11
Ivy paused justinside the diner’s outer door as Ryder’s truck rumbled away, taillights engulfed by fat flakes of fresh snow. Off into the dark, into seas that cracked steel and swallowed crews whole—yet he’d go anyway, shoulders squared against storms most men would never set foot in.
She hadn’t realized men like him still existed. Men who didn’t expect anything in return. Somewhere tonight, desperate voices would call for help, and Ryder would be the answer.
A shiver ran down her spine. Not fear—comfort. If she were the one stranded out there, she couldn’t imagine a more welcome sight than him hauling her back to safety.
But the comfort frayed at the edges. Men who ran into storms didn’t always come back.
She took a deep breath, searching for calm and failed.
Her wrist was still warm where his fingers had closed around it. She replayed the low rumble of his voice.Do you ever let anyone else share the load?For a heartbeat, it was like storm clouds breaking, sunlight striking places inside her no one ever touched. He’d seen her. Not the title. Not the duties.
Just me.
Terrifying. Glorious.
She’d been seconds from saying the words out loud. And the way he’d looked at her—as if he already understood.
Ivy yanked her coat from the hook near the door, shaking her head hard, as if she could scatter the thought. None of this was real. They lived on opposite sides of the globe. She was here for days, not years. She had work to do, people depending on her. That came first. It always did.
Out in the icy night, she trudged back to the inn. Warm, foggy air enveloped her as she stepped into the hotel elevator, scarf dripping, gloves clenched in her hand. Meltwater soaked her hair, plastering it to her scalp. She scrubbed at her face, willing herself back under control.
Don’t think about his touch. Don’t think about the concern in his eyes.
But the thoughts remained anyway, stubborn as the cold.
No one looked at her like that. People only looked at her when they needed something—answers, solutions, decisions.
Like George.
The elevator whirred upward, memories of the afternoon meeting pressing in. She’d pushed for data that hadn’t been forthcoming, and the whole thing had ground to a halt. Sinclair’s team had been frustrated, George even more so—but there was too much at risk to let it slide. She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to protect the people depending on her back home.
The elevator dinged. She stepped into the hall, her shoulders heavy, her room just ahead. Card in the slot, a green light blinked. The lock clicked open.
“Ivy.”
She turned.
George stood in his doorway, tie loosened, shadows under his eyes. He beckoned with his hand. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back.”
“George, I’m tired?—”
“It won’t take a minute. Come in. Sinclair’s here.” His brows lifted, his gaze holding hers, unspoken words filling the space between them:If this falls apart, we lose everything.
He wasn’t wrong. And yet?—
She slid the key back into her pocket and flashed him a bright smile, her jaw stiff with the effort. “Of course.”
Inside his suite was dim. Only the floor lamps were on, casting golden pools across the red-flowered carpet. The air was heavy with whiskey and expensive aftershave.
Sinclair rose from the maroon velvet couch, a glass of something dark in his hand. Ice clinked as he extended his free hand. “Lady Ivy. So glad you could join us. I was just sharing some exciting news with your brother.”
His hand was cool, soft with money. Nothing like Ryder’s, roughened by rope burn and sea salt, hands that worked for a living. Her palm felt wrong after touching Sinclair’s.
“Mr. Sinclair.”
“I think we can be less formal. Please—call me Matthew.”
