Page 62 of The SEAL's Duchess
Her fingertips brushed the glass over the woman’s face. Miranda looked capable, confident. A woman who could handle anything life threw at her.
Except motherhood.
Ivy exhaled a shaky breath.
If Miranda, with her perfect cheekbones and easy smile, couldn’t stay for Ellie, what chance did she have—duty-bound to an estate that would swallow her whole the moment she returned?
A stab of something sharp and unwelcome twisted in Ivy’s stomach. Miranda had had it all and had thrown it away. Jealousy followed immediately by shame for feeling it. She pulled her hand back just as George answered his phone.
“Ivy? Everything alright? You don’t usually call this early.” George’s voice was brisk, with the clipped tone of a man already juggling three problems before breakfast.
Ryder was singing off-key in the kitchen. Ivy pressed her palm hard against her thigh. Her London life was on the line. Alaska was in the next room. Two lives colliding.
“I’m fine,” she said brightly.Too brightly. No need to sound insane.“Just a minor accident with the rental car yesterday. Weather-related. Nothing serious.”
“Accident? Christ, Ivy. Are you hurt?”
Her eyes flicked to the doorway and the splash of running water.
Ordinary.
And terrifying.
She swallowed. “No. Really. Just the car. I spent the night in town. I’ll sort out the repairs with the rental company today.”
She hated not telling George the full story, but the alternative was explaining about Ryder, about how she’d ended up in his bed, about feelings she couldn’t begin to articulate even to herself.
Silence vibrated on the other end. “You sound different,” George said finally.
Because she was. Because Ryder’s shirt skimmed her bare thighs, her skin still sensitized from the memory of his touch.
Ryder took care of her.
She dragged a hand through her hair, closed her eyes for a second, composing herself. “I’m really okay, George.”
“Alright. Well, Sinclair wants to finalize the BlackRock deal tomorrow. Six p.m. London time, nine a.m. here.”
Her actual life demanded her attention. The one that existed an ocean away from Alaskan nights with protective men who made her feel too much. She gripped her phone harder. “Of course.”
“You sure you’re alright, Ives?”
Her throat squeezed. George’s concern was real, familiar—but it also felt a million miles away.
She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Yes. Just tired.”
How the hell did she make this work?
Ryder. England. All her responsibilities were pulling her in opposite directions.
“I’ll email you the agenda. Try to get some rest, yeah? You’ve been pushing too hard lately.”
She steadied her voice. “Thanks. George. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”
“You’re not coming straight back?”
“Uh. Some business first.”
“Business?”
