I look up. He's cutting his eggs, face blank, but his jaw is tight.
Two can play this game.
I shift in my seat. Let my knee press against his and stay there. Watch color climb his neck.
"Lucy?" Emma's voice cuts through the tension. "Can you help me in the kitchen? Now?"
Not subtle. Ryder's mouth tips at one corner, and I want to trace that almost-smile with my tongue.
I follow Emma to the kitchen. She rounds on me the second we're alone.
"So." She crosses her arms. "That was interesting."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lulu. You both looked like you wanted to crawl under the table." She leans against the counter. "What happened?"
I close my eyes. "He walked in on me. Last night. In the bath."
Emma's eyes go wide. "He what?"
"The shared bathroom. He didn't knock, and I was—" Heat floods my face. "I was in the tub, and he just walked in and saw me."
"And?"
"And nothing. He left."
"Lucy." Emma's voice goes soft. "That was not nothing at breakfast. That was definitely something."
"I thought I was over him." The words tumble out. "I really did. It's been twelve years. I'm not some fifteen-year-old with a crush anymore."
"Maybe you didn't outgrow it." Emma reaches for my hand. "Maybe you just grew into someone he could finally see."
The words hit somewhere deep. I want to believe them.
"He's leaving in three weeks, Em. And Connor would kill us both."
"When was the last time you fought for something you wanted just because you wanted it?" She squeezes my hand. "Not for the shop. Not for the family. For you."
I don't have an answer.
By afternoon, the kitchen is a war zone of flour and sugar.
Cookie baking is a Wright family tradition—one Mom started when Connor and I were kids. Now Emma keeps it going, and none of us can say no without feeling like we're disappointing a ghost.
Dad's in his workshop. Connor's doing paperwork. And Ryder hovers by the door like he's planning an escape.
"You're staying," I tell him.
"I don't bake."
"You're about to learn." I hold out an apron. "Come on, Blackwood. Scared of a little flour?"
His eyes drop to where I'm tying my apron around my waist. Linger. Track up slowly to my face. "Not scared."
He takes the apron. Our fingers brush, and the same electric current from this morning shoots through me.
We work in comfortable chaos. Emma manages Maisie's "helping" which mostly involves eating dough and distributing sprinkles with wild abandon. Connor pops in to steal a cookie and gets smacked with a dish towel. And Ryder—
