Page 46 of The SEAL's Duchess
“…Right.” God, he was an idiot, and Sarah knew it too.
Sarah passed him the dishtowel with a grin. “Well. I’d better check Caleb and Wyatt haven’t turned the living room into a wrestling ring. They’re like twelve-year-olds when they’re not supervised.”
Before he could argue, she was gone. He was left with Ivy, the hiss of water, and the clink of dishes in a room that suddenly felt too small.
Ivy’s eyebrows lifted. “You planning to dry?”
“What? Uh—yeah.” He reached for a plate from the rack, trying not to notice the faint trace of her perfume cutting through the soap. “So, no interrogation from my sister?”
“Not unless seasoning tips count as classified intel.” Ivy slid another plate into the rack, then glanced up.
Her eyes caught his.
He should’ve looked away.
Didn’t.
She rinsed the suds from her hands and shut off the tap. He set the dry plate down and passed her the towel, their fingers brushing. The contact was brief, but an exquisite awareness fired up his arm.
“Your family is lovely.”
“Yeah, they’re all right. When they’re not being pains in the ass.” His tone was deliberately casual.
Ivy smiled. “I love George dearly, but there’s just the two of us. We don’t have this.” She nodded toward the dining room, where muffled laughter drifted through the door. “The teasing, the easy affection. I’m a little envious.”
He almost said something, but Ivy was speaking too, their voices colliding.
“Sorry—”
“I was just?—”
“You go first,” she said quickly, color rising in her cheeks.
Ryder cleared his throat, feeling sixteen again. “I was wondering how the negotiations are going. With your brother.”
“Slow. The amount of information I’m reviewing is immense.” She blew out a breath. “I keep wondering if Ishould look at alternatives—wave power, tidal systems. It’s complicated.”
“How so?” He leaned a hip against the counter, trying not to get caught staring at the fine down along her cheek.
She glanced at the door, then back at him, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Jack gave me something.”
Every muscle in him locked tight at the tone of her voice. “What kind of something?”
“A memory stick. Reports.” Her voice lowered further. “She thinks Sinclair smoothed over the rig’s readings—methane pockets, unstable ground. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. We need help.”
He stilled.We. Like they were a team. Against the world.
“It has to be discreet. I don’t want to upset anyone. Or put Jack at risk.” She pushed a hand through her hair, baring the pale column of her neck. A damp curl clung to the hollow at its base.
His gaze snagged there and held, heat spiking low in his gut. Christ. He wanted to taste the salt of her skin, follow the delicate line up her neck until she arched against him.
The wanting hit hard—too much, too fast—and he forgot why he shouldn’t touch her.
One step, barely a shift of weight, and he was closer than he meant to be.
Ivy retreated, her back brushing the counter with a faint thud. “Ryder…”
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said, voice gruff.
