Page 15 of Beyond the Spotlight Discreet Version

I shake the thought away.

Boundaries, Reynold. Boundaries.

“Where’s Adeline?” Savannah asks as I bring her into the open concept kitchen, dining, and living area.

Dark gray cabinets and sleek stainless-steel appliances line the corner in an L-shape. The huge marble island matches the marble countertops and the bar that looks out over a dining nook. I have a chef who stops by five days a week to prepare dinners for me and Addy, but I’m in charge of breakfast and sometimes lunch if there are no leftovers. This morning, I made waffles and set out a variety of syrups, fresh fruits, and whipped cream, which are still sitting on top of the island.

“Preschool.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Aren’t five-year-olds supposed to be in kindergarten?”

“She turned five at the end of March this year. She was four when the school year started this past fall, so she didn’t qualify for kindergarten.”

“Oh.” She laughs. “She’s pretty freaking smart for a five-year-old.”

“That she is. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Are you hungry? I have waffles warming in the oven.”

Her growling stomach answers that question, and she wraps her arms around her mid-section. “I woke up too late to eat.”

I point at one of the four bar stools at the island. “Sit.”

She salutes me, making the corner of my lip turn up at the sass, and I get to work. I pull a black mug from the cabinet above the sink and bring it to the fancy coffee machine I just bought and barely know how to work. I place it underneath the spout and push some buttons.

It does nothing.

After more frustrated button smashing and curse words, Savannah appears by my side.

“Let me.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”

“Reynold.” The way my name rolls off her tongue in that adorable Southern accent of hers has me melting where I stand. “I was a barista for five years. I think I can figure out how this machine works.”

I nod and step aside and watch as she pushes all the buttons I had pushed. But they work for her. The cup fills up with mouthwatering mocha coffee—my favorite—then she removes it and places it on the countertop.

I can’t help watching her as she moves about my kitchen with familiarity, as if this is already her home. She seems comfortable here. Opening the fridge, she takes out the creamer. She even finds sugar in the cabinet next to the oven where my chef, Shirley, keeps spices and seasonings.

Savannah notices me standing there gawking, so I clear my throat and remove the plate of waffles from the oven’s warming drawer.

I grab myself a glass of orange juice and sit on a stool while she assembles her waffle. She spreads peanut butter on the top, then adds a cut up banana (my favorite combo). She skips the chocolate, strawberry, and cherry syrups to pick up a bottle of homemade maple (also my favorite) and drowns the waffle in a sea of sweetness.

Before she notices me staring again, I shake my head and clear my throat. “I’ll need you to sign an NDA.”

“An NDA?”

“You don’t know what a non-disclosure agreement is?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, but what would yours be for?”

She opens and closes a couple of drawers before finding the one with the forks.

“Basically, the document states you won’t share stories about me with the press. That anything you learn about me, or Adeline, and our lives, stays confidential.”

“Oh, of course, I would never,” she says, cutting into her waffle and taking a bite. She groans her appreciation. My cock jerks, laughably jealous that a waffle is the one giving her such pleasure and not me.