Something warm unfurls in my chest."Her favorite person?"
"Don't let it go to your head.Last month, her favorite person was the gelato vendor in Portofino."
He goes back to aggressively scrubbing.I join him.
Side by side, Roarke West and I clean, saying nothing.With the late afternoon light casting golden patterns across the salon floor, it’s almost peaceful.
This shared task.
And against my better judgment, I sneak glances at him.
Without the stern executive mask, he looks younger, more approachable.His sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and there's a small paint smudge on his jaw that he hasn't noticed.
"Can I ask you something?"I venture, scrubbing at a paw print shaped suspiciously like Italy.
"Depends on what it is."
"Isla’s parents.Where are they?It’s just—she never mentions her mom, and I want to make sure I’m not stepping on any emotional land mines.”
Roarke’s cloth stills.
His eyes drop to the floor he’s polishing.“Her mother…” His voice goes cool, distant.“Chose not to be involved.She decided raising a child didn’t fit with her lifestyle and signed over custody to Isla’s father.”
“She just… walked away?”
“She walked away.”There’s no emotion in his tone—so controlled it’s almost clinical—but the muscle ticking in his jaw says otherwise.
I hesitate.“And her dad?”
His gaze flickers to mine, and for a moment I’m not sure he’ll answer.“His name was Daniel.”
“Daniel,” I repeat, waiting.
“My brother.”
“Your…brother?”
He nods once, reluctantly, as if the act of talking requires muscles he forgot how to use.“Last year, there was a?—”
A metallic crash from somewhere forward cuts him off, followed by Isla’s unmistakable giggle and an ecstatic squawk.
"COOKIES FOR CAPTAIN!COOKIES FOR EVERYONE!"
We both freeze, staring at each other in horror.
"Please tell me you secured the bird," Roarke says slowly.
"I thought you secured the bird."
Another crash, this one accompanied by what sounds like pots and pans hitting the floor.
"PRETTY BIRD CHEF!PRETTY BIRD GORDON RAMSAY!"
We scramble to our feet simultaneously, racing toward the galley.
I reach the doorway first, but Roarke is right behind me, and when I stop short at the sight of flour exploding across the galley like a snowstorm, he crashes into me.
His hands automatically go to my waist to steady us both, and suddenly I'm pressed against his chest, flour-dusted and breathing hard.
