Page 24 of Our Bay Will Come

Morning filters through Prue's curtains, painting stripes across her bare shoulder. I've been awake for twenty minutes already, just watching her breathe. Seeing her like this feels like a privilege—guard down, face soft with sleep, no witty comebacks or carefully constructed walls.

"You're still staring," she murmurs without opening her eyes, her voice rough with sleep.

"Still hard not to." I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek.

She stretches like a cat, all long limbs and satisfied sighs, before finally looking at me. "What time is it?"

"Early. Not quite seven."

"Mmm." She rolls toward me, fitting herself against my side like she's been doing it for years instead of hours. "Do you always wake up at the crack of dawn?"

"Construction habits." I press my lips to her forehead. "Plus, there's this woman in my bed. Makes it hard to sleep."

She snorts, pinching my side playfully. "Technically, you're in my bed."

"Details."

We lie there, trading lazy kisses and lighter touches until my stomach growls loudly enough to make her laugh.

"Breakfast?" she asks.

"I make a mean omelet."

"Prove it." She slides out of bed, grabs my t-shirt from the floor, and pulls it over her head. It hangs to mid-thigh, and something primal stirs in me at the sight of her in my clothes.

In her kitchen, we move around each other like we've choreographed it—her reaching for coffee grounds while I find eggs in the refrigerator, me asking for a whisk while she's already pulling open the drawer where it's kept. It feels domestic. It feels dangerous.

"So," she says, hopping onto the counter beside where I'm chopping peppers, "Cedar Bay."

I glance up at her. "Cedar Bay."

"Tell me more about it. What would I see if I came to visit?"

"Besides my bedroom ceiling?" I deadpan, and she kicks at me gently.

"I'm serious, Fox. I didn’t see much of it the last time I was there."

I pause, knife hovering over the cutting board. "It's quiet. It's nothing like Seattle. We've got one main street with shops that close by eight, a harbor full of boats that have seen better days, and the best damn sunsets you'll ever see over the water."

"Sounds peaceful."

"It is." I resume chopping. "My family's bakery's been there since my great-grandfather built it. It has the same brick oven and the same recipes. On Saturdays, there's a line out the door for my mom's cinnamon rolls."

"And where do you fit in all this small-town charm?"

I shrug. "I fix things––houses, mostly. Some commercial renovations when the work comes in."

"A man of many talents," she muses, stealing a piece of bell pepper.

"You don't know the half of it." I wink, and she rolls her eyes, but the blush creeping up her neck tells me she's remembering exactly what talents I demonstrated last night.

After breakfast, we shower together, which leads to her pressed against the tile wall, legs wrapped around my waist, both of us gasping as the hot water beats down on us. When we make it out, we're pruny, satisfied, and running late.

"I really do have to get some work done today," she says as I help her zip up her dress—the same one I carefully unzipped last night. "Client meeting at one."

"I should call Rowan's anyway. Check on the renovation plans."

She turns, looping her arms around my neck. "When do you go back? To Cedar Bay."

---