Page 27 of Dirty Delivery

“Deranged husband, huh?” I step closer, unable to keep the grin off my face. “You’re the one barefoot in my kitchen, Savannah. You sure that analogy works?”

Her cheeks flush, and she turns back to the cutting board, muttering something I can’t make out. Noreen’s laugh rings out, and I shoot her a grateful look.

“Dinner smells good.” I lean over the counter to catch a better view of Savannah’s handiwork.

“I can’t take all the credit for this,” Savannah replies, lifting an eyebrow at me. “Noreen did most of the work.”

Noreen waves a hand dismissively, her voice warm and teasing. “Oh, don’t be modest, love. She’s the one who asked me to show her where everything was in this big kitchen. Next thing I know, she’s roped me into chopping onions and preparing dinner like it’s her own house!”

Savannah’s cheeks turn an even deeper shade of pink, and she glances down at the cutting board. “I just wanted to help. You’ve been doing so much already.”

Noreen chuckles, patting Savannah’s arm. “You’ve got a good one here, Mr. Doyle. Don’t let her slip away.”

I chuckle and reach out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. She stiffens for just a moment before her body visibly relaxes, and it’s in that tiny movement that I know—she’s starting to trust me. Starting to see this place, this life, as something more than just a cage.

“You keep cooking like this,” I whisper low enough only she can hear, “and I’ll think you’re trying to domesticate me.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest hint of a smile when she turns back to the counter. And just like that, the tension that’s been coiled in my chest all day finally unravels like a knot coming undone. She’s safe. She’s here. And for now, that’s enough.

Chapter Twenty-One

Savannah

Rylan gives Noreen the rest of the evening off while our dinner finishes cooking. Once Noreen gathers her things and leaves with a wave and a cheeky “Don’t let the mess get too big,” the two of us settle at the large dining table, plates in front of us and a comfortable silence hanging in the air.

It doesn’t last long. Rylan isn’t one to let silence linger.

“Alright.” He cuts into the silence and leans back in his chair, his fork twirling lazily between his fingers. “Would you rather have to fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?”

I nearly choke on my wine, setting the glass down quickly before any spills. “What?”

“You heard me.” A mischievous grin spreads across his face. “It’s a serious question. Life-or-death stakes here.”

I shake my head, laughing despite myself. “One horse-sized duck. Fewer moving targets. What about you?”

“The hundred duck-sized horses,” he replies without missing a beat. “I’d corral them and open up a miniature pony ranch.”

My shoulders convulse and tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I cover my mouth to contain the laughter I can’t seem to stop. “That’s not how this works!”

“Sure it is,” he says, shrugging as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re just not thinking outside the box, mo stóirín.”

And just like that, the weight of everything we've been through lifts from my shoulders, and the atmosphere between us feels lighter. We trade questions and ridiculous answers, the conversation flowing easily, filled with laughter and the occasional snarky comeback. By the time we finish eating, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt

this . . . normal.

“Alright,” I stand and begin stacking our plates. “I’ll clean up. Noreen has enough to do around here.”

“Technically, you are my guest.” He rises to follow me into the kitchen. “So that means it’s okay to let my housekeeper help with the cleanup.”

“Technically. ” I roll my eyes as I start running the water in the sink. “You’re a grown man who can help with dishes.”

“Fine, fine.” He leans against the counter with a smirk. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

Amused by his playful tone, I turn my attention back to the soapy water and the plates in front of me. He’s quiet for amoment, and I think maybe he’s finally behaving. But then I feel him behind me—close, too close. His hands brush against my hips as he leans in, his breath warm against my neck.

“Rylan.” I try to sound stern, but my voice wavers as he presses a soft kiss to the curve of my neck. “I’m trying to clean up.”

“Mm.” His lips trailing downward. “You can keep cleaning.”

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