I race down the stairs to find the girls huddled by the front door, palms clamped over their ears, and matching looks of horror on their faces.
‘It’s okay,’ I shout over the wailing alarm. ‘Open the front door. Let some air in and go play in the garden for a few minutes.’ I shoo them away from the thin wispy smoke wafting from the open-plan kitchen, switch off the stove, and open the kitchen windows as wide as they’ll go. Crisis averted. Well, apart from the hanger situation, anyway. The alarm will go off in a second or two.
Eden places a hand on the pastel pink front door and flings it open with enough force for to slam against the inside wall.
My mouth drops open.
Not because of the alarm, or the way the house shakes with the weight of the bang, but because the man who’s occupied my nearly every waking thought today is standing on the front step wearing a white, tight cut t-shirt, faded jeans, and an expression of concern in his deep navy eyes.
‘Ronan,’ I mouth. No point even trying to speak over this noise.
‘Everything okay?’ he shouts, his concerned gaze assessing the twins from head to toe before scanning the house behind me through the thinning smoke.
The breeze coming in the open front door does the trick. The alarm finally cuts out.
Ronan leads the girls out onto the lawn and crouches at their eye level. He says something inaudible before handing them a lollipop from his back pocket. They run off towards the swings and he darts inside, not waiting for an invite.
I grab a tea towel to swat away the lingering smoke smouldering from the pan, its contents charcoal black and still smoking.
Ronan surveys the remnants of dinner with an arched eyebrow. He’s standing so close to me that his bulky biceps brush my shoulder and his breath tickles my neck. I turn to him, blinking back the tears threatening my eyes.
Dinner is ruined, the kids are eating lollipops, there’s glass all over my bedroom floor and the entire house stinks of smoke. ‘Welcome to the mad house.’
The urge to kiss him consumes me. Nevermind the heat radiating from the cooker, the one burning me up from the inside out is far more lethal.
Our eyes fuse.
‘If you keep looking at me like that, Savannah, I’m going to lift you onto your kitchen counter and devour you.’ His gaze falls to my lips, and he brushes a thumb over my cupid’s bow.
‘After the day I’ve had, I might just let you.’ I slump forwards an inch. Strong arms reach for me, tugging me into his chest. He presses a tender kiss to my forehead. I inhale his familiar masculine scent, the base notes of his cologne mostly faded from the day.
‘I have a hundred emails I need to reply to, a synopsis to write, a fashion collection to sign off on, and I owe my subscribers a newsletter tonight too.’
‘Would it be a good time to tell you I brought dinner?’ His hands slide up my spine and across the backs of my shoulders, his fingers gently kneading the knots.
‘Are you serious?’ Is it possible my fairy godmother isn’tactually a godmother but this gorgeous god-like creature in front of me?
‘It’s just lasagne, but I made it myself. Stopped at the bakery on the way over and picked up a fresh loaf of sourdough smothered in garlic. There may or may not be a bottle of red wine in the hamper too.’
‘Are you hoping for a repeat from the other night? Because if you keep talking that way, you might just get it.’ I press my hips into his and slide my arms around his waist.
‘There’s a reason I didn’t bring dessert.’ His chuckle muffles across the top of my head. ‘It’ll need fifteen minutes in the oven to reheat it. Switch it on and I’ll go out to the car and fetch everything.’ His arms drop from my shoulders and he steps back without breaking our stare.
Something stirs in my chest. Gratitude. Relief. The rare sensation someone cares.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Because I heard you on the radio this morning.’ He extends his thumb like he’s about to make a list. ‘I wanted to do something to help take the pressure off.’ He extends his pointer finger.
His middle finger stretches outward. ‘Because it provided the perfect excuse to call to your house.’ His fourth finger extends. ‘Because I’m hoping after you’ve devoured dinner, you’ll let me devour you. And because after this weekend, I couldn’t stay away from you.’ His smallest finger supports his most significant admission.
‘I don’t want you to stay away from me.’ It’s barely more than a whisper.
‘You haven’t tasted my cooking yet.’ His lips curl in a teasing smile.
‘I did taste you, though.’ My stomach flips at the memory. ‘And that’s something I definitely want more of.’
His head twists towards the door, checking for any youngwitnesses, then his lips graze over mine in a teasing, fleeting kiss that sets my skin alight. ‘The feeling is mutual.’
