Page 45 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

The first scent of rain hits me like memory—wet dirt and tension, the kind that coils in your chest before a fight you know is coming.

The sky is swollen with gray, the sun barely visible behind thick storm clouds rolling low over the hills.

I should be inside, reviewing legal paperwork, calling my lawyer again. But I can’t take my eyes off Lila.

She’s standing just outside the deck, curls pulled up haphazardly, a smear of dirt across her cheek, her tank top clinging to her skin from the heat.

Evelyn is clinging to her leg, giggling about a caterpillar.

Oliver is yelling something about feather armor.

And Lila? She laughs. Loud and full and unbothered.

It guts me a little.

Because in another world, she would be mine already. Not just here. Not just helping. But mine in all the ways I haven’t let myself hope for. And in this world, the one where my father is preparing to drag me through court to prove I’m unfit to raise these kids, she might still leave.

She doesn’t know about the court date yet.

I reach for the phone in my back pocket, the screen lighting up before I can even unlock it. One text from my lawyer.

Your father has been in touch.

That hollow pressure in my chest flares again. Now in just a few weeks I have to prove I’m enough. To prove I’ve changed. That I’m not him.

I look back at Lila. She’s crouched now, drawing a smiley face in the dirt for Evelyn. Her laugh floats up again, light and warm. The knot in my chest twists. I’ve never needed someone like this.

Not even before the kids.

Not even before everything fell apart.

Back in the kitchen, the storm finally breaks.

Rain lashes the windows, thunder rattles the cabinets, and the sky goes dark with fury.

I watch as the trio try to escape the rain, Lila attempting to stay behind the kids and stay somewhat dry but failing miserably.

I rush to the laundry room, grabbing whatever towels I can from the cabinet, and scurry toward the mudroom.

They’re soaked through to their skin when they get back inside.

I try to make dinner, something easy enough for a bachelor billionaire, but the text burns in my mind. I don’t even realize I’ve stopped chopping vegetables until Lila touches my arm.

“Dean?” she asks quietly.

I meet her eyes, and the strength there almost levels me. “My father contacted my lawyer.”

She exhales hard. “God.”

“He’s filed a motion to modify the guardianship.”

A beat of silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t panic. Just steps in close and places her hand flat on my chest, grounding me with that simple touch.

“Then you fight,” she says. “And this town is not letting you do it alone.”

God, I want to believe in that. In her.

The call comes the next day, just as the sun gives way to the stars. My father speaking up before I can even greet him, dripping disdain in every punctuated word. My lawyer transfers into the call, tense and tight-lipped. I don’t look at Lila—I don’t have to. She’s there beside me, spine straight.

“I’m doing what’s best for the children,” my father says, his voice cold and practiced. “You’re too emotional. Too unstable. Too close to the damage you’ve caused.” It’s just like him to equate me with Genevieve’s death, as if I was directly related to it.

“You mean the damage you caused? You only want the kids to make perfect little puppets for the press,” I say, teeth gritted.

He sneers. “You’re nothing but a scared little boy trying to play house. You’ll never be perfect for them.”

And then Lila steps in. Right in front of me.

“They don’t need a perfect man,” she says, voice even. “They need someone who shows up. Someone who loves them. And they already have that.”

My father’s voice thins. “And who the hell are you to speak on this?”

“I’m the woman who’s been raising them with him. Who sees how much they trust him. Who’s earned their love the right way.”

He doesn’t respond. He just ends the call like the punctuation of a slammed door.

I don’t say anything. I just sink onto the couch and drop my head into my hands. And Lila? She doesn’t offer comfort. She sits beside me and doesn’t leave.

After the kids are asleep, we sit by the fireplace in the dark. Neither of us talks. Not at first. The storm outside mirrors the one still boiling inside me.

Her hand is a warm reprieve as she touches my knee.

“I hate that he can still get to you,” she says softly.

I sigh. “He’s always gotten to me. That’s the problem.”

She turns toward me fully. Her legs brush mine. Her voice drops. “You’re not him.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder—why nothing I’ve ever done, or do, is good enough. It’s not like I can change my mother’s mistake. It wasn’t my fault that all I ever wanted growing up was his approval… his love.”

Her hand slides over mine warm and steady. “You’ve done more than enough. You’re doing it. Every day.”

