The problem: I know almost nothing about cooking.
I pad into the kitchen, surveying my options—bread, eggs, a pan that looks like it’s seen battle. How hard can toast and eggs be? People do it all the time without supervision.
Five minutes later, smoke curls from the pan, and I’m waving a dishtowel like a flag of surrender.
“That’s a bold aroma for first thing in the morning,” a familiar voice drawls.
I whirl to find Nyxx leaning against the doorway, bare-chested, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair still damp from a shower. Sunlight hits his intoxicating eyes just right—blue and gold flashing like they’re laughing at me.
“I was attempting breakfast,” I announce primly. “Apparently, it’s an acquired skill.”
“Looks more like you were trying to summon a demon.” He saunters in, plucks the spatula from my hand, and surveys the carnage with exaggerated gravity. “You know, most people start smaller. Like cereal.”
“I don’tdocereal. It gets soggy.”
“Tragic,” he says solemnly, reaching past me to kill the burner. The move brings him close enough that the heat of his skin ghosts across my bare arm. I freeze, breath tangling in my throat.
He notices, of course. His smile softens, losing the teasing edge. “Relax, princess. I’m just rescuing your cookware.”
“I’m perfectly relaxed,” I lie.
“Sure,” he says, and the smile that follows is wicked enough to make my knees reconsider their purpose.
We manage breakfast together—his hands guiding mine as I scramble eggs under his amused supervision. It shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does. Every brush of his fingers sends tiny sparks skittering across my skin.
When we finally sit down with two slightly overcooked omelets, he raises his fork like a toast. “To culinary miracles.”
I roll my eyes but clink my fork against his anyway. “To not burning down the cottage.”
For a moment, it’s easy. Comfortable. Like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Then, my phone buzzes on the table. One glance at the caller ID knots my stomach.
Nyxx catches the change on my face immediately. “Everything okay?”
“I—yeah. I should take this.”
He nods, starts clearing plates, giving me space. I step toward the window and answer, bracing myself.
“Hello, Mother.”
Chapter Ten
Nyxx
The scent of coffee and burned toast still lingers in the cottage as Ana stands at the window, phone pressed to her ear. Sunlight catches in her hair, but the smile from earlier has morphed into a flat line.
“Yes, Mother, I know it’s been a few days.” Her voice goes low, careful—like she’s afraid the sound might shatter something fragile.
I’m at the sink rinsing dishes, but her stiff, careful tone makes me freeze.
“I told you, I needed some time to work on my new composition, and I need to prep for the International Philharmonic Exchange Committee audition. My manager thought taking time off was agood idea.” Ana’s voice is strained, almost pleading. Anger jolts through me that she feels the need to validate her decision by saying it was someone else’s idea.
I turn off the water, not feeling even a pang of guilt for eavesdropping, so it’s easy for me to hear her mother’s side of the conversation.
“Anastasia Eloise Ashcroft, do you have any idea what you’re jeopardizing with this little… vacation of yours?” The voice on the other end is shrill enough to scrape paint. “The New York Philharmonic doesn’t wait for flighty artists to ‘find themselves’ or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”
Ana’s shoulders tighten, every word from her mother landing like a lash.
