Page 53 of Rescuing Aria
“Only if you flip them with those sexy forearms.” Her smile is smug, playful, and God help me, I want to take her right there against the counter.
“Hope you’re hungry, baby. Because after breakfast, I’m returning the favor.”
“Is there anything you’re not good at?” She settles onto the barstool, towel still clutched like she’s forgotten to let go.
I snort, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. “Plenty. Dancing, for one. Two left feet. Charlie tried to teach me once, an undercover op where we had to blend in. Nearly broke her toes.”
Her smile falters. Just for a second. Not jealousy. Something quieter. Uncertainty, maybe. The way her fingers tighten around the edge of the stool betrays the thought behind the look.
“You miss them?” she asks, voice low. “Working with them, I mean.”
“In some ways.” I stir the eggs, let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary. “We had rhythm. Trusted each other without needing to speak.”
She doesn’t press, but the weight of her gaze lingers.
“Things change. Teams evolve.” I add milk, whisking until the mixture froths. “They’ve got their life now. I’m building mine, with you, I hope.”
She nods. Some of the tension in her posture loosens.
“What’s on your agenda today?”
“Training drill at HQ.” I pour batter onto the griddle, the sizzle cutting through the quiet. “Jenny’s been running us hardsince Charlie and Brett stepped down. Making sure we still operate like a single mind.”
“What kind of training?”
I flip the first pancake. Golden, perfect.
“Everything. Endurance, weapons, and tactical response. But the real test is in the cohesion—how fast we adapt. Read each other. Move like one unit.”
“Sounds intense.”
“It is.” I slide a stack onto a plate and nudge it toward her. “Anyone can learn to shoot. But knowing when not to—when to wait, to cover, to trust your team—that’s where it matters.”
She drizzles syrup, biting in with a moan that nearly derails all my good intentions.
“These are obscene,” she mumbles through a mouthful. “I might love you for these.”
“My mom’s recipe.” I smirk. “Sunday mornings smelled like butter and vanilla and a million arguments over who got the last one.”
We eat in a silence that doesn’t feel empty. It feels earned. Warm. Lived-in. Her leg brushes mine under the counter, and neither of us pull away.
When I finally glance at the clock, I curse under my breath. “Shit. If I’m late, Jenny’ll skin me alive. Last guy to show up ten minutes late, ran laps until he puked. Then mopped the whole gym.”
Aria’s eyes widen. “Jenny sounds terrifying.”
“She’s brilliant, brutal, and has zero tolerance for bullshit.” I rinse our plates, setting them in the drying rack. “Once, she made Charlie do burpees for an hour straight because Charlie answered a text during a briefing.”
“Oof. Okay, yeah. Terrifying.” Aria winces in solidarity. She stands, stretching with a soft sound that draws my attentionstraight to the exposed line of her throat. “I should check in at the shop. Ember’s been texting.”
“What’d you tell her?” I dry my hands.
“That I was engaged in high-level business negotiations.” Her mouth curves with mischief.
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
I close the distance, one hand finding her waist, the other tilting her chin. She rises onto her toes, pressing her body against mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Very important negotiations,” she murmurs. “Highly satisfactory outcome for all parties involved.”
