Page 9 of Yearn
“Perfect.” I glanced at the silver tray on the counter.
Small porcelain spoons gleamed, each holding a perfect bite of seared ahi tuna cubes rolled in sesame, crowned with avocado mousse and a thin ribbon of cucumber.
Clean protein, light on oil, just enough citrus to wake the tongue.
It was beautiful and restrained but decadent.
Exactly what she deserved.
“I’ll finish up her first cocktail.” Chef Marco vanished back into the kitchen.
I took a breath, forcing myself to steady. The boys were lined up by the door, clutching their cards, petals glittering around their polished shoes.
The house smelled faintly of lemon polish, fresh roses, and now—the sharp bite of seared fish layered with citrus and salt.
And underneath it all, the thought clawed at me again.
Will she think this is too much coming from me? Will this scare her?
But then Oliver grinned my way, gap-toothed and bright.
J fiddled with their bow tie but stood straighter, braver than they’d felt two minutes ago.
No. This won’t scare her. She won’t think I’m weird.
Because love, real love—the kind Scott had never once given her—wasn’t loud or complicated. It was in the details. It was in the care. It was in the tuna bite waiting on the tray, in the roses lining the hall, in her children waiting to burst her heart wide open.
And tonight, every detail was mine.
I turned toward the window just as headlights swept across the living room wall.
She’s here.
I watched her get out of the car with her phone pressed to her ear. Her shoulders were tight with exhaustion.
Yet. . .even bone-tired, she moved like temptation poured into flesh. Every curve under that work dress was an anatomy lesson my hands ached to study, every line of her body etched into me like muscle memory.
Fuck. . .
One glimpse of her bare throat when she tilted her head, and my body betrayed me all over again—an involuntary reflex, as if she were the fever and I the patient gasping for a cure.
The boys are here. Hold it together.
I clenched my fists to keep from reaching for her, pressing nails into my palms like sutures holding me together. Around the boys, I had to disguise it, force the diagnosis into a smile, pretend I wasn’t trembling for the medicine of her touch.
God, if J and Oliver weren’t there, I would have pressed her against the front door and tasted every inch of her exhaustion until she melted in my hands.
Her voice carried through the open window and was laced with frustration. “Scott hired every divorce lawyer in town just so I couldn’t get one. He’s playing war games with my life, Cynthia. I don’t know what to do.”
My jaw clenched.
That fucking bastard.
Since she kicked him out, Scott had been ten steps ahead at being a piece of shit, cutting her off at the knees not out of love, but out of terror at losing control. And here I was, aching to be the one who freed her—from his chains, from her exhaustion, from the lie that she had to carry everything alone.
Sighing, I turned back to the boys, forcing a smile over the fury boiling in my gut. “Okay. Don’t let me down.”
They grinned, eager, pure. “We won’t, Dom.”
