We stay like that—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air—until the tension shifts from desperate to tender. Then he kisses me once more and sets me gently off his lap.
"Inventory," he says firmly.
"Inventory," I agree.
We work side by side for the next two hours. It's domestic and normal and perfect. He counts. I enter numbers. We argue about my organizational system. He makes me laugh by finding increasingly ridiculous book titles.
"Listen to this one," he says, holding up a romance novel. "'The Duke's Forbidden Christmas.'"
"It's a classic."
"It's absurd."
"You're absurd." I snatch the book from him. "And you're in the wrong section. This goes in historical, not contemporary."
"They all look the same to me."
"Philistine."
He grins and pulls me close for a quick kiss. "Your philistine."
The words settle warm in my chest. Dangerous words. Claiming words.
But I don't correct him.
We finish the inventory around two. Ryder heads back to help Connor with the deck, and I spend the afternoon doing paperwork and trying not to think about tonight. About whether we'll find another excuse to be alone. About how dangerous this is becoming.
By the time I close up the shop and head home for dinner, my nerves are strung tight with anticipation. Connor's truck is in the driveway. So is Ryder's. Emma's car sits beside them, meaning we'll all be together for another meal of carefully maintained pretense.
Dinner is easier than breakfast, though. Connor's exhausted from working on the deck all afternoon and barely talks. Emma carries most of the conversation, telling stories about her students. Ryder and I are careful not to look at each other too much, not to let our hands brush when passing dishes.
We're getting better at this. More practiced.
I'm not sure if that's good or terrifying.
After dinner, Connor disappears to his room with his laptop. Emma settles in the living room with a book. I retreat upstairs, shower, and try to read in bed. But the words blur together. All I can think about is Ryder on the other side of that bathroom door.
When my phone screen illuminates the darkness hours later, I'm still awake.
Ryder: "You awake?"
Me: "Yeah."
Ryder: "Come to my room?"
My heart hammers. We shouldn't. It's too risky. Connor's just down the hall. One wrong sound, one creaky floorboard, and everything explodes.
Me: "Connor will hear."
Ryder: "We'll be quiet."
Me: "That's what we said last time."
Ryder: "And we were. Mostly."
I bite my lip, considering. Every logical part of me screams this is a bad idea. But the rest of me—the part that's still humming from this morning's kisses, from last night's cabin—wants him too much to care.
Me: "Five minutes."
