He cleared his throat. “Celine?”
She stirred, her eyes still closed, burrowing deeper under the coverlet. Her hand reached blindly for the edge of the bed, missed, and then landed squarely on his wrist as he set the tray down.
“It’s indecently early,” she mumbled, her grip tightening when she realized it was him.
“It’s quarter to nine,” he said, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “The estate waits for no one.”
She cracked one eye open. “You brought breakfast? Is this an apology for last night or a bribe to keep me from telling Mrs. Hargrove that you’re sneaking sugared rolls?”
He grinned. “Both.”
She sat up, drawing the coverlet around her shoulders, and blinked at him. The sight of her—hair tangled, face flushed from sleep, lips still a little swollen from his kiss—nearly undid him.
He sank onto the bed beside her, fully dressed, and reached for her hand. “How do you feel?”
She arched a brow. “Is this an inquiry about the state of my heart, or a prelude to discussing my constitution?”
“Both,” he admitted.
She took the proffered cup of coffee, sipped, and made a face. “Bitter as sin. Just how you like it.”
He nudged her shoulder. “I would’ve added cream, but I was afraid you’d accuse me of coddling you.”
She smiled, faint but real, and sipped again. “Last night was… unexpected.”
He nodded. “It was.”
They sat in silence, a rare thing between them. Rhys found himself wishing he could bottle this moment—her leaning against his shoulder, both of them teetering on the edge of something new and terrifying.
She picked up a bun, tore it in half, then set it down again. “Are we supposed to talk about it?”
He considered. “I don’t know. I’ve never been married before. And I’ve certainly never…” He paused, uncertain how to say it.
Never wanted anything so bad.
But the words stuck in his throat.
Celine twisted a curl around her finger. “I’d rather not talk. At least, not yet. I’d like to pretend, just for one morning, that everything is perfectly, horribly normal.”
He took her hand and squeezed it. “I can do normal.”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes sharp and searching. “You’re terrible at it, Rhys.”
He grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”
She snorted, the sound unladylike and beautiful, and reached for the tray again. “I’ll need sustenance if I’m to endure your attempts at propriety.”
He reached out, snatched her bun, and popped it in his mouth. She gaped at him, affronted, then whacked him with a pillow.
They dissolved into a ridiculous, breathless scuffle, buns rolling to the carpet, pillows flying, both of them laughing so hard that Rhys thought he might never regain his composure.
It felt like the most dangerous thing in the world, them laughing together.
When he finally relented, she was sprawled across his lap, her hair falling loose around her face. He brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear.
“Come with me,” he said.
“To where?”
