms were chalky white. “Ainsley, please. I am a master baker. My cinnamon rolls are legendary. Now, put the apron on and start measuring three cups of flour, or I’m revoking your chef privileges.”
“If you revoke them, do I get to curl up under a blanket? Because I would be okay with that.”
He lightly shoved my head as I laughed.
For the next forty-five minutes, the kitchen became our own noisy, messy sanctuary.
We worked together in a smooth dance—I measured the dry ingredients while Rhys heated the milk and butter on the stove, watching the temperature with laser-like focus.
When it came time to knead the dough, Rhys stood directly behind me at the counter, his broad chest pressing lightly against my back as he wrapped his arms around mine to guide my hands through the thick, sticky flour.
“You’re rushing it,” he murmured near my ear, his warm breath sending a sharp volley of goosebumps cascading down my neck.
His rough, flour-dusted hands covered mine, pushing into the soft dough with a rhythmic, powerful pressure.
“You have to fold it, push it away with the heels of your hands, then turn it ninety degrees. Like this.”
My heart pounded so hard against my ribs I was terrified he’d feel it through his t-shirt. Every time his bare chest brushed my back, or his thumb stroked the side of my wrist to adjust my grip, a hot, prickling heat spread under my skin.
“Like this?” I managed to ask, my voice sounding breathlessly thin.
“Exactly like that,” he whispered, his chin resting almost on my shoulder. He lingered there for a second too long, his lips hovering near the shell of my ear, before stepping back with a low, satisfied hum. “See? You’re a natural.”
By nine-thirty, the mouthwatering scent of caramelized brown sugar, melted butter, and spiced cinnamon was wafting up into the vaulted pine ceilings of the great room, completely filling the house.
The wooden stairs began to creak as the rest of the household slowly stirred awake.
Marcus was the first to wander down, wearing a pair of faded plaid pajama pants and an old University of Toronto sweatshirt, his grey-streaked hair sticking up on one side.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, taking a deep breath of the air, a wide smile spreading across his face.
“Tell me my eyes aren’t deceiving me,” Marcus said, walking over to the counter where two round ceramic baking dishes sat, crammed full of massive, golden-brown cinnamon rolls dripping in thick white cream cheese icing. “The Montgomery Saturday tradition lives on!”
“Told you, Dad,” Rhys grinned, leaning against the island with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Ainsley helped. She’s got solid kneading form.”
“She’s a keeper,” Marcus declared, giving my shoulder a quick, warm squeeze as he reached for a spatula. “Morning, kiddo. Did you sleep alright?”
“Like a log,” I smiled, feeling a flush of warmth in my chest.
Footsteps clattered down the stairs as Leah rushed in, practically throwing herself over the counter to grab a cinnamon roll, followed closely by Carolyn, who poured herself a mug of coffee and beamed at the spread.
“Oh, this smells like heaven,” Carolyn said.
Finally, Justin and Kelcey drifted into the kitchen.
Justin was rubbing his eyes, wearing boxers and a white T-shirt.
I stared for a moment, still somehow expecting old feelings to rise up in me again, some lingering feeling of my crush.
Instead, all I felt was emptiness—and maybe even a slight feeling of pity for him, that he was stuck with Kelcey, even though it was his choice.
Kelcey looked infuriatingly put-together in an oversized dusty-pink matching lounge set, her hair styled in effortless beach waves.
She stopped near the edge of the kitchen island, her eyes flicking from the sticky, icing-covered baking pans to where I was standing right beside Rhys, wearing his massive hoodie with flour smudged across the bridge of my nose.
Her lips curved into a slight, condescending smirk.
“Oh,” Kelcey said, her voice laced with that familiar, sugary falseness. “I see you guys made cinnamon buns. That’s... ambitious for a guest, Ainsley. It’s kind of a sacred family thing. I usually just let Marcus and Rhys do their thing when I stayed here.”
The subtle bite in her words was undeniable—calling me a “guest,” reminding everyone that she’s been around far longer than I have, trying to make me feel like a clumsy intruder stomping all over sacred ground.
Beside me, I felt Rhys’s body go rigid, his jaw clenching as he opened his mouth to snap back. But I didn’t give him the chance.
I set my mug down on the granite counter with a sharp, deliberate thud, wiped a speck of flour off my hands, and looked Kelcey dead in the eye with the sweetest, most blindingly confident smile I could muster.
“Oh, I know all about the tradition, Kelcey,” I said smoothly, leaning my hip back against Rhys’s side and sliding my hand effortlessly into his back pocket.
I felt Rhys take a sharp, surprised breath against me, but he immediately relaxed, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me tight against his side.
“He told me all about it last night. In fact, he was the one who woke me up at eight specifically so we could make them together. He said Saturdays at the cottage just aren’t the same without them, and I think we make a great team. ”
The silence in the kitchen was absolute. Leah stopped mid-bite, her eyes wide with delight as she looked between us. Carolyn suddenly found her coffee mug fascinating, while Marcus looked down at the baking pan with a subtle, amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Kelcey’s face went stiff, her cheeks flushing a dull, mottled pink as she realized her passive-aggressive strike had completely backfired. She opened her mouth, closed it, and settled for taking a sharp, loud sip of her herbal tea.
“Well,” Kelcey muttered, turning toward the French doors. “They smell fine.”
Beside me, Rhys leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispered under his breath, his voice thick with amusement. “Holy hell, Ainsley. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
My pulse hammered wildly against my throat, my heart soaring with a dangerous, intoxicating thrill.
By two o’clock in the afternoon, the temperature had shot up to a glorious twenty-four degrees.
The sun hung high and brilliant in an unclouded azure sky, baking the wooden dock until the cedar smelled rich and sweet.
The afternoon had devolved into a full-scale, sun-drenched cottage extravaganza, with the dock holding a chaotic pile of colorful beach towels, lifejackets, sunglasses, and dripping water bottles.
I was sitting near the edge of the dock on a bright turquoise towel, wearing the pale pink bikini Rhys had held up to me in the changing room what felt like a lifetime ago.
Back when I swatted his hand away for coming too close, and now I’m wondering how I can get him to wrap his arm around me again and find ways to make him laugh.
The sun was beating down on my bare legs, turning my skin warm to the touch, while the cool lake water lapped softly against my bare feet dangling over the edge.
Rhys walked down the ramp carrying a bottle of SPF 50 sunscreen.
He was wearing dark blue boardshorts, his broad shoulders and toned chest completely bare, glistening lightly with sweat in the afternoon heat.
His sandy blonde hair was messy, sticking up in all directions from the wind.
When he got to the dock, he paused, pulling his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose as he stared at me, his lips lifting in a surprised smirk.
I tilted my head to the side, giving him a grin of my own.
“You actually wore it,” he said, finally pushing the glasses back up his nose and striding to the edge of the dock like he wanted a closer look.
“You can’t just leave me a bikini and a note that you bet I won’t actually wear it and think I’m not going to prove you wrong.”
He was silent for another beat, and I fought the urge to fidget under his stare. “I’m happy you proved me wrong. But I was also right.”
“About?”
“That color looks fantastic on you.”