I trembled with wanting, pressing against him. “Yes, all right, I’m convinced.” I kissed him, rising on my toes, my hands sliding up his chest. He tasted like the wine we’d shared at dinner — warm and slightly sweet. His grip on my waist tightened, pulling me closer, and I felt him smile against my mouth.
“Okay, that’s better,” he murmured.
I laughed softly, muffling the sound against his shoulder. “Shh. The girls.”
“Right. Quiet.” But his hands were already moving, fingers trailing up my spine, finding the zipper at the back of my dress. “I can be quiet.”
“Can you?” I pulled back just enough to look at him, catching the gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“Guess we’ll find out.”
The dress slipped from my shoulders and pooled at my feet. His breath caught, and for a moment he just looked at me — not with judgment or comparison but pure appreciation, like nothing had ever pleased him more.
“God, Lila,” he whispered, and then his mouth was on mine again, deeper this time, more urgent.
We moved toward the bed in fits and starts, stopping to kiss, to touch, to learn the shape of each other. His shirt came off. Then his belt. My hands shook as I worked the buttons, and he covered them with his own, steadying me.
“No rush,” he said against my temple.
But it felt that way. Years of loneliness, longing, and the desperate need to be close to someone who actually saw me and chose me — someone who wouldn’t leave me for someone else — made me dizzy with wanting.
When we finally tumbled onto the bed, sheets cool against overheated skin, I had to bite down on my lip to keep from making noise. He noticed and kissed me harder, swallowing the sounds I couldn’t quite hold back.
“Quiet,” he reminded me, his voice rough with amusement and need.
“You’re not helping,” I managed, breathless.
His laugh was low and wicked. “Good.”
Later, we lay tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy, absent patterns on my shoulder. The cottage had gone completely still. Even the ocean seemed to have quieted.
“You okay?” he whispered.
I nodded against his chest. “Yeah. You?”
“Better than okay.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
“Thanks for not minding my stretch marks.”
He shifted, bending his arm, resting his chin in his hand as he looked down at me. “Your stretch marks came from bringing a beautiful soul into this world. They brought Mia. How could I ever see them as anything but jewels?”
“Oh, Vance.” Tears pricked my eyes. “How do you know just what to say?”
“You bring out the best in me. Truly.” He kissed me. “Thank you for sharing yourself with me tonight. For letting me love you the way you should be loved.”
“You did that, Vance Prescott. Without a doubt.”
I turned on my side, and he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close until our breathing fell into sync. We fell asleep, spent and content.
And to think—tomorrow was another day. Another day with Vance in my life. No matter what happened at work, I would come home to him and the girls. That thought felt like grace. More than enough.
The next morning, the house was quiet except for the cry of gulls outside and the faint hum of the coffee maker. Sunlight spilled through the curtains, striping the counters in gold. I found Vance in my kitchen, barefoot, hair tousled, cooking breakfast.
It was still hard to believe that, only a few weeks ago, I couldn’t have imagined any of this. Not the bedroom antics or the morning after. Or that it would feel so natural. Last night had been perfect. Peaceful, tender, grounding. Vance was a dream. Part of me still waited for the other shoe to drop, like it had so many times before, yet I’d decided to risk it all. I’d decided to trust him. And this morning, watching him quietly preparingeggs while Margot and Mia slept upstairs, I felt something dangerously close to joy.
Apparently, he also knew how to make the perfect soft-boiled egg. He set it before me, all creamy deliciousness, with a side of fresh strawberries and a crisp English muffin dripping with butter. “You put just the right amount of butter on it,” I said, before taking a bite.
We sat together at the island, our thighs touching as we ate and sipped dark roast coffee. Even coffee tasted better with him in my kitchen.
