“Sit, Daisy,” he grumbles as he sets the plates down. “And stop vibrating.”
“I’m not vibrating! I’m radiating joy!” she fires back, stealing a strip of bacon before he can even sit.
Silas sighs and drops into his chair.
“Someone kill me,” he mutters into his coffee.
But when Daisy gets powdered sugar on her nose, he’s the first to reach out with a napkin and wipe it away—so natural, so gentle, I can’t help but smile.
It’s a sweet moment.
Lucy blushes every time Lars passes her the butter.
Cohen sits beside me, his thigh pressed against mine, his hand occasionally brushing my back in a possessive way that makes me feel… grounded.
For a second, I let myself pretend it could be this simple.
That we could just be a bunch of misfits in a mountain lodge, eating breakfast and laughing.
Then a shadow falls over the table.
A shadow that smells like expensive perfume and judgment.
Tiffany.
Ugh.
She stops behind my chair, done up like she’s heading for a red carpet. Brent trails behind her like a leashed puppy, already scrolling through emails.
“Sloane,” she says in that syrupy-fake voice of hers. “I see you went with the…Sunday Desperate Housewifelook. Bold choice. Very… authentic.”
I feel Cohen tense beside me.
I’m about to fire back with something sharp and colorful, but he beats me to it.
His arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me in, and he kisses my temple—loudly.
“Actually,” Cohen says, meeting Tiffany’s gaze with a lazy, self-satisfied smile, “it’s not a style choice. It’s my fault. I didn’t let her out of bed until ten minutes ago. And trust me—it was worth being late.”
The entire table erupts.
Silas lets out a low, appreciative whistle.
Daisy claps like she’s at a fireworks show.
Tiffany turns purple, sputters like a goldfish, and drags poor Brent away toward the Perfects’ table.
I look at Cohen.
He winks.
My heart does a stupid little somersault.
I feel… protected.
It’s strange.
I feel wanted.
