Page 3 of Our Bay Will Come

"Rowan didn't seem to think so."

"Rowan's known me since we were kids. He's immune to my bullshit."

I close my eyes as he rinses the shampoo from my hair, his touch so careful it makes my chest ache. "And what bullshit is that, exactly?"

"The part where I act like I don't care about anything." His voice drops lower. "It's easier that way sometimes."

The confession hangs between us, oddly intimate. I don't know what to do with it—with this glimpse beneath the surface that I didn't ask for but can't quite ignore.

"Rinse," he says, and I tilt my head back into the spray.

When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip again. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing." He shakes his head slightly. "Just... I wasn't expecting you."

"In your shower?"

"In my life."

And there it is—the moment I should run from. The declaration sounds too much like the beginning of something I've sworn off. Instead, I reach for Fox, pressing my body against his under the warm cascade of water.

"Stop talking," I whisper. "Let us enjoy the moment."

His hands find my waist, steadying me as our bodies align. "Yes, ma'am," he murmurs against my lips, and then there's no more talking for a while.

By the time we make it to the kitchen, my hair is towel-dried, and I'm wearing his flannel shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up several times. Fox keeps glancing at me as he moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from cabinets with practiced ease.

"What?" I ask, perching on a barstool at his kitchen island.

"Nothing." He cracks eggs into a bowl. "Just thinking that shirt looks better on you than it ever on me."

I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through my chest. "You're a charmer."

"No." He whisks the batter with more force than necessary. "Just being honest."

The kitchen falls quiet except for the sizzle of the griddle heating up. I watch Fox's movements—efficient, purposeful. He's not showing off, just moving with the confidence of someone who knows what they're doing.

"So," he says, pouring the first pancake onto the hot surface, "tell me about your business in Seattle."

I blink, surprised. "How did you know I have a business?"

"Cilla mentioned it. Interior design, right?" He flips the pancake with a perfect flick of the wrist. "Said you're pretty good at it."

"She's biased." I toy with a napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller squares. "But yes, I have my firm. Small, but growing."

"What kind of projects do you work on?"

I find myself telling him about my latest clients—a tech couple renovating a historic Craftsman, a boutique hotel downtown, and a restaurant in Ballard. Words flow easier than expected, especially when he asks thoughtful questions between flipping pancakes.

"I never would have pegged you for being interested in interior design," I admit.

He slides a plate of golden pancakes, butter, and maple syrup in front of me. "I work in construction. Design and construction go hand in hand."

"Fair point." I cut into the stack, taking a bite. The pancakes are perfectly fluffy, with a hint of vanilla. "Okay, these are good."

"Try not to sound so surprised." He leans against the counter, his plate in hand.

"A man of hidden talents."

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