I roll my eyes.
Me:I’m not discussing this. I have to get ready for my audition. Goodbye, Irina.
Irina:Good luck today at auditions, though I can think of one thing I would be doing all day long on my honeymoon rather than going to an audition. And he’s conveniently right across the hall.
I drop the phone back on the nightstand and dangle my legs off the bed. My bare feet hit the cool floor, and I shiver, the reality of everything pressing in at once.
A brand new city, a marriage certificate, and my father on the other side of the world, waiting for me to show up in Russia, willing to marry whoever will do his bidding.
I pull on my cream silk robe, one of the few luxuries I allowed myself to pack from my old life, and tie the belt tight. The ring flashes again as I knot it, catching on the light.
It feels wrong and right at the same time.
Like it’s been waiting for my hand, and also like it belongs to someone else entirely.
I’m already starting to like the weight. Dangerous.
Music drifts down the hall. Something light and easy, mixed with the sizzle of… is that bacon?
My stomach answers before my brain does. Butter and maple syrup and coffee wrap around me before I even clear my bedroom door.
I follow my nose, the hem of my robe whispering over the floor.
The penthouse opens up in front of me as I step out of the hallway—an office tucked to the right, dining room and a huge terrace to the left, living room and kitchen stretching forward in one big, airy space that screams Haynes money and the kind of entertaining life my mother used to host but never enjoy.
But none of that holds my attention.
What holds my attention is the six-foot-two man at the stove who hasn’t realized I’m here yet.
Scottie stands in front of the range in loose sweatpants riding low on his hips, barefoot, with an apron tied around his neck and waist.
He’s swaying with the music as he flips bacon, shoulders moving, back muscles shifting under warm skin. His hair is damp and curling at the ends, where he clearly towel-dried it and gave up. Faint lines mark his left shoulder and along his side—old scars, the kind that come from years of impact and injury. A tattoo spans his upper back, dark ink over solid muscle, something I definitely didn’t notice last night.
To be fair, I was preoccupied with… other things.
The counter looks like a brunch bomb went off.
Pancakes stacked high. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Sausage. A huge bowl of cut fruit. Hash browns, toast and jam, orange juice, and a full carafe of coffee. Half of the breakfast section of a cookbook lay out on one island.
He’s feeding half the team.
“Morning,” he says, without turning around.
I blink. “How did you know I was here?”
“You’re not exactly stealthy in those slippers,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. The grin is already forming. “Morning, wife.”
The word sparks when it hits me.
Not like a sting.
More like the feeling of hot shower water hitting you after a long day.
“Good morning,” I manage.
I drag my eyes off his shoulders and focus on the chaos of food. “What… is all of this?”
“Breakfast,” he says, like I’m the one being ridiculous. He switches off the burner and sets the pan aside. Then he turns to face me fully.
