Page 19 of The SEAL's Duchess
She gave a dismissive swipe of her hand. “He went out of his way to help us yesterday. The least I can do is return it properly.”
The frown on George’s face softened. “Right. Of course.” He sipped his coffee. “How will you get back to town afterward?”
Ivy lifted one foot, waggling a running shoe at him. “I calculated the distance last night. It’s about six miles. I need the exercise after all that sitting yesterday.”
“You’re going to run back?” George’s eyebrows rose. “Ivy, you had an accid?—”
“I’m fine.” She stood. She’d lost her appetite. Just the thought of seeing Ryder again. “I’ve been cooped up in planes and helicopters. I need fresh air and movement.”
Running had always been her refuge—the rhythm, the burn, the selfish freedom of forward motionalone. Maybe if she pushed hard enough, she could outrun the memory of Ryder’s arms around her.
“If you’re sure.” He still looked doubtful.
“I’m sure.”
An hour later,George pulled his rental car into the hangar parking lot and killed the engine. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine.” Ivy climbed out of the passenger seat, Ryder’s jacket folded over her arm. “I’ll be back for the meeting by two. I’ll run you through the figures before we meet up with Sinclair.”
“See you then.” George waved as he pulled away.
The jacket slipped against her arm as her palms went damp. Foolish—what if he wasn’t even here? She scanned the lot, pulse tripping when her gaze snagged on the dark blue Ford truck.
She clutched the jacket tighter, pulse leaping, every step both reckless and necessary.
The whiff of diesel fuel and industrial lubricants hit her nose at the hangar doors. Grit ground under the soles of her running shoes. The rumble of a heater, the scent of oil and rubber—none of it was elegant, but she took a deep breath of the honesty of it all.
A soft clatter made her pause.
To her right, in a cleared space between tool carts, a small figure sat cross-legged on a rug in a deep pile of Lego. A little girl, around three-years old Ivy guessed, in blue dungarees with blonde pigtails sticking out the side of her head.
“Hi.” The girl held up a cluster of blue and red bricks topped with a small propeller. “Helichopper!”
Ivy’s heart contracted. The girl was beautiful and radiated the unselfconscious confidence that belonged to children who knew they were loved.
“That’s wonderful.” Ivy dropped to her knees beside her. “Does it fly?”
The little girl—Ellie, it had to be Ellie—considered this, her lower lip protruding. “The spinnaliser broke.”
“May I?”
Ellie nodded and handed her the construction.
Ivy repositioned two of the connecting pieces, creating clearance for the rotor to spin freely. “Try spinning it now.”
Ellie took it back and spun the propeller with one tiny finger.
Her face lit up. “Spinnaliser works! It works!”
She leaped up, dancing around Ivy, pigtails flying, engine noises bouncing off the hangar walls. A laugh escaped Ivy before she could stop it, surprising her with how out of practice it felt.
“Ellie.” The voice was low, masculine.
It rolled through the space and straight into Ivy’s chest. She froze, pulse kicking.
Ellie spun toward the sound. “Daddy!”
She shot across the floor and latched onto a pair of familiar legs. Ryder stood there, ten feet away, wiping his hands on a rag. Gray T-shirt, smudges of grease across his stomach, work pants worn soft at the knees. No polish, no pretense—just Ryder. Capable and unshakably himself.
