And I promised myself I’d never feel that way about someone again.
I rub both hands down my face, shove off the door, and promise myself I’ll be a better man tomorrow.
Warm vanilla, golden and soft. Butter browning in a pan. There’s music, too—Sandro René, of course—bright, poppy, electric, crooning about bright lights and summer nights, the plastic gods of the modern age. I follow both, half-asleep and barefoot, into a house that suddenly feels like it’s been lived in.
And then I see her.
Lucy, at the stove, dancing—or something close to it. One foot planted, the other in a boot, her crutch tucked loosely under her arm. She sways with the rhythm, hips tilting in a pair of pajama shorts that show a whole lottaleg, tank top slipping off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head like a storm held back by pins and hope.
She is light and movement and pancakes in the morning.
She’s alsonot. mine.
Still, I pause in the doorway, every cell in my body suddenlyaware. The way the early sun kisses her skin. The curve of her spine as she leans to flip something in the pan.
She doesn’t notice me until I clear my throat.
She jumps a little, then grins. “Morning, Doc.”
She’s trying to be breezy. But there’s a flicker behind her eyes—awareness, hesitation—that makes my gut clench. I kissed her last night—and she kissed me back—and now she’s here, barefoot in my kitchen and I have to go back to being Dr. Kincaid. Cool. Calm. Detached.
“Morning,” I manage, voice still rough from sleep and memory. I go for coffee. Strong. Scalding. Something to burn away the memory of her lips on mine.
“I made breakfast,” Lucy says. “Kind of a thank-you-slash-peace-offering.”
“Thank you?” I lift a brow. “For what?”
“For giving me an actual bed in an actual room with an actual door.” She smiles, flipping another pancake. “I forgot what it felt like to sleep well. God bless Stella for letting me stay for as long as she did, but if I never have to see that couch again it will be too soon. And, just for the record, this is kind of a big deal. I rarely make it out of bed before ten. So this?” She waves her spatula. “Special.”
I almost laugh, but something in my chest is twisted too tight.
The silence around the kiss is louder than her chatter. I set the coffee down harder than I mean to.
Lucy glances at me, startled.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, leaning against the counter. “Nothing.”
“Nash.”
Her voice is soft but firm. The kind of voice that expects the truth.
I sigh. “Look, we need to talk about last night. That shouldn’t have happened.”
She blinks. “That’s part of the reason I wanted to be up before you left. To apologize.”
“You aren’t the one who needs to apologize. That was on me.” I cross my arms and wish I’d had more time to caffeinate. I’m barely functional in the mornings and this is a lot. “You’re living in my house.”
“And?”
“I’m significantly older than you.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re notthatold.”
“I’m thirty-six, Lucy.”
“And I’m twenty-six. We’re not talking about a high school sophomore and her gym teacher.”
