Page 35 of At First Flight
I should be in my office. A contract waits for my signature, a dozen emails need a response, and the quarterly report won’t read itself. Instead, I find myself leaning against the doorframe like some smitten fool, just watching her rinse out plastic cups and stack them neatly on the drying rack.
She moves with ease now. The way she sways on her toes and wipes down the counter with a flick of her wrist is all muscle memory. Habit. Like she’s always belonged here. Like this house remembers how to breathe again because she walked in and opened every damn window.
I step into the kitchen quietly, not wanting to startle her, but she turns just as I reach for a dish towel.
“You stalking me again?” she asks with no edge in her voice, only warmth. Amusement. Maybe even something softer, hidden in the corner of her smile.
I grab a bowl from the drying rack and start towel-drying it, letting the silence stretch for a beat before answering. “Just here to help.”
Her brows rise. “Really? Dean Harrington drying dishes? Should I be worried about the structural integrity of the universe?”
I laugh, and it comes easier than I expect. “Don’t let the billionaire title fool you. I know how to load a dishwasher, and I make a mean mac and cheese.”
She hums thoughtfully. “I’ll believe the mac and cheese when I taste it.”
I nudge her gently with my elbow as we work side by side. Not touching, not really. Just close enough that I can smell her faint floral shampoo and see the little splash of flour still dusted near her collarbone.
“How’s the first couple of days been?” I ask after a moment, keeping my tone casual. “You settling in okay?”
She leans her hip against the counter, drying her hands slowly on a towel. “Yeah. I mean… yeah. It’s a lot but in a good way. The kids are amazing. This house is starting to feel less like a guest room and more like a home.”
I nod, trying not to show how much that means to me. That she’s letting it happen. Letting us in.
“And you?” she adds, her voice quiet now. “Is this working for you?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because I haven’t thought about it but because I have. Constantly. And not just in terms of logistics. But in ways I haven’t let myself say aloud.
“You’re great with them,” I say. “Better than I even hoped for. Evelyn asks for you the second she wakes up. Oliver doesn’t stop talking about your science facts.”
She chuckles, but a hint of a blush rises on her cheeks. “I think they just like that I don’t mind getting messy with them.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But it’s more than that. You see them.”
Lila’s lips part like she’s about to deflect the compliment, but I don’t let her. I set the bowl down and turn toward her fully.
“You see them for who they are, not just who they’re supposed to be. That matters.”
She’s still for a long moment, eyes locked with mine. There’s something in her gaze, something raw and vulnerable and aching with the weight of old wounds. And I want to ask. I want to know what put that look in her eyes. But I also know it’s too soon.
So instead, I reach for the dish towel again, giving her the space she doesn’t ask for but clearly needs.
She takes a steady breath. “I never thought I’d want to do this, you know? The kid stuff. The routines. The chaos. I did enough of it growing up. But… there’s something about your kids. Something about this place.”
She doesn’t finish the thought. She doesn’t have to.
The air thickens between us, charged and warm, humming with things left unsaid. And I swear, if I took one step closer, I could see whether that look in her eyes is just exhaustion or if she feels this attraction growing between us too.
But I don’t.
Instead, I offer her the smallest smile and reach up to flick a bit of batter from her cheek.
“You missed a spot.”
She blinks, startled, then lets out a soft laugh. “Pancake battle scar.”
I should step back. I don’t. And neither does she.
We stand there, close enough to count the faint freckles on her nose, her gaze flicking to my mouth for a fraction of a second too long. But then the baby monitor crackles to life with Evelyn’s soft, sleepy murmurs, and the spell breaks.
