I chuckle, rolling to the side so I can pull her against my chest. “Stay here. I’ll make breakfast.”
She props herself on one elbow, hair falling over her shoulder like a dark curtain. “You cook?”
“I manage.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “Pancakes. Coffee. Bacon if you’re lucky.”
Her smile falters for half a second as something flickers behind her eyes, quick and shadowed, but she covers it with a small laugh. “Sounds perfect.”
I pull on boxers and walk over to the tiny kitchen. The cottage is still dim, morning light soft and golden through the windows. I find flour, eggs, and milk in the fridge. I mix pancake batter while coffee brews in the ancient percolator. The sizzle of bacon fills the air soon after. It feels domestic. Right. Like something we could do every morning if she’d let herself imagine it.
She emerges a few minutes later wearing my discarded T-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The sight of her in my clothes, swimming in fabric that smells like me, makes my chest ache.
“Smells amazing,” she says, sliding onto a stool at the counter.
I plate fluffy pancakes, crisp bacon, and pour coffee into mismatched mugs. We eat in comfortable silence at first, knees brushing under the narrow counter. Then she speaks.
“Last night was… intense.”
I set my fork down. “Yeah. It was.”
She traces the rim of her mug with one finger.
I reach across the counter and cover her hand with mine. I can’t hide the way I feel about her. I want to tell her I love her,but I know that would scare her off for sure. “I’ve never felt this way before. I could make love to you day and night for the rest of my life.”
She nods, but the shadow in her eyes doesn’t quite lift. She pulls her hand back gently, stands, and carries her plate to the sink.
“I should shower,” she says. “I’ve got a call with a client later today. I have a deadline creeping up.”
I watch her disappear down the short hallway. The bathroom door clicks shut. Water starts running.
I sit there staring at my half-eaten pancakes, my appetite suddenly gone.
She’s pulling away again. Not completely, but enough that I feel the distance like cold air slipping under a closed door.
I clean up quietly. Washing the dishes, wiping counters, rinsing the coffee pot. When she comes out, her hair damp and wrapped in a towel, skin flushed from hot water, she gives me a small, careful smile.
“Thanks for breakfast. It was really good.”
“Anytime.” I dry my hands on a dish towel. “You want me to stick around? I can wait while you work.”
She hesitates. “You don’t have to do that. I think I need a little space today. Just to focus. I’ll call you later?”
I nod. “Yeah. Whenever you’re ready.”
She steps close, rises on her toes, and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “Thank you, Jake.”
I watch her walk to the bedroom to dress. When the door closes behind her, I let out a long breath. She’s scared, I know that, but knowing doesn’t make her retreat hurt less.
I grab my keys, lock up behind me, and head back to the shop.
The day stretches long and quiet. I stock shelves. Help tourists. Answer the same questions I’ve answered a thousandtimes. But my mind stays in that cottage, on the way she smiled in sleep, on the way she pulled her hand back at breakfast, on the careful distance she’s rebuilding brick by careful brick.
When evening comes, and my phone stays silent, I don’t text her. I give her the space she asked for. I wait.
7
GRACE
The phone buzzes on the nightstand while I’m still damp from the second shower of the day, towel knotted loosely around me, hair dripping cold trails down my back. I almost ignore it, but some small, uneasy instinct makes me glance at the screen.
