Page 41 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The mornings always begin the same way now; the scrape of little feet on hardwood, a knock that never waits for permission, and Evelyn climbing under the covers beside me, radiating warmth and mischief.

I pretend to still be asleep, but Evelyn isn’t fooled. A small elbow nudges my ribs.

"You said we could have pancakes today," she whispers, already bouncing slightly on the mattress.

I crack one eye open. "I said that three days ago. That promise is old."

Evelyn pouts, all chubby cheeks and preschool determination. "Old pancakes are still pancakes."

That gets a laugh out of me. I roll over and hug Evelyn into my side, her giggles shaking the bed, small and bright and filled with life.

I didn’t realize how much I missed this kind of honest and uncalculated affection until it became routine.

It fills my ribs in a way science never has.

It makes it hard to remember why I continue to fill out job applications and research grants.

But I do. I still fill them out despite how easy it feels to just let this all be enough.

Despite the part of me that would love to stop trying to forge a path and just…

be here. With them. With Dean. His presence has done something to me, something I didn’t know I needed.

The way he supports me without expecting anything in return, the way he gives me space to grow while still being there for me…

It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

It’s even harder knowing I could give into his gracious request of finding my research himself. Too bad my pride stands in the way.

Even on days when I feel overwhelmed, like when he took the kids and me to the farm for horse riding, he always finds a way to keep pushing me forward.

He’s been so patient, giving me the time to write and apply for grants, even if he’s got his own work to do.

And I know it’s not easy for him to keep everything balanced, but he does.

I can see it in his eyes, the quiet pride he has in watching me get closer to the life I’ve been working toward.

It’s like he’s rooting for me in the same way I root for myself.

I used to think I was only capable of loving something as structured and predictable as science, but now…

now I’m not so sure. What Dean’s offering, what this family is offering, has opened me up to possibilities I didn’t even know I could want.

And when he looks at me, like he actually sees me, it stirs something inside me.

Something I don’t know if I’m ready to name yet.

But I know this: everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve worked for, feels that much more attainable when I have him here, cheering me on.

When I can feel the support in his touch, in his words.

He’s more than just my boss. He’s someone who believes in me, in a way I’m still learning to believe in myself.

Downstairs, I can already hear Oliver rummaging through the fridge, probably for orange juice or whatever he thinks he can sneak past me.

At five, he's already decided he’s a culinary genius.

Dean is nowhere to be seen since he’s usually up before dawn getting started on whatever venture he plans on tackling for the day.

Padding into the kitchen with my hair a nest and socks mismatched, I catch Oliver standing on a chair, peering into the top shelf of the pantry. He glances over his shoulder with a grin.

"You said pancakes," he says smugly.

"Two against one, it seems," I mutter, grabbing the mixing bowl.

By the time Dean finally shuffles into the kitchen, yawning and tugging his tie loose from the confines of its collar, the kitchen smells like vanilla and maple syrup.

I have flour on my cheek, Evelyn has smeared chocolate chips across her mouth like war paint, and Oliver has taken it upon himself to flip pancakes with a form to rival any grandmother.

Dean leans against the doorframe. Watching us. Watching me.

An ache-filled kind of silence settles between us. His eyes linger a beat too long when I laugh. When I reach up to grab the cinnamon from the shelf, his gaze drops, subtle but intense. It’s the kind of nothing that I feel down in my bones.

We haven’t really talked about what happened. Not really.

The kiss that turned into more. The storm brewing inside me as his hands found every part of me I thought I'd buried. That night that confirmed nothing we did would be a mistake.

He brushes my fingers as he hands me a mug of coffee.

They linger. Intentional and brief. But it sparks heat low in my belly that I haven’t let myself acknowledge in years.

He hasn’t mentioned anything else about our pending date that I’ve agreed to, but with every passing glance, my anticipation grows.

The kids move around the kitchen like comets, wild and luminous, burning with energy.

Evelyn sings to a caterpillar she’s named Pickle.

Oliver dares himself to jump off a tree stump into a kiddy pool we set up.

I sit on the deck steps, sipping coffee that’s now lukewarm.