I look up. Her eyes shimmer from the firelight, wide and open and so damn present . I’m not used to people staying like this. Not when things get hard. Not when I’m cracked open.

And maybe it’s the way her hand tightens in mine. Maybe it’s the way her body leans into me like she belongs there. Or maybe I’m just done pretending I don’t want her in every way a man can want a woman.

“Lila,” I say, voice low.

She doesn’t speak, doesn’t have to. She leans in and presses her lips against mine. Not a tease. Not a maybe. A kiss that demands an answer.

I give her one.

Her lips part, and that first taste of her tongue punches the air from my lungs.

It’s soft—unexpectedly soft—but it hits with the weight of every long look, every accidental touch, every silent what-if we’ve been avoiding since the first day she moved in.

It’s like the first kiss in the kitchen all over again.

I pull her closer, the slide of her mouth making it impossible to breathe right. Her hands cup my jaw, thumbs brushing just under my ears. There’s no rush. No fire yet. Just a slow build, a deep ache of something long denied.

But it’s there.

God, it’s there.

The want, the heat, the simmering pressure of holding back too long.

My hands find her hips, her waist, her lower back. She lets out a sound—half sigh, half groan—and melts into me. Her body aligns perfectly against mine, like we’ve done this a thousand times before, like we should’ve done this a thousand times before.

Her mouth moves to my neck, soft, exploratory. I grip the back of her shirt to keep myself anchored, but it’s not enough.

“You drive me crazy,” I whisper, forehead pressed to hers.

Her lips curve. “The good kind of crazy?”

“Always,” I murmur, voice thick. “I’m so fucking crazy for you.”

In one motion, I stand, taking her with me, and her legs wrap instinctively around my waist. She lets out a soft gasp, clinging tighter, her hands in my too long hair, tugging just enough to make me unable to hold back as I seal my lips with hers.

We crash through the hallway to my bedroom like we’re escaping something. Or maybe heading straight into it. Frames rattle. A small lamp falls onto the floor from where it’s placed precariously on a console table.

She kisses me like she needs this to breathe, and I kiss her like she’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

When we reach the bed, I set her down gently, but her fingers tug at my shirt before I can pull away.

I help her strip it off, and her hands trace my chest like she’s memorizing it for science, cataloging muscle and scars as if I’m her newest research project.

The way my heart stutters when she touches certain spots should be documented.

I yank her shirt over her head next and pause, just for a second. Because she’s beautiful. Not just in the obvious way. But in the way she watches me watch her. In the way she trusts me to look .

She arches slightly under my gaze. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“Yes,” I say, hoarse. “Unless you tell me to touch,” I add, reminding her of the previous challenge.

She reaches for my hand and places it directly over her breast. Her heart is beating so fast I can feel it against my palm.

“There,” she says. “Now stop hesitating.”

I touch and kiss and explore every inch of skin she gives me. Her breath catches as her body arches, and when I take her nipple in my mouth, she moans so softly it nearly breaks me in half. It’s nearly impossible to ignore the growing erection behind my zipper.

She rolls her hips into mine, desperate and wanton. And God , the way she moves—like she’s done waiting, too.

When I slide my fingers beneath the waistband of her shorts and pull them down, she lifts her hips without hesitation.

Beginning at her ankles, I trail my fingers and lips toward the apex between her thighs.

With a quick swipe of my fingers between her legs I can’t hold back the devious grin that grows on my lips.

She’s wet already, soaked through, and the knowledge that I did this to her sends a shock straight through my cock.

I lean in again, dragging my mouth down her stomach, kissing each hip bone before dipping lower. She spreads her legs like an invitation—a dare.

And I accept both.

Slipping off her panties, the pale lace tossed somewhere behind me, I taste her like I’ve been starved. Her desire both sweet and salty, an addiction I can see myself growing fond of. Within minutes she falls apart under my tongue, my name a garbled mess crying out from her throat.

Control slipping, I undo my pants and slide them down my legs, my boxers and socks quickly following. My cock stands at attention, pointing directly toward its target as Lila sits up and tugs at the hem of my T-shirt, pulling it over my head.

“My God, you’re gorgeous,” she mumbles, her fingers trailing across the ripples of my abdomen. I bite back the moan.

“Grab the headboard,” I command. Lila jerks in surprise, but her eyes flutter in excitement.