She isn’t wrong. I don’t want a wife. Or kids.
Ever.
The thought doesn’t even tempt me.
…Right?
She brushes past me, the scent of her shampoo tickling my nose.
I watch her move through my kitchen, cooking dinner for my brother and me like this is normal.
A tight, uncomfortable knot forms in my chest.
She looks like she belongs here.
I almost groan.
Losing my grip on reality because my stalker looks good at my stove is unhinged.
Fear prickles at the base of my spine.
I should tell her to leave.
Ivy opens the oven, and the smell of dinner fills the room.
My stomach growls.
Fine.
After dinner, I’ll establish boundaries.
Probably.
11
IVY
Dinner goes better than expected.
Sebastian comes over and helps with the chicken. I prepare the baked potatoes and salad. Drew watches us like he’s waiting for one of us to pull a knife on the other, which is unfair because I’m very respectful of sharp objects.
Mostly.
We sit at the table like a family. An odd one, sure, but families come in all shapes now.
Drew eats like he’s bracing for a catastrophe—shoulders tight, movements careful. Sebastian, as always, looks perfectly at ease, one arm draped over the back of his chair, a glass of white wine within reach.
I watch him chew. I like watching him do ordinary things.
“This is good,” Drew says finally, like he’s relieved to find something normal.
“It is,” I agree. “But your brother usually only cooks when he’s stressed.”
Sebastian glances at me. “I’m not stressed.”
“You over-seasoned,” I say gently. “That’s how I know.”
He doesn’t argue.