Dean drops beside me with a groan, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"You do realize you created tiny pancake tyrants, right?"

"You didn’t complain when you had three helpings."

"That was self-preservation."

His arm brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. We sit in comfortable silence. The wind stirs the tall grass, carrying the scent of wildflowers and cut wood. Evelyn shrieks with joy. Oliver whoops after her. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sings as the sun warms my cheeks.

"You look happy here," Dean says quietly.

I glance at him. His expression is closed off, but unassuming. There’s no agenda in his eyes. Just truth.

"I am," I say, barely above a whisper. Then, after a pause I don’t expect, I say, "Which is terrifying."

He chuckles softly. "Because it means you might want to stay?"

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

Another silence settles—thicker this time, fuller. He shifts closer.

"I don’t want to scare you," he says, voice low. "I know this wasn’t the plan. But I don’t want to go back to how things were. Not before you."

My throat tightens. I stare at the dandelions pushing up through the cracks in the driveway.

"I just need to know if I’m imagining this thing between us. The real thing," he adds, softer still.

I meet his eyes. There’s fear there, the kind that send my heart racing. Hope, too.

My voice comes out small, honest. "You’re not."

And that’s the scariest part of all.

Later that evening, after the kids are asleep and the sky has shifted to the darkest shade of navy, I find myself in the laundry room folding towels. I can’t sleep. I can’t read. So I do what’s familiar—routine. Soft cotton, rhythmic motions. Domesticity as a distraction.

Dean appears in the doorway, barefoot, wearing a thousand-dollar rumpled T-shirt.

"Did you need something?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No. Just… didn’t want to go to bed yet."

I hand him a towel. Our fingers touch, and the air thickens. Electricity sparks between us. I nearly drop the terry cloth into his hand in fear of it catching fire.

He’s watching me like he did that first night, like I’m something he wants but isn’t sure he’s allowed to reach for again.

"Lila," he murmurs.

My name sounds different in his voice, reverent, almost as if he’s cherishing it.

He takes a step closer. Then another, closing the distance between us.

There’s a question in his eyes, and for a moment, I feel that familiar hesitation rise in me—the urge to retreat and protect myself.

But I don’t. I don’t step back. Instead, I take a small, deliberate step toward him, closing the gap.

His breath hitches slightly, and I can see the flicker of surprise in his gaze. I’m not pulling away, not hesitating. I’m choosing this, choosing him.

He slowly leans in as though he’s waiting for me to pull back, to change my mind.

But I don’t. I let my body move closer to his, my heart pounding with the rawness of what I’m about to do.

I meet him halfway, finally. His lips brush mine.

Soft, then firmer. Confident. Familiar. This isn’t like last time—rushed, frantic, fueled by storm and adrenaline.

This kiss is patient. Intentional. Every movement says I’m here if you are.

My hands find the hem of his shirt. His fingers ghost up my arms, then settle on my waist. We move in tandem, breath mingling, bodies aligning like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like we’ve been waiting to get it right.

He lifts me onto the marble counter, and I gasp, the chill biting into the backs of my thighs.

He grins against my mouth, pressing kisses to the corner of my lips, then trailing them across my jaw and down my neck.

His hands explore with purpose, firm on my hips, gentle on my thighs, until I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me.

His clothes slide away like silk, discarded in the hush of the laundry room. The low thrum of the dryer is a heartbeat behind us, and every shift of his hands, every graze of his mouth over my collarbone, over my shoulder, sends my pulse spiraling.

I run my fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, reveling in the soft sounds he makes when I scrape my nails down his back. His breath is ragged now, his restraint fraying.

His hands slip beneath the waistband of my shorts, teasing the elastic of my panties. My breath hitches, wanting, no craving, more. To feel the rough calluses of his fingers against my slit. He knows what he’s doing to me.

His name tumbles from my lips as I try to shift my body to get him closer to where I want. Where I need.

Dean’s eyes are dark, his voice low and full of promise. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day.”

I swallow hard. “I didn’t mean to.”

His smile is slow and entirely unapologetic. “You’ve been stealing my T-shirts, Lila.”