The question makes my chest tight. Because no. God, no. Last night was perfect. But now we have to figure out how to exist in the same house, at the same breakfast table, pretending nothing's changed when everything has.
Me: "None. You?"
Ryder: "Not even one."
I'm smiling at my phone like a teenager when someone knocks.
"Lucy?" Emma's voice through the door. "You coming down for breakfast?"
I scramble upright, shoving the phone under my pillow. "Yeah! Be right there!"
"Connor made pancakes. Better hurry before they're gone."
Her footsteps retreat, and I exhale. This is fine. I can do this. I can sit at a table with Ryder and Connor and Emma and act completely normal.
Except I've never been good at lying.
The kitchen smells like butter and maple syrup when I finally make it downstairs. Connor's at the stove, flipping pancakes with the same focus he brings to everything. Emma's at the table with coffee and her phone. And Ryder—
Ryder's leaning against the counter, showered and dressed, looking completely unfair in a navy henley that makes his eyes even bluer.
He glances up when I enter. Our eyes catch. Hold. Something electric passes between us before I force myself to look away.
"Morning," I say, aiming for casual.
"Morning." Connor plates another pancake. "Sleep okay?"
"Great." The lie comes too quick, too bright. "Really great."
Emma smirks into her coffee.
I grab a mug and pour, hyperaware of Ryder behind me. When I turn to reach for the milk, we nearly collide. His hand steadies my elbow. Just that small touch—his fingers on my arm—sends heat racing through me.
"Sorry," he says, voice low.
"It's fine."
We stand there a beat too long. Close enough that I can smell his soap. See the faint shadow of stubble he missed shaving. Remember exactly what that stubble felt like against my skin.
"Pancakes are ready," Connor announces.
I step away quickly, taking my coffee to the table. Ryder follows a moment later, sitting diagonally from me. Safe distance. Appropriate distance.
Except his foot finds mine under the table.
I freeze, mug halfway to my lips. He's looking at his plate, cutting pancakes, expression perfectly neutral. But his foot presses against mine—deliberate, warm—and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
"So what's everyone doing today?" Emma asks.
"Shop inventory," I say. "Year-end counts."
"I'll help," Ryder offers immediately.
Connor looks up. "I thought we were going to work on the deck railing?"
"I can do both." Ryder shrugs. "Help Lucy this morning, work on the railing this afternoon."
"Since when do you care about bookshop inventory?"
