Page 54 of Oliver (The Golden Team #7)

One Week Later

EMERY

T he waves crashed in slow rhythm outside the open balcony doors. The air smelled like salt, lemon blossoms, and the faint trace of Oliver’s cologne still clinging to the sheets. Our wedding rings lay on the nightstand, his dog tags beside them—forgotten in the aftermath of last night.

I stretched, sore in all the best ways, and reached across the bed.

Empty.

Then came the sound of laughter—deep and boyish—from the kitchen. I slipped on Oliver’s T-shirt, padded out barefoot, and found them.

Oliver was making pancakes.

Correction: trying to teach Olly to make pancakes.

The pan was smoking. Batter dripped from the counter. And Olly, flour in his eyebrows, stood beside him like a miniature sous chef, flipping the mess with all the confidence in the world.

“Olly is making you breakfast,” Oliver said solemnly. “So you never forget how lucky you are, to have us.”

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Lucky? You’re about to set off the smoke alarm.”

He shrugged. “Still counts.”

Olly beamed. “We added blueberries.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, well then. Carry on, Chef Oliver and Sous-Chef Chaos.”

I stepped in, kissed both of their cheeks, and stole a half-burnt bite. Then I kissed Oliver’s neck again, softer this time. “Tonight… let’s do something just us.”

He turned, voice low. “I thought last night was just us.”

“It was. But tonight…” I whispered, standing on my toes, “we turn the page.”