Page 18 of The SEAL's Duchess
Ryder barely heard him. His attention was all on Ivy, lingering in the open door.
She paused with one hand on the frame. “Well. Thank you again.”
She followed George toward the inn’s entrance, her posture upright despite what had to be lingering pain from the fall. Ryder waited until they disappeared through the front doors, then sat for a long moment in the idling truck.
He should be relieved. She was gone, out of his truck, out of reach.
Tomorrow he’d fall back into routine—pick up Ellie from preschool, pretend today had never happened.
That was the life he’d built, the one he told himself he wanted.
So why did watching her walk away feel like losing something he hadn’t known he was missing?
9
The tea was wrong.
Pale amber, thin—an American imitation of the ritual that anchored her mornings back home. At Lambourne House, Mrs. Dove, their housekeeper, measured leaves with precision. Here, it tasted like dishwater with delusions of tea.
A small thing—but enough to sharpen the ache of being far from home, and everything familiar.
Ivy stared at the steam rising from her cup.
The car seat.
The life Ryder lived when he wasn’t pulling aristocrats off oil rigs. He had a three-year-old daughter named Ellie—which meant a wife. Though he hadn’t mentioned one. The thought pressed like a stone in her chest. Of course, a man like Ryder would have someone. He was rugged. Competent. Solid. Far too easy on the eye. Any woman would be lucky to be the reason for him to come home safe after every perilous shift.
She blew out a breath and stabbed at her poached egg.
None of it mattered. She had twelve days left in Alaska before England pulled her back into duty—the estate, the tenants, George. There was no room in her life for wondering aboutmen like Ryder. And yet. The treacherous part of her mind kept circling back to the way he’d carried her across the rig deck. The careful attention in his voice when he’d checked her injuries. The warmth of his jacket that he’d insisted on her wearing.
Will these things always be for other people?
The question rose unbidden, carrying the weight of every choice she’d made since her parents died. Every evening spent reviewing estate finances instead of accepting dinner invitations. Conference calls that had taken precedence over the social events where she might have met someone interesting. All the times she’d chosen duty over the possibility of something more.
When did she get her turn at happiness?
“Morning, Ivy.” George’s voice cut through her brooding as he appeared in the breakfast room doorway, already checking his phone. “Sleep well?”
She straightened, pushing the dangerous thoughts aside. “Good, thank you.”
“How’s your head feeling today?”
“Much better, thanks.” She gestured to the empty chair. “Coffee’s still hot.”
George poured himself a cup, moving with the restless energy that meant his mind was on business. “Rental car to organize this morning. Sinclair wants another meeting. Preliminary numbers.”
“Good.” She kept her voice neutral, though preliminary numbers were exactly what worried her. Sinclair could offer attractive terms upfront, then bury the liability in footnotes and subclauses. “I’d like you to drop me at the Coast Guard hangar first.”
George looked up from his phone. “The hangar? Why?”
“I need to return Ryder’s jacket.”
“Can’t you just leave it at the front desk?” George frowned. “They’ll get it back to him.”
“No.”Okay. A bit fierce.
George blinked.
