He picks up his fork, takes a bite, and his eyebrows rise. “This is really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you—culinary excellence.”
“You did.” Another bite, slower this time, savoring. “My compliments to the chef.”
Something warm blooms in my chest at the simple praise. When was the last time someone complimented me on something I actuallydidrather than how I looked doing it?
“So,” I say, after a few minutes of companionable silence as we eat. “You mentioned being out on the water early. You have a boat?”
Judah’s eyes light up as he pulls out his phone.”The Second Chance.Been in my family going on thirty years now. The day she gets retired is going to feel like losing the family dog.”
He turns the phone toward me, and I lean in to look.
The boat is weathered, but obviously meticulously maintained. The name on the side perfectly crisp, as if the letters have been recently repainted. “Beautiful.”
“My father bought her the year I was born. Taught me to pilot her before I could ride a bike. Mabie loves being on boats, but she’s less enthused about the fishing.” His thumb traces the edge of the phone screen, unconscious affection in the gesture. “The industry isn’t what it used to be, but it’s hard to imagine doing anything else.”
“You’re lucky to have a purpose,” I say, the words slipping out before I can consider them.
He looks at me then, really looks, and I feel suddenly exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my rumpled clothes I’m wearing or the heat still simmering beneath my skin.
“Everyone has something,” he says quietly. “Sometimes it just takes a while to find it.”
The moment stretches, weighted with possibility. I’m acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how easy it would be to?—
“Phoenix?”
My head snaps toward the kitchen doorway.
Mason stands frozen on the threshold, one hand raised like he was about to knock on a door that isn’t there. His hair is disheveled from sleep, his glasses slightly crooked, and he’s wearing a wrinkled oxford shirt that I’m pretty sure he slept in.
He looks beautiful. But wrecked. As he surveys Judah and I, there is an expression on his face that makes my stomach drop.
Judah has gone completely still beside me. The warmth that animated his face moments ago has vanished, replaced by a careful blankness that is completely impossible to read.
“Good morning,” Mason says, voice wavering so slightly that I’m probably the only one who notices it. “What are you doing?”
Judah doesn’t say anything, but the wood creaks as he leans back in his chair.
“I made breakfast,” I offer, too brightly, desperate to defuse whatever tension is building. “Want an omelet?”
Mason’s gaze finally lands on me, posture rigid. “You should be resting.”
“My heat’s nearly over. I feel practically back to normal.” I push back from the table, ignoring the dull ache in my muscles that suggestspractically normalmight be a bit optimistic. “Just a little tired is all.”
“Phoenix—”
“I’m fine, Mason.” I reach out and touch his arm, hoping the contact will ground him the way it usually grounds me. “Really. You don’t need to worry.”
But he’s not looking at me anymore. His attention has drifted back to Judah, and there’s an edge in his gaze that I’ve never seen before. Pain. Longing. Fear. A decade of unspoken history compressed into a single glance.
And Judah looks back at him with careful blankness, but his hands clench into fists on the table.
Where the hell is all this tension coming from? Did something happen while I was distracted with my heat?
“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” Mason says abruptly, and his voice cracks on the last word.
I stare at him. “What?”
