Page 1 of Our Bay Will Come

CHAPTER ONE

PRUE

Iwake up wrapped in arms that feel too much like safety, which is the first warning sign.

Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, casting golden bars across a bedroom I barely registered last night when Fox pressed me against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck. The memory sends an involuntary shiver through me, which is problematic because his large body is currently curled around mine like a human fortress.

"Morning," he whispers into my hair, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates against my back. Damn it. I hoped he was still asleep.

"Hi," I reply softly, mentally calculating the fastest exit strategy. My dress is somewhere on the floor—possibly the living room, if memory serves—and my underwear... well, that's a separate treasure hunt altogether.

Fox's arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest. The man is solid muscle, radiating heat like a furnace. It would be lovely if I were planning to stay, but I'm not. I don't do mornings after. I don't do second dates. And I definitely don't do whatever this is becoming.

"Sleep okay?" he asks, his breath tickling my ear.

"Fine." I keep my voice casual, struggling to hide my anxiety. "But I should get going."

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip. "It's Saturday. No rush."

Something in his tone—a quiet certainty, an assumption that I'd want to linger—makes my chest tighten. I've seen that look before on other men's faces. The one that says they think they've figured me out, that one night means something more.

"I have plans." The lie slides out easily. "Brunch with Cilla."

His hand pauses, and I feel his body shift slightly behind me. "Really? That's funny. Rowan mentioned he and Cilla had plans today."

Fuck. I forgot Cilla's dating Mr. Hottie now.

"Different sister," I say quickly, then realize my mistake. "I mean friend. She's a friend who's like a sister."

Fox chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. "You're a terrible liar, Prue Griffin."

I roll over to face him, planning to deliver a withering retort, but it's a tactical error. His face is sleep-soft, his dark hair rumpled, and his eyes warm with something that looks dangerously like affection. Worse, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth makes my stomach do a completely unauthorized flip.

"I don't owe you an explanation," I say, aiming for cool detachment but landing somewhere closer to defensive.

"Never said you did." His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face with such casual tenderness I almost flinch. "But coffee isn't an explanation. It's just coffee."

"I don't do coffee."

"Breakfast then? I make decent pancakes."

I narrow my eyes. "Is this how you usually operate? Trap women with promises of breakfast foods?"

His laugh is genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're the first woman I've offered pancakes to in years, so I wouldn't call it an operation."

That information sits uncomfortably between us. I don't want to be special. Special leads to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment. I've choreographed this dance too many times not to know the steps.

"Look, Fox," I begin, propping myself up on one elbow, the sheet falling dangerously low across my chest. His eyes drop momentarily before returning to mine with admirable restraint. "Last night was... great. Really great. But I'm not looking for?—"

"A relationship," he finishes. "I gathered that from the three times you mentioned it last night. Before you kissed me, I might add."

My cheeks heat. "I like to be clear about these things."

"Crystal clear," he agrees, but something in his expression says he's not deterred. "How about this—no relationship, no expectations. Just pancakes. And maybe a shower first."

His hand slides down my bare back, leaving a trail of heat.

"A shower sounds suspiciously like an activity that would delay my departure," I point out, though I'm already calculating how much time I could spare before I need to leave.

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