My eyes meet his. “Someone to take care of.”
Something shifts in his expression. Sympathy flickers in his dark eyes before he masks it.
“I understand needing distraction,” he says carefully. “But aren’t there other hobbies?—”
“I don’t consider you a hobby,” I say gently. “I consider you a man who needs help. Who enjoys being taken care of… even if you don’t want to admit it.”
He shoves a bite of food into his mouth like he’s buying time.
Then his face changes. His expression shifts from awe to pure bliss as he chews.
Gotcha.
He swallows slowly, staring down at his plate like it betrayed him.
I smile to myself.
He’s going to give up this ridiculous idea that he doesn’t need me.
Because he does.
He just isn’t ready to admit it yet.
8
SEBASTIAN
Ivy Hart is not a problem.
I repeat this to myself as I lace up my running shoes.
She is simply a woman who broke into my house, cooked dinner, reorganized my kitchen, and looked extremely pleased with herself while doing it.
Perfectly normal behavior.
Not a problem.
An audiobook playsthrough my earbuds, the narrator explaining how to establish and hold firm to boundaries.
Boundaries. The word Ivy doesn’t like.
I return from my run earlier than usual—knees tight, head still buzzing from an earlier meeting at work that went nowhere.
When I open the patio door, I nearly have a heart attack.
Ivy is in my living room, sitting cross-legged in one of the chairs like she’s waiting for me.
“Your door was unlocked,” she says, smiling up at me.
I nod. I leave it unlocked when I run so I don’t have to carry keys.
I blow out a breath and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to remain rational.
She lives three doors down. It’s a safe neighborhood. She technically isn’t doing anything dangerous.
“Ivy,” I begin, trying to grasp the words I was just listening to moments ago. “We really need to?—”
“I made you dinner. It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
