Page 113 of At First Flight
“You like it.”
And dammit—I do.
Something about this moment feels more intimate than anything else we’ve shared. He could’ve looked away. Could’ve made a joke and left. Instead, he brushes a knuckle across the foggy glass, right where my shoulder is, and lingers there.
“You staying in there all morning?” he asks.
“Tempting.”
“Well, if you get cold, I’m making pancakes.”
He winks, and I bite back a smile.
A few minutes later, I shut off the water and step out, towel wrapped around me, hair dripping. The house is quiet, strangely so. The kids must still be asleep, probably worn out from the farm yesterday. That buys us the rare luxury of time.
I check my phone quickly and immediately read the headline about the Hoolihans being arrested under multiple charges of homicide and embezzlement. Whomever Marin hired didn’t hold back with the charges. I only wish it was worse for them after everything they’ve put people through.
Closing the screen I sigh, wondering what all this means for me. If the fear of retaliation will fizzle away or if it will haunt me until my last breath.
By the time I get to the kitchen, the smell of coffee and frying batter hits me in the best way. Dean stands at the stove, spatula in hand, shirt still absent, his back flexing as he flips a pancake with practiced ease. Music hums from the phone resting on the windowsill—something low and sultry. Etta James, maybe.
He turns as I enter, eyes roaming lazily over me in his T-shirt and a pair of borrowed sleep shorts. His smile softens.
“Perfect timing. First batch is done.”
“I could get used to this.”
He hands me a steaming mug of coffee, his fingers brushing mine in that way that makes it hard to focus on anything but touch. Then he leans in and kisses me, a simple press of lips that somehow carries the weight of everything we’ve left unsaid.
As I reach for a plate, his hand circles my wrist.
“Dance with me.”
I blink. “Now?”
He pulls me close, setting the plate aside. “Right now.”
And maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the steam still clinging to my skin or the way his eyes soften when they look at me like I’m something fragile and rare, but I say yes.
His hand slides to my waist, the other holding mine gently, thumb brushing back and forth. We sway, slow and easy. The world melts away until it’s just the two of us in the soft morning light, dancing barefoot in the kitchen like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
Dean leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You know… I’ve never wanted anything the way I want this.”
My chest tightens. “Dancing?”
“This. Us. All of it.”
I rest my head against his shoulder, letting myself fall into the rhythm of the music. Into the quiet certainty of his arms. Dean’s hand slides around my waist, pulling me closer until barely a whisper is between us. The kitchen is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio. I can’t remember the last time I danced like this. Maybe never. At least not in a kitchen with a man like Dean, barefoot, sleepy-eyed, and smiling at me like I’m his entire world.
His palm presses gently against the small of my back, fingers flexing like he’s memorizing the shape of me. “You know,” he murmurs, eyes locked with mine, “you’ve got a bad habit of making this place feel like home.”
I swallow hard, heart thumping with a rhythm that has nothing to do with the song. “It’s the pancakes,” I joke weakly, but my voice cracks at the edges.
He chuckles, deep and low. “It’s everything. It’s you.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Not without giving myself away. So I lean my head against his chest again and let the music carry us. It’s slow and sweet, the kind of moment I didn’t realize I was desperate for until I was standing in the middle of it. The sunlight slips in through the windows, casting golden beams across the floor like something out of a dream.
We keep swaying, and it’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. More than sex. More than whispered promises. This is real. Uncomplicated. Safe.
