Page 19 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The mornings with Lila under my roof start with the scent of maple syrup and laughter. Not a bad combination.

I glance up from the financial report open on my laptop, the blue light from the screen casting a glow across the dark wood of my desk. I’m supposed to be focused on quarterly returns and partnership projections, but all I can hear is Evelyn’s squeal from the kitchen.

“More pancake, Lila!”

Her tiny voice carries through the hallway, bouncing off the walls of this new house like it’s always belonged here. I shut the laptop. Screw projections. For five minutes, I want to see what this house looks like with a little light in it.

I step out of the office barefoot, scratching at the stubble on my jaw. The hardwood is cool beneath my feet as I pad down the stairs toward the kitchen. The scent hits me before I reach the doorway—coffee, cinnamon, and something so warm it makes my chest ache.

She’s got Evelyn balanced on one hip, her brown hair wild with sleep. Remnants of syrup cause some hair to stick to her cheek. Lila is talking to her in a soft, animated voice while flipping pancakes one-handed.

“Do you think butterflies like pancakes?” Lila asks, clearly mid-conversation. “Maybe they prefer nectar, but who can resist maple syrup?”

Evelyn giggles and says something unintelligible around her thumb. Lila kisses the top of her head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she’s always been here.

And something in me settles. Softens.

She hasn’t been here long—five days, maybe six—but the difference is impossible to ignore.

The house is cleaner, sure, but not in a sterile way.

It’s lived-in. Dinosaur figurines are on the mantel, a crayon drawing of our family (stick figures with very large heads) is taped to the fridge, and the faint sound of beach music plays from her phone on the windowsill.

She fits here. God help me, she fits here too well.

Oliver comes bounding in from the living room, his footfalls heavy and loud like always. He wields a plastic sword in one hand and a bowl of dry cereal in the other. “Lila! Lila! I saved the deck from the lava monster.”

“Again?” she teases, setting Evelyn into her high chair with practiced ease. “That monster never learns.”

“I know!” he shouts, triumphant.

I lean in the doorway, arms crossed, letting the moment play out.

She’s got on an old T-shirt I saw folded in the laundry room, soft and worn in with a faded baseball logo on the front. Her hair’s tied up in a loose bun, and she’s got pancake batter on her cheekbone. I have never seen anyone more effortlessly beautiful.

She catches me watching and freezes for a second, her cheeks pinking as she turns to flip the next pancake.

“Morning,” I offer casually even though my chest is anything but.

She glances at me over her shoulder, giving a small smile. “Good morning.”

Evelyn kicks her feet in the high chair, syrup already smeared across the tray. “Lila made Mickey Mouse pancakes,” she declares with a sticky grin.

I walk forward, ruffling Oliver’s hair as I pass, and glance down at the plate she slides across the counter. Sure enough, there’s a pancake with two smaller pancakes as ears.

“Creative,” I say, raising a brow. “Trying to outshine me already?”

She smirks, a flash of mischief in her eyes. “Just trying to keep morale up in the ranks, boss.”

After breakfast, the house settles into a quiet rhythm. Oliver pulls out his LEGOS and builds a fortress on the living room floor while Evelyn curls into the corner of the couch with a stack of board books Lila picked out from the library.

Lila moves through the space like she belongs in it. She hums when she folds the laundry, plays hide-and-seek while brushing crumbs from the floor, and somehow remembers Evelyn’s favorite snack and Oliver’s least favorite color.

I try to keep to my office, really, I do. But every time I look up from my screen, I find myself listening for her voice. For her laughter. For the sound of her reading out loud.

I catch glimpses through the doorway. Lila sits cross-legged on the floor next to Oliver, helping him sort the blue blocks from the green. She listens with her whole body, leaning in, offering encouragement with a simple touch to his back or a proud smile.

My chest tightens watching it—that quiet, unspoken connection.

It isn’t just that she’s good with the kids. It’s that she sees them. Really sees them. She makes Evelyn feel brave, and Oliver feel like the smartest kid in the world. She makes me…feel something I haven’t let myself feel in a long damn time. Safe.

Around midday, I hear her laugh through the back door. I step out onto the deck with a fresh cup of coffee and watch from the top step as she races across the lawn with Evelyn tucked under one arm like a football. Oliver trails them, giggling and shrieking.

Lila collapses onto the blanket they’d spread beneath the oak tree earlier. Evelyn crawls up her chest to nuzzle under her chin.

And that dangerous warmth in my chest blooms again.

It takes every ounce of discipline I have not to go to her.

Not to kiss the sun off her cheeks and brush the grass from her hair and ask if she’s felt it too, this pull.

This ache that doesn’t feel like infatuation.

It feels like coming home. But I don’t. Because she deserves time.

She deserves space. She deserves to choose this life without me pushing her toward it.

So I sit with my coffee. And I watch her fall into place in our world.

By the time late afternoon drapes soft golden light across the backyard, the house has quieted into a kind of hush that feels sacred.

Evelyn’s finally down for her nap with one chubby fist curled around her plush fox and the other pressed against her cheek.

Oliver’s on the couch with a book about knights and dragons, eyelids already fluttering shut despite insisting he wasn’t tired.

And Lila?

Lila’s in the kitchen, standing at the sink with her back to me, sleeves pushed up, wrists wet, humming along softly to some indie folk song playing low on the speaker.

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.”