Then Ethan lets out a low, winded laugh against my neck.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice rough, “that’s one way to start a day.”
I swat his shoulder—weakly, because my fingers are still trembling. “You scared a year off my life. I thought you were still asleep.”
“Yeah?” He nuzzles my jaw, smug. “And here I was thinking I woke up to coffee. Turns out I woke up to you calling me emotionally constipated.”
I groan. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“Oh, I heard it,” he says, pulling back enough to look at me. His eyes are warm, amused, still a little dark from what we just did. “I’ll recover. Eventually.”
I snort, cheeks flushed. “You? Recovering? You’re the most dramatic non-dramatic man I’ve ever met.”
“Well, I had to defend my honor.” He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. “Fairies, lumberjacks… emotionally constipated. I’m getting hit from all sides.”
I giggle—actually giggle—and he smiles like it’s his new favorite sound.
He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “You okay?”
I nod, letting my fingers trail down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under my touch. “Yeah. Better than okay.”
Ethan exhales softly, almost a sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’m gonna need about five minutes before I can pretend I’m functional again.”
I grin, dropping my forehead to his. “Five minutes? Wow. I must’ve really done some damage.”
He gives me that slow, dangerous half-smile. “Lucky… you have no idea.”
I kiss him, soft and lingering, and he wraps his arms around me again—strong, safe, a little breathless.
The world outside is still quiet.
The lake is still shining.
And for the first time in a long time, so am I.
Chapter 29
Ethan
Lucky’spacingagain.
Not the usual restless Lucky—lounging on counters, making chaos out of folded laundry, humming under her breath when she thinks I’m not listening.
No.
This is sharp pacing. Tight shoulders. Hands shaking just enough that only someone like me would catch it.
She just got a text message from Bank’s asking her to phone him urgently. Either he has news on the stalker, or…
She’s clutching her phone like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic.
“Put it on speaker,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, chewing her lip, then taps the screen.
Banks’ voice fills the kitchen—strained, breathless but trying hard to pretend he’s fine. “Lu, sweetheart, I don’t want you freaking out, okay? I’m good. I’m handling it. But, uh… Jett Langford’s guys came by.”
My spine goes steel.
