Page 86 of Carrick
He was right. God help me, he was right.
The senseof domesticity caught me off guard. The kitchen was quiet in a way that felt lived-in, just the low hum of the fridge and the occasional soft clink of Carrick’s spatula against the skillet breaking the stillness. Morning light spilled through the wide windows in warm, golden streaks, cutting through the haze of my exhaustion like it had somewhere to be.
He’d given me space to clean up. Offered to help, even, but I’d waved him off with a hand and a glare. He hadn’t pushed, just set out a fresh towel and one of his hoodies—soft, oversized, and still warm from the dryer. I’d pulled it on without a second thought, only to freeze as the scent of him wrapped around me. Wood smoke, leather, and something darker, sharp and peppered like the shadow of a memory, clung to the fabric. Even freshly laundered, it felt like wearing him.
Now I sat curled on a barstool at the island, legs tucked beneath me, a warm mug of tea between my hands as I watched him move through the space like it belonged to him. Like he belonged to it. Barefoot and shirtless, he moved with that same quiet command I’d seen in the playroom, muscles flexing under skin that still remembered every place I’d touched.
Those lines stirred something deep—a pulse, a hum, a tether still warm beneath my ribs.
“Eggs okay?” he asked, not bothering to look up.
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Toast?”
“Sure.”
He glanced back, smirking. “Such enthusiasm.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m still recovering. Don’t expect me to start tap dancing.”
He chuckled and went back to his task. “You can rest today. Nothing on the agenda. No drills. No stress.”
I sipped my tea. “No lectures?”
He slid a glance toward me. “Tempting.”
“But?”
“But I like my balls unbruised, so I’ll behave.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
Carrick plated the food and set it down in front of me with a flourish. Perfectly scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and sliced strawberries arranged like he gave a damn.
“Do you always feed your guests like this?”
“Only the ones who scream for me.”
I choked on a laugh, heat rising to my cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe. But you’re eating, aren’t you?”
I tore a piece of toast and popped it into my mouth to avoid answering. The food was good. Simple, grounding. I didn’t realize how empty my stomach was until I started.
Carrick sat across from me with his own plate, digging in with the kind of appetite that only made me more aware of how comfortable he looked here. In his body. In this house. With me.
And that was the problem. He made this all feel too easy.
He waited until I’d eaten about half before speaking again. “You meant what you said. About trying it.”
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded. “Yes. While I’m here.”
His eyes stayed on me, steady and unreadable. “No strings. No expectations.”
“Right.”
